It's Pronounced 'Blog' not 'Blah'

Post Mortem of a Post Mortem

2008-05-04T23:48:00.004-04:00

My aunt killed herself. And here I am, feeling irritated at having to get up super early on a Saturday go cry about it all over again at the funeral mass in Mississauga. It’s one of the first warm weekends of the spring. I’d much rather be on a patio drinking caesars with pals than reflecting on the dark cloud that’s going to be camped out over my family, over my uncle in particular. Maybe I’d be more willing to attend this Sad Extravaganza if she had at least left a note of apology/farewell. But no. She just left. A few days later she was found face-down in the river.

During her sister’s eulogy and her best friends’ bible readings, I imagined that her ghost was watching from the last pew. Would she be surprised at the high turnout, surprised by the tears in everyone’s eyes, surprised that we’re all taking it so hard? I hope she feels sheepish now that she’s seeing much we all loved her — not that it makes a difference at this point. The love of 200 friends and family members wasn’t enough to make her love herself.

Someone in this church has dropped the ball, I’m thinking. Someone didn’t take her seriously when she mentioned that she wanted to kill herself, even though there were clear signs of sincerity. She was trying to quit Prozac and she was sent home from work months ago for talking about suicide. Why wasn’t she taken to the hospital? Why was there no intervention? How is it that she walked to the ravine with a backpack full of pills and wine the day after she saw her psychiatrist?

I’m looking around the church for someone to blame. And that makes me feel guilty, especially since this is a place of God. I’m not religious, but it’s still ‘God’s house’ so I feel guilty out of respect, the same way you feel oafish for spilling wine on your host’s carpet at a dinner party.

I’m being unreasonable by resenting her and simultaneously resenting the fact that she wasn’t saved. Worse, I’m being a baby for feeling so inconvenienced by all of this. Getting dressed up in fussy clothes and planting myself in the midst of sadness on my day of rest is nothing compared to what my uncle must be going through.

Had I known she was in trouble, I would have had the opportunity to do something even as small as letting her know that I had always thought of her as an aunt even though she wasn’t technically married to my uncle. Maybe I could have helped. But I had no clue she battled depression. She had always acted so sweet and happy, her arms ready for a big hug. I’ll really miss those hugs and regret how I took them for granted.

I feel robbed on so many levels. The most bewildering colour in this emo rainbow is how her death has made me happier to be alive. She’s not here to appreciate the blooming trees, the birdsongs or even the tasty sandwiches they served at the wake — but I am! I’ve never been so acutely aware of the magnificence of life. I’m out of the fog of pain. She was engulfed in the fog, and couldn’t see the clear conditions beyond its boundaries. Even when things aren’t perfect for me, thank God — ACTUAL God who I might be prepared to ACTUALLY believe in — I am in the sweet, clear, daylight.

Six Short Poems

2008-03-25T22:18:00.006-04:00

Lovely Spring Day

Slow snow
Falling up
Fall back to where you came from, bitch

The Loogie

That you snorted
then waited for me to walk on by
before you horked
made me believe in gentlemen again

The Pedestrian

As much as I dislike getting wet
— like a cat facing a bath
being splashed by a car speeding through a puddle
would compliment my misery splendidly

Identity Oopsy

I thought they were three men
Closer, I saw one was a dame
She just had skinny thighs
and a crackaddict face

Here’s How Strongly Worded Letters Get Started

I intend to inform management
that you let your dogs shit on your balcony
only cause your bitches yapped me awake for the trillionth time
so I’m too tired for forgiveness today

Glutton for Punishment

The more I play
The worse I get
at Jeopardy!
and euchre
and pool
But I just can’t quit you my darlings!
I’m relentless!
a masochist!
a fool!

Let it Be

2008-03-13T01:10:00.004-04:00

Let it Be
by Lennon/McCartney

When the broken hearted people
Living in this world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be

My parents' house is like rehab for a broken heart. I’m the disoriented and defiant patient, my parents are the health professionals working around the clock to feed me spaghetti and snap me out of my self-pity. Like the properly wayward girl I am, I scoff at their methods. "Mom, your advice isn't the kind of support I need right now," I moan (I wanted a hug). But Moms, I hear, have this proactive tendency to hold the mirror up to your face and point out the destructive patterns you’ve had since you were a teenager and give you feasible advice as to how you can change. "Next time, get a guy with a career. And a car. That’s how you’ll know he’s ready to settle down. And why are you only happy when you have a boyfriend? Have you ever thought about learning to be happy by yourself? Is it because you’re an only child?" she says, like these questions haven’t already been tumbling around and around and around in my mind, to the point of sleeplessness and queasiness.

She’s right. I should get to the bottom of these questions and learn to make myself happier. It’s just easier said than done. I'm fully aware that I’m being a self-indulgent mope who should just pick myself up and decide to be over it. But lately my positive self-talk sounds as distant to me as the voice of god. Maybe it’s out there, echoing though the clouds, but I’ve no tangible evidence that anything was ever really said or heard.

And then I heard the song Let it Be. It’s amazing the random things that get through to you. All the good advice in the world can fall on deaf ears, but somehow this song of surrender permeates my soul. (Maybe I should worship the Beatles?) Yeah, quit over-thinking it, I said to myself. It’s not ‘sweeping it under the rug’ if you can muster the courage to wash your hands and forgive yourself for having been dirty in the past. That’s exactly what I resolve to do.

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Thanks Mom.

The Savages in my Neighbourhood

2007-10-17T01:30:00.000-04:00

THEY SAID THIS AREA IS PEACEFUL. HA!

I hear a man screaming, “I shit my pants!” I go out to the balcony to find out where the noise is coming from. The man is staggering on the sidewalk while trying to smoke a cigarette.

Turns out I know this man. It’s my crazy neighbour, Dennis. Once a month I hear him shouting gibberish though our mutual wall. Sometimes he goes out on his balcony and yells at passers-by, or the moon, like a werewolf doing a Jerry Lewis impression.

The werewolf theory makes sense. Our daytime exchanges in the hallways and elevators have been nothing but pleasant. I’d pegged him as a tidy gay fellow I could borrow can openers and sugar from. Then, on any random night, transformed by some evil curse, he turns into this sloppy creature who now howls on the street.

I watch the top of his grey head sway in reverse directions from his body. He steps forward and bumps into the brick fence that encompasses the front yard of our building. More vulgar gibberish.

Something falls from the sky and explodes in the middle of Parliament Street, about four metres from Dennis. An egg. He staggers back and looks up. “What the fuuuuk?”
He catches me looking back at him. “I know youuu!” he fumes. I duck back into my apartment in a panic because now he thinks I’m the one throwing eggs at him.

I sit on the couch, get up, turn around, mute the TV, and go back onto the balcony. Fuck, I’m thinking. I should explain: I saw the egg come from way over there, Dennis! Jeez some real sick mutants live around here! I could say.

But when I go back onto my balcony, he’s gone. I tiptoe to my front door and look out the peephole. I hear the elevator door open, followed by carpety footsteps coming down the hall. I’m enormously concerned he’ll come pound on my door. I lock my back-up lock.

“How do I get in here?” Dennis asks himself. I hear the jingling of keys. Dropping of keys. Opening of door.

I stand in the middle of my apartment and listen to him thump around next door. It occurs to me he might try to peek into my apartment around our balcony partition, the way I’ve tried to peek into his. I close and lock my balcony door — but rather than doing it quietly as intended, I pull the door too hard and it slams.

“Hello? Hellooo?" He says.

Jesus Christ! I sit on the couch and pray this isn’t happening. Now he thinks I hate him. Now it will be awkward in the hallway and I’ll have to fucking move.

I spend an hour mock-watching TV before the howling and banging finally subsides. Not long after, I hear a new noise outside. I run to my bedroom window and look down to the street. A woman is chasing a uni-legged man in a wheelchair. She’s screaming, “That’s my money!” She bangs on the windows of a van parked on the street. He wheels away, as fast as he can. Is she a prostitute? Are they a bickering homeless couple? Is it pay day at the Money Mart? So many questions.

At the same time, this is par for the course around here. Every week I’ve got some new story about these freaks. Last week it was Mullet Man.

HE LOOKS LIKE THIS MAN

Mullet Man always wears black and always takes the stairs. He’s not what you’d call friendly but, aside from being slightly smelly, he hasn’t caused problems either.

Last Sunday, he passes me in the hallway, bleeding from the right eye. He’s covering his eye with one hand, and the other hand, covered in blood, dangles in front of him.

I’m walking beside my Dad at the time, so I’m uncharacteristically inquisitive towards Mullet Man. Dad should protect me from Mullet Man, is the idea.

“Hey man, you OK?” I say. Pause. “Need some help man?”

He doesn’t respond. Just goes into his apartment and leaves a smear of blood on the door frame. It is smeared there still.

There’s more! Other freaky run-ins have included:

— Being cornered by a teenager in the elevator. He asked me if I wanted to “party” and suggested I “get off on his floor.”

— A mutant took my period undies out of the dryer because I was ten minutes late in collecting them.

— The lady informed me of the “thriving society” of crack addicts living under the bridge who have allegedly been spotted getting high in the stairwells of my building. (She scolded me for laughing at her choice of word: ‘thriving’. Like, they're really SUCCEEDING under the bridge? Building empires and shit? “It’s not funny. It’s a very serious issue,” she said.)

Last month my excitement revolved around the two tanned and petite student-types (strippers?) who moved down the hall with their yappy dogs. I couldn’t help myself from telling them about the cockroaches, hot on the heels of my neighbourly ‘welcome to the building’ speech. Their eyes widened with agony.

“Roaches. Eww,” said the blonde.
“Oh my god, but you haven’t seen MICE have you?” asked the brunette.

“No. No mice YET. But I have a cat, so maybe that’s why I don’t see them.” Their furrowed brows indicated that I was being a killjoy.

“But don’t worry,” I said, “between your dogs and my cat, we’ll be the pest-fighting team!”

My sudden switch to peppiness seemed to throw them off. They giggled politely and continued down the hall to their door.

Telling them about the giant rats I saw nosing through the trashpile by the condemned houses down the street would have been too cruel/fun.

In conclusion, it seems I am exposing myself as the crazy one. I’m a peeping Tina. I’ve used cups as inter-wall eavesdropping devices. I obsess about all the things that will come get me and my precious, precious cat. I run to the door or the balcony, or wherever the noise is coming from, like some snoopy Neighbourhood Watch of one. I try to corrupt the minds of innocent young tenants and their dogs. I’m just as vile as these other St. Jamestown savages!

Happy Birthday Jules

2007-10-05T16:19:00.000-04:00

If I ever become one of those sour pusses who wail and moan on their birthday, please ensure I don’t live to see my next one.

What’s the point of being sour to the fact that you’ve made it as far as you have? Even though your career or your love life or whatever might not be as developed as you thought it would be by this age, be grateful for the fact that you made it here at all. It’s a luxury to be able to celebrate yourself. Getting down on yourself for having experienced another year is like trading a diamond for a lump of coal.

Me, I’m extra lucky. Yesterday (my birthday) started like any other day of the year. I went to work and felt the usual mid-afternoon stress-fatigue. But then I left the Hall and went to Heather’s where I was wined and dined and showered with gifts. My belly full of cheese, fruits, nuts, paté and bacon-wrapped fillet mignon, I left Heather’s feeling grateful for her friendship and awestruck by the pink, foggy sunset that draped the city like a gift from god.

Back at work, I was further spoiled by my coworkers. I was given free catering food, a box of chocolates, a surprise gift in my locker, an other gift on the change room, a dozen hugs AND it was even suggested that I quit wiping the tables cause ‘it’s my birthday…I shouldn’t have to do anything’!

After our shift, a bunch of us went to the Rivoli where, unfortunately, the birthday gods didn’t make me any better at pool. But I loved having my peeps together, including a special man who came to celebrate my birthday regardless of his job interview the next day.

The phone calls and Facebook messages made me feel truly loved. And it doesn’t stop there! My special day continues throughout next week. A dinner party with my girls tomorrow, dinner with Mom and Dad Sunday, and another dinner Thursday.

Not everyone is this lucky. I’m proud for being clever enough to acknowledge it. Maybe it’s a cleverness that can only come with age. Now 27, I’m more self-actualized and calm than I was ten years ago when I was supposedly going through my “carefree” teens. I sweat and cried buckets back then cause I just didn’t know how to deal with anything! But now I know what I like and what kind of person I want to be. I can identify what makes me happy and what doesn’t. Number one on the list of things that make me happy is true connections with people who love me. Yet again this year, my birthday brought out that love. Thanks everyone!

An Illustrated List of 5 Interesting Men I Encountered in the Last 24 Hours

2007-09-24T17:16:00.000-04:00

Last night, a man engaged me in a pleasant conversation about how difficult it is these days to smoke weed in concert venues. He looked like this:

"STEVE VAI CAN PLAY SOME MEAN GUITAR," SAID THE MAN

This afternoon, I had an inspiring chat about the Oxford dictionary with a funny man from London, England. Although John works in Upper Canada College’s communications department, he’s the sort of guy who doesn’t like wearing ties and minding his Ps and Qs for the benefit of rich boys. I imagine this is how he looked when he was 12:

BOLLOCKS HARRY! I DON'T WANT TO REPAIR REPUTATIONS OF PRIVVY SCHOOLS!

On my way home, two young Mormons said, “hi how y’all doin’ today?” to me and another confused pedestrian as we all walked past the boarded-up houses. I’m like, no luck knocking on those doors huh boys? Maybe time to go back to Utah?

SAVING THE WORLD, ESPECIALLY THAT PESKY ST. JAMESTOWN

In my building, three black contractors with gold teeth talked to me in the elevator about the warm weather. We agreed we aught not complain as the frost is on its way. One of them resembled this fellow:

NEVA CUMPLAIN BOUT DA SUN

At home, I got a voice mail from a man I met randomly last week. I liked him but he seemed like the sort of guy who would be too busy sunbathing off the southern coast of St. Bart's with spider monkeys for the past two weeks, tripping on acid. Naturally, here’s what he looked like:

JULES GOTTA QUIT GOIN AFTER RICK SPRINGFIELD LOOKALIKES

Nothing like some gonzo journalism on a Saturday night

2007-06-13T12:50:00.000-04:00

I found myself surrounded by hedonists squirming like snakes on the dance floor. An hour earlier I was ashamed of my shitty dancing and wanted to escape to a pub for a quiet game of pool. But after a few drinks, I was suddenly content to plant myself in the middle of the hive and judge these godless, cold-blooded, creatures as they writhed around. I pretended I was one of them so I’d have something to blog about in the morning.

Then one of them began to grind me. “I just want to dance. Just dance.” He screamed into my ear over the house music. Hot on the heels of the previous night’s swing dancing lesson, I spun out of his grasp and sang, “no no no.” (This is me trying to be nice. It was too loud to properly chastise him. Try articulating a thoughtful explanation as to how inappropriate it is for a man to presume he can rub his bits and pieces on your unsuspecting ass over a Killers/Jay Z mashup. Best just twirl away.)

This is me at the Century Room, a club on King Street between Spadina and Bathurst. Heather’s hair stylist, Dustin, put her and ‘a friend’ on the guest list. That didn’t spare us having to wait in line, however, and I still had to pay $10 cover (reduced from $20) but I’m trying real hard not to hate this place already.

This is me trying new things. This is me being 26 and, having identified who I am and what I like to do, backing up and realizing maybe I was too quick to solidify. Maybe I should try dancing again. Maybe I’ll love it this time? Maybe this time I won’t fail and feel like a tool? So I went swing dancing at the Reservoir Lounge on Friday and on Saturday I am permeating the club scene.

Finally the lady with the clipboard unhooks the velvet rope and we’re allowed in. We approach the bar and buy drinks. Bottles of Keiths are $7 each. Plus tip—which is expected cause you have to seem loaded in a place like this. The bartenders don’t even bother being nice—they’re bringing in fivers by joylessly pouring sets of vodka red bulls that GTA guys are throwing down their gullets. And the bathroom attendant is scoring toonies for…standing there watching chicks fiddle with their lipstick?

Not like I’m cheap. I’m just not used to such pointless affluence. Shut up Jules, try to have fun. Look on the bright side. It’s an adventure. You’ll get to blog about it.

I breathe and observe the scene. There are tables surrounding the dance floor. I’d love to sit down cause my very best John Fluevog shoes are killing me, but we can’t sit there cause those tables are reserved for parties who’ve requested bottle service. A group of 8 sits down. It’s probably someone’s birthday. They stare into space and don’t talk to each other on account of the loud music.

I say into Heather’s ear, “People DO this? People MEET here? How? Why?”
She shakes her head. Mentions maybe they’re not drunk enough to have fun yet.

Next I observe the clientele on the dance floor. The guys have short hair and collared shirts worn open to expose waxed chests. Big arms. Over-plucked eyebrows. The girls have dyed hair and shirts worn low-cut to expose cleavage. Deep tans. Fake nails. Over-plucked eyebrows.

I immediately pick out the bitch I hate most. At first I thought she was grinding up against my back cause she liked me, but turns out she was just shimmying me so I’d feel uncomfortable and get out of her way. Then she flipped her mass of curls into my face.

So THIS is why there’s high police presence in the entertainment district, I reflect. Cause people like me want to smash their beer necks against tables and ram them into the throats of their adversaries. Or pull out a switchblade, stab her thigh, and put an end to her dancing days.

Instead, I got out of her way. Heather and I spotted Dustin. He approves of Heather’s hair, he says. He also says something about MDMA and blow, which makes sense considering he’s acting like a rat in a mirror maze. Then he flies off again.

Heather and I do a shot of vodka and get an other round of beers. The music seems better, the club is fuller, and I’m actually inspired to dance. I put my purse and pashmina in a puddle of something and get my groove on to some remixed classic rock songs. I long for something by Snoop Dogg.

That’s when it happens. I become one of them. I accidentally have FUN. I WORK UP A SWEAT.

Near the end of the evening, I encourage Heather to go talk to a hot black guy who’s looking at her. She does. We leave him and his buddies at the club, which is emptying out now that it’s past 2am and the bar’s closed. We try to get into the Drake Hotel cause it’s open til 4am but there’s a half-hour wait. So I take off my shoes and walk the five minutes in my bare feet to Heather’s place.

The black guy texts to invite us to a hotel. Even though it was so classy of him to treat us like prostitutes, we neglect to reply to his message.

I finally get it. THIS is how people meet in clubs! THIS is what they do! It’s something I might even do again if I feel like reminding myself why I’m happy being a pub girl who plays sleepy games of pool and indie rock on the juke box.

MORE things I hate and love!!!

2007-06-07T03:27:00.000-04:00

I hate:

— Leggings worn as pants, especially stirrup ‘pants’
— Public camel toe

YAY CAMEL TOE? NO.

— Dirty/dysfunctional trouser snakes
— Crocs
— When people fail to remove price tag stickers from the soles of their shoes
— Fitting rooms sans mirrors + sales staff on commission
— That in every role (even though she’s great) Diane Keaton still has that mannish Annie Hall style
— Actresses wearing lipstick during morning scenes
— Shows that don’t bother hiring medical consultants to authenticate the doctor-character’s ‘prognosis speech’
— People who are sanctimonious about their avoidance of TV
— The same people who are all smug cause they don’t have cell phones (cause being unreachable means you’re on an elevated plane of being?)
— Disingenuous thank-you speeches at award shows
— Commercials generally
— Bad Boy commercials specifically
— Ads in toilet stalls
— Bitches who leave the tap running after they’ve washed their hands
— Public nail clipping, hair brushing, and nose picking
— Jobs that are posted on job boards even though the company has already promised the job to someone
— Plastic bags caught in trees
— Plastic cups
— When “lol” is used in text messages and IMs to diffuse gravity from the statement it follows
— People who block the subway doors
— Cockroaches
— Caterpillars
— Roaming flower vendors
— Skids who treat me like I’m useless at pool, who then turn around and keep needing to be told we’re high ball, who then don’t honour their wagers. And to top it off they usually ask for my number cause they’re too drunk to realize I’m tolerating them only sarcastically
— How my jaw clicks while I eat my breakfast in the elevator and I know my fellow passenger hates me for being so ‘noisy’
— When the savages in my building remove my period panties from the dryer because, distracted by an important phone call, I was 10 minutes late in collecting them

I love:

— Subway mice overcoming adversity…totally inspiring!
— Snails avoiding adversity…so strong!
— That everything David Bowie touches turns to gold
— Cartoonish thoughts (ie. An evil pony tail attaches itself onto a man’s head and uses the man as a host body to get itself into metal shows)
— Subversive humour
— Comic jams
— Borat
— Degrassi
— Documentaries and mockumentaries
— Nouns used as verbs (bone, couch, shark)
— Hand-written letters received in the mail
— All-day breakfasts
— Meltdowns at Master Control
— When events stray from the original plan, and pleasant surprises ensue
— Doing something I thought I couldn’t
— Adrenaline rushes
— Endorphins
— Playing the ‘bitter bartender’ for shits and giggles despite the fact that I’m secretly friendly
— Calling people “slick” and “chief” and “boss” and knowing they’ll take it cause I’M IN CHARGE, PONYBOY!
— Dirty gin martinis
— Picnics
— Eavesdropping
— People watching
— Plays
— Leaf green next to sky blue
— The feel of summer grass on my bare feet
— Being loved in return

HEARTS :)

Amsterdam

2007-05-25T00:05:00.001-04:00

HEAVEN

The voice of God came over the PA. Today He has a Dutch accent: “Do you want me to stop zee show? If you want me to stop zee show keep doing what you’re doing. This is not a circus.”

The spotlight moved from the performer to the audience. The bartender pointed at some British or Australian fellows who had been cheering ecstatically and told them to calm the fuck down.

Funny. A woman puffing a cigarillo with her pussy on a raised stage is totally commonplace but some harmless audience tomfoolery at a live sex show is what they call a ‘circus.’

The entire city was a circus, I assert. Dam square had been transformed into a carnival as part of the Queen’s Day holiday, for Chrissake! There were midway games, rides, and a ferris wheel parked in front of the Royal Palace!

HELP!!! CARNIES HAVE SIEGED THE PALACE!!!

For one glorious night through next day, everyone wore orange shirts, drank in the streets, smoked spliffs, and had rummage sales to celebrate the birthdays of Queen Beatrix and her predecessors. Everyone was blasted. Men pissed in every corner. But no-one minded cause, after 9000 years as a city, every cobblestone has been showered with gold. No matter what unhygienic debauchery comes along, including the Black Death, the place will keep going strong. People will dance on yachts and dinghies to Euro-techno, which will overwhelm the Peter Bjorn and John young tourists play in their houseboat for many years to come!

Back in Toronto, the entire police force would be patrolling the streets at a party this large. The mayor would be tense about gun violence. Police forces from neighbouring cities would be called in as auxiliary troops. But in Amsterdam, the cops gave directions. I even saw a cop giggle as his horse leaned down to sniff a Chihuahua. And they were way hotter in uniform.

LAW ENFORCEMENT PONIES

The Dutch are hotter generally. The men are tall and wear snug trousers. The women are slim and possess a natural beauty undeterred by mixing black with brown or incompatible patterns. I spent the trip feeling like the fat girl we all remember from high school whose heart was always breaking due to devastating crushes on popular blonde boys.

Dutch women would all be the popular girls. They cruise around on their Vespas wearing stilettos and men as cargo. They carry flowers in the baskets of their bikes. They’ll knock over shrimpy Canadians who foolishly tread on the bike lane. Raised on raw milk, non-genetically modified foods, and picnics in Vondelpark with legally-opened bottles of wine, the Dutch are as close to angels as mortals can get.

VIEW FROM HOUSEBOAT: BOATLOAD OF ANGELS

At the Bourbon Street Blues Club in the Leidseplein — after the guitarist sat on my lap and had the bartender pour Jack Daniels down his gullet — a stout Englishman also in attendance whined that Dutch women don’t put out easily. They think they’re the greatest, he said. If that’s so, I thought, they’re absolutely entitled.

A Dutchman named Benjamin noted haughtily that Americans are ugly because they are pear-shaped and wear white trainers. I looked at my feet and felt sheepish. But I didn’t worry for long, as I was on Benjamin’s boat cruising around the canals, drinking Heineken, smoking joints, and eating strawberries. Then we grabbed a pizza from a boat-by take-out joint!

BENJAMIN TRADES EUROS FOR PIZZA

THE JULES IS CONTENT

Therefore Benjamin and his arrogant clansmen can say anything they want about my North American footwear. The Netherlands are better than Toronto in every way. I acquiesce to their liberalism, their environmentalism, their architecture (which includes the bright idea of building dykes to reclaim land from the North Sea), their painters, their ceramics, their cheese. I bow to Queen Beatrix.

THE HEATHER, ANOTHER HONOURARY SUBJECT

My Night With The Actor

2007-05-13T02:25:00.000-04:00

Here I am waiting by the stage door in the rain. Here I am, a creature of supposed high intellect, feeling all goopy inside cause the hottie who played Frank ‘n’ Furter is about to have a drink with ME, not these other drones and fangirls clamoring for his attention.
When he exits the theatre, he greets me with a quick hug then says, “Hold on just a second Julia, I’ve got to say hi to someone.”

Sweet jesus he called me by MY name.

He returns and leads me inside the theatre, a smug smile across my face as we pass security. “She’s with me,” he says to the security man.

He says he has to quickly schmooze with the producers from the Winnipeg Theatre Company at a post-show reception. He is very apologetic for dragging me to this. How little he knows that I am elated to be with him. This must be what happens when you meet someone you had a crush on ten years ago — you’re right back to your 16-year old self. Now I’m 26 and he’s 31, he’s still Adonis and I’m still a goof.

We met in high school. We never attended at the same time because he had graduated by the time I started grade 9, but he was asked to come in and do kids’ make-up during our run of The Wizard of Oz. For the 20 minutes it took to paint my face emerald green, I’d tell him about my dolt boyfriend and he’d tell me what he was learning in the George Brown theatre program. After Oz was over, he sent me secret letters from Stratford. Sure, several people got the typed-out letter — fuck! there was a blank space where he’d filled in each letter-recipient’s name — but I kept every one and prayed I would see him again.

The closest I got to being in his presence was seeing his face on the Aladdin poster hanging outside the Elgin Theatre two years ago. And drooling at his musical theatre smile in the Mama Mia TV ads. But this, right now, in a room filled with actors and producers, is my chance to fulfill my teenage dream.

As soon as we arrive at the reception, some middle-aged women approach and tell him how wonderful he was as Frank ‘n’ Furter. Even better than Tim Curry, they say. He gives them a pre-packaged thank you, modesty thinly veils his pride. We get a table and our conversation begins swimmingly.

I lean in and tell him we’ve been cosmically connected all these years since high school. I reveal that he’d dated a woman who is now married to the brother of a guy I dated. He is surprised. I didn’t like her, I say. She was a buzzkill. She would come over to the apartment my man and his bro shared and mock-cough at the weed smoke coming from under my man’s door. Little she knew that when she wasn’t there, her boyfriend/my man’s brother would be partying ‘til all hours with us. But when she was there, she was dragging him to church and being generally prissy.

“That’s funny,” he said. “When I was going out with her, we did shrooms all the time. She just…CHANGED…after we broke up.”

Once she realized she lost the best thing that ever happened to her, she went and lost her mind, I bet.

Then some Suits come to our table. They’re fellows from the Winnipeg Theatre Company. They shake his hand, then mine, and exclaim how great “you guys” did. He articulates another scripted thank you, smiles perfectly and punctuates his sentences with appropriate jokes such as: “Oh I would have another piece of carrot cake, but I HAVE TO FIT INTO MY FISHNETS IN THE MORNING!” (Everyone laughs). A fellow brings over a vodka tonic for him and a red wine for me. The Suits probably think I’m some mysterious chorus member whose face they hadn’t completely seen from their seats in the balcony. Flattered and not wanting to embarrass the Suits, I sit up straight and pretend I’m that chorus member.

This reception makes me miss my theatre days. How wonderful it felt to be the star. I admit I got off on the elitism of it. O faceless audience, you’re just part of the black mass! I’m the one in the spotlight. You know my name but I have no clue who the fuck you are. You can boo and heckle but we all know I am beautiful, young and talented so watch me perform or cast yourself out into the rainy night! That sort of thing.

The stars of the Rocky Horror Show know they are beautiful and talented. The guy who plays Rocky struts up to the table and invites us to Pravda, a vodka bar across the street. He’s 6’5”, is wearing ass-flattering bellbottom chords, has a mane of blonde hair and a jawline comic book heroes would envy. He and some of the other cast members are going there for martinis so we should join, he says.

Again my Frank ‘n’ Furter looks at me apologetically. Would that be OK? To go for a quick drink with these guys? I’m beside myself with glee. Like, no I’d rather go to a dive bar and slum around with mutants like I usually do. Fucking right I want to hang out with You and the Beautifuls!

We’re sitting at the bar at Pravda. I’m surrounded by professional actors. This is the Toronto theatre scene, I’m thinking. This is what they do: treat themselves to occasional $20 martinis, sing at inappropriate times and places, speak in funny voices, have torrent affairs with co-stars. It’s what I could have been. And I would have been happy doing so.

It’s strange when you get a taste of your alternative life. Suddenly I have no clue why I went into journalism. Was that a grave mistake? Why does the grass always seem greener on the other side? Over there, my life blooms in eternal sunlight. Over there, regrets float by in the breeze but never land on my perfectly green grass.

I ask my Frank ‘n’ Furter what he likes a bout acting. In the absence of Suits who he must impress with his good cheer, he answers honestly. “I love words. I love relationships. I like pissing off an audience. One minute they hate you and the next minute they’re right here” (pointing to palm of hand). “I like the manipulation and the (patting self on back).”

If being an actor meant I could toy with the mass emotions then, to thank me for my manipulation, everyone was waiting by the stage door to suck my dick I would be as happy as a clam at high tide.

He continues, says he idealizes Jack Lemmon. He wants to be in a production of Glengarry Glen Ross but he’s not sure what his next gig will be. He’s always looking for the next job. Maybe he’ll get into directing. Producing.

I’d always heard acting was an unstable profession, but I’m shocked that the star of the show doesn’t even have his next job lined up.

Plus I have to think about my girlfriend, he continues. Melissa might want to get married. She’s a nanny, she’s great with kids. But she compromises her life for mine. I’m the bread-winner. I bought the house. But I can’t settle down now. Can’t have kids at this point. I’m still young. I still need to travel to where the work is. I want to go back to Broadway.

I nod empathetically and sip my martini.

With that, my perfect dream is shattered. I don’t want to be in a profession that frowns on stability and my instinct to plant roots. Nor would I want to be in a profession plagued with self-indulgence, which encourages stars of shows to string along their fans/ex-schoolmates simply because it boosts their own egos. Sexy as those egos may be. You just don’t spring girlfriends on people.

At this point I’d rather be a dreamy journalist who experiences reality as a series of words on paper, no accolades, no celebrity, no glam.

Predators! Everywhere!

2007-03-18T05:03:00.000-04:00

[While having a drink after a long shift at Massey Hall, a co-worker said he found something about me in the Craigslist personals. When I got home that night I immediately turned on my computer and read the ad for myself:]

Reply to: pers-287898579@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-03-03, 5:44PM EST

You are Julia, everybody calls you Jules. You work at Massey hall. I was speechless after seeing you in your retro dress.
Coffee?

From: "Julia Somerville"
To: feature350@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: hi
Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2007 00:29:32 +0000

This is "Julia of Massey Hall."
You mention a retro dress. I haven't worn a dress for months. And I
certainly don't wear dresses while I'm working. So I'll have to ask
you to kindly explain yourself.

From: "N kn"
To: "Julia Somerville"
Subject: hi
Date: Thu, 15 Mar 2007 14:56:36 -0500

Caught me offguard. Wasnt a believer of Craigslist but now I am, and
I am scared because I am way too shy.
Well... you did wear the retro outfit on the staff Xmass party, and
you were adorable. I had a crush on you................ huge.

I am not a freak nor a scammer, just.........overwhelmed

Its nice to see yor email though.

Just wondering do you write on Now magazine?? Just curious

From: "Julia Somerville"
To: feature350@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: hi
Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2007 00:29:32 +0000

I'll be the one who decides if you're a freak or a scammer. First you must identify yourself.
I need your full name...and then I can Google search you as you've apparently done to me.
Shyness is not an option.
Thank you.

From: "N kn"
To: "Julia Somerville"
Subject: RE: hi
Date: Fri, 16 Mar 2007 23:13:58 -0400

LOL... smart one.
Cant do that... need time. BTW do you still write for NOW? it was very interesting topic to write if it was you.
Dating anyone?

From: "Julia Somerville"
To: feature350@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: hi
Date: Sat, 17 Mar 2007 06:19:40 +0000

You fail.

From : N kn
Sent : March 18, 2007 2:50:49 AM
To : "Julia Somerville"
Subject : RE: hi

LOL.... I always do

oh well... worth a shot.

One day for sure for sure I will ask you out for a glass of wine when I see you on the street

[I am frightened. Must start keeping eyes peeled for cyberstalkers who spike my street-wine with rufees.]

How a Lottery Scam Inspired an Even Stronger-Worded Letter

2007-03-03T17:22:00.000-05:00

Last night I got an email from "UK online lottery."
Here's what it said:

The Lottery Company
P.O Box 789
Harrogate HG1 2YR
Ref: UK/9420X2/68
Batch: 074/05/ZY369

YOU HAVE WON 352,000 POUNDS STERLING

Attn: Winner,

You have won the sum of £352,000 (THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO THOUSAND,POUNDS STERLING ) from BRITISH LOTTERY on our 2007 new year charity bonanza.

The winning ticket was selected from a Data Base of Internet E-mail Users,from which your Address came out as the winning coupon.

We hereby urge you to claim the winning amount quickly as this is a monthly lottery. Failure to claim your win will result into the reversion of the fund to our following month.

You are therefore requested to contact immediately our Claims Department below quoting winning number: LOTTERY NUMER:05-08-10-18-20-46-{43}.

Contact Person: Barrister Morrison Fisher
email: barristermorrisfisher@yahoo.co.uk
PHONE: +44-701-113-8636
+44-704-570-1165

Congratulations once again.
please quote your lottery number.

Regards,

Mrs. Rose Carl.
Online coordinator for UK NATIONAL LOTTERY
Sweepstakes International Program.

So for shits and giggles I went ahead and sent them my reference number. Here's how they replied:

P.O Box 789
Harrogate HG1 2YR
Ref: UK/9420X2/68
Batch: 074/05/ZY369

OUR REF: 27349/46

Attn: Winner,

I am Barr. Morrison Fisher, I have been assigned by United Kingdom National Lottery to process your payment file. I wish to congratulate you on your winnings. The winning information presented by you has been verified.

Meanwhile as for now everything seem to be working in your favour, all that we require from you now, is your maximum cooperation for smooth transfer of your money through paying bank, swift transfer or courier delivery of cashier’s cheque depends on how you want it redeemed to you . You are required to fill out the claims processing form below and return to us for proper verification.

UNITED KINGDOM AWARD VERIFICATION FORM:

==================================================
FULLNAME:....................................................................
FORWARDING ADDRESSE:.........................................................
CITY/STATE:....................... COUNTRY OF ORIGIN:.......................
MARITAL STATUS:..................... NATIONALITY..............SEX...........
DATE OF BIRTH:.................
TEL/FAX NR: .........................OCCUPATION:..........................
CURRENT EMAIL:....................
===================================================
Upon the receipt of the dually filled claims form, I will notify the British Gaming Board (BGB), so as to give approval to our paying bank or Courier Company, the permission to make the transfer or deliver your winning cheque/winning certificate. You should send us your personal contact phone number so the bank or courier company can contact you by phone or email.

Congratulations, once again.

Best Regards,

Barr. Morrison Fisher.
Phone number: +44701 113 8636
Foreign Services Manager,
Payment and Release order Department,
TRANS-ATLANTIC S.A LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM.

Confidentiality Notice: This e-mail message, including any attachments, is for the sole use of the intended recipient(s) and contains confidential and privileged information. Any unauthorized review, use, disclosure, or distribution is prohibited. If you are not the intended recipient, please contact the sender by reply e-mail and destroy all copies of the original message.

Copyright © 1994-2007 The UK National Lottery Inc.
All rights reserved. Terms of Service - Guideline

After a quick Google search that confirmed my suspicion that these guys were fishy, I replied:

The Too Smart to be Duped By You Company
P.O. Box 666
Canada 666 666
Ref: 666
Batch: 666
Contact person: Satan
BarristerDoctorSatan@yahoo.com

Attn: Winner,

Congratulations! You're going to hell! Your name was chosen off the top of my head in the Royal Annual Let's-See-Which-Scam-Artist-I-Want-To-Call-Out Bonanza!

Now in all seriousness, I will publish your fraudulent email on my blog to notify as many people as possible that you're a bunch of wankers. I will also notify the gaming and lottery boards involved to protect people from being fooled by your evil bullshit.

Furthermore, no real barrister would ever send emails containing such bad grammar, spelling mistakes, and poorly constructed sentences. Maybe instead of ripping people off for a living, you should go back to school, Kiddo!

Once again Congratulations! And by that I mean fuck you.

Unkindest Regards,

Her Highness Doctor Researcher Barrister J.S. Ballbuster Esq.

BarristerDoctorSatan@yahoo.com

Single and Predatory on Valentine’s Day (Jules discovers the meaning of love!)

2007-02-20T05:01:00.000-05:00

On the bus I curse life. It's cold and bumpy. I've forgotten my ipod and now I must listen to some cow behind me crumpling her Doritos bag every time one of her fat paws reaches in for another chip. I'm recovering from a chest cold and I haven’t left the house for five days. My re-integration into society isn't going as swimmingly as anticipated.

I don’t particularly want to get to my destination. And that’s why the bus is actually on time, this time. Buses are never on time when you’re in a desperate hurry, eager to meet your friends at the “Anti-Valentine’s Day Singles Event!” But when an “Anti-Valentines Day” thingy happens on Valentine’s Day, and the purpose is for singles to meet and fall in love with each other, and romance is dumb, and the incongruence of it grinds on my last nerve, here pulls up the 94C like a magic chariot!

I disembark and enter Schmooze, where this “Event” is taking place. No-one is wearing red because that’s not allowed according to the dress code. No sneakers, no Ts, no jeans, no hats, no expression of individuality. Between all these rules and the effing snow storm outside, I have nothing appropriate to wear. I opt for a teal shirt with black pants. I feel ugly.

I find my friends, Heather and Nikki, and check my coat. The next move, as predicted, is to get drinks at the bar. I moan about the price ($12 for a double gin and tonic that tastes like piss). Heather gently tells me to quit complaining. She’s right. It’s just that I’m determined to not have fun, and mocking everything down to the nth detail will aid that mission.

“If I see Adam here, I will barf,” I announce. Adam’s the guy I met at the singles party on New Year’s Eve. It was such a holiday cliché…Our eyes locked as I was walking across the Palais Royale dance floor, and like Prince Charming in an Armani suit, he approached me and swept me off my feet. He was gorgeous and hilarious and interested—I was so optimistic I kept him by my side all night, and when the New Year rung in, we celebrated with a perfect kiss.

Clearly my bliss was temporary. After just three weeks of dating, it became clear that all he wanted was a warm body to sit next to him on the couch and sleep next to him in the bed. Underneath our superficially clever banter and constant playschool teasing, we lacked substance. My heart sank when I realized he had already stopped getting to know me. Whenever I tried to open up a discussion, he blocked me with jokes and sarcasm. I decided I needed time to collect my thoughts and identify my feelings about him so I told him I couldn’t visit him that weekend. Things were moving a bit too fast, I said soothingly. He scolded me for breaking our plans. That very night he went out with his friends and met someone else, I later discovered. No words or gestures marked the end of our fling. It just floated downstream like a dead leaf.

But I still reserve the right to barf if I see him.

The person I WANT to see is Sam. He works for the company that organizes these events, and he attends every one. I first met him at the “Christmas Jingle Mingle” at C Lounge which he helped co-ordinate. At first I was just asking him snoopy questions about his job as a professional party boy—isn’t it weird being a matchmaker?—but soon enough I found myself drawn in by his easygoing nature and mysterious sex appeal. I could tell he liked me too, but I didn’t want to make a move on a potentially slutty man who makes a career of chatting up predatory single chicks.

When I saw him at the New Years party, Sam asked me to get a drink with him. I declined because Adam was on my arm, but I wished that I could have frozen time and left Adam safe and sound in a state of suspended animation while I went off with Sam to decide if I still liked him. I know I sound greedy…but when you’ve been single for a year and suddenly several eligible bachelors are giving you attention, you just want to maximize your odds. So tonight, single as single can be, I vow to find him and see if he’s still up for that drink.

I spot him near the door talking to a group of people, as always. I come up to him and say hi. He introduces me to those around him. Then he sees someone he must greet a few feet away and excuses himself, but not before whispering with a smile, “promise you won’t leave before talking to me.” I promise.

Heather, Nikki and I move to the back bar, where we are snagged into conversation with a coupla guys who know each other from church. One is almost cute, but the other seems to have Tourettes syndrome. After five minutes, Heather says we should “go look for Cheryl.” Cheryl is our imaginary friend who is perpetually at the other side of the room. We say bye to these duds and walk towards the front entrance.

That’s when I spot Adam. He’s at the main bar talking to two women. Of course. He looks handsome as ever in his designer shirt. I speed up and nearly knock a few people over in order to pass him unnoticed. I stop and hide behind a pillar.
“Fuck. He’s here.”
Heather and Nikki ask where he’s standing.
“Is that him?” Nikki points.
Heather tells her not to point.
“Jesus. Could you tell I was running from him?” I ask.
They say no, but they could tell I speeded up suddenly. I breathe and reflect on my cowardice. I feel like an asshole.
Heather and Nikki say maybe we should leave.
“No. No. I’m going to say hi to him.”

A few minutes later I leave the girls and trek out alone to find Adam. Now he’s talking to a skinny girl. I approach and say, “So what happened to you?” The girl leaves abruptly.
“What happened to ME? What happened to YOU?” he retorts.
“You quit calling me,” I say, half mock-injured, half actually injured.
“And you blocked me on Messenger. And a week later you deleted me.”
“True,” I say with an embarrassed smile, “I guess you know everything I do online, working in IT and all.”
“I see EVERYTHING.”
We laugh. And then my mood transitions to back to regret.
“Adam, we had potential. You were just so guarded. You have to learn to let people in.” I’m pointing at his heart, and speaking passionately despite myself. He gives me an acquiescent shrug. I shake my head at him.
“Anyway. It’s all water under the bridge now.” I say. “No hard feelings.”
“So were you building up the courage to come talk to me? I saw how you ran past me earlier.” He teases.
I feel sheepish. So I tell him to shut up and I half-slap his arm like a Grade seven with a crush.
“So are you meeting girls?” I ask.
“Yeah, but most of them are too old.”
“I hear that. These guys are older than my Dad! But there’s a few hotties. Like that guy.”
I motion to a tall fellow I had noticed earlier. Adam looks over at him.
The tall guy looks at me and I flash him a flirty smile.
“Ah, Mr. GQ over there? His arms are bigger than mine.”
“Yeah, but you’re probably winning in other departments.” I wink.
Adam laughs.
“Well good luck on your search, my friend.”
“You too.”
I walk back into the crowd. I feel like a warrior. I’m proud I mustered the spine to talk to him despite my inner fear and awkwardness. It was actually GOOD to see him. In a room full of strangers, it comforts me to know that I know him, if only superficially.

I return to Heather and Nikki, both have long faces. Heather says she’s going as soon as she’s done her drink. They aren’t meeting anyone suitable. These guys are too old, too short, too stupid. And many of them are. But suddenly I believe that there are diamonds in this rough. On my way here I hated everyone and suddenly I’m this positive person who really believes in Valentine’s Day, even though it’s just a Hallmark holiday that sets people up for disappointment. I don’t know where this optimism came from—gin, maybe—maybe some hope dislodged when I coughed up the last of my phlegm and it’s now pumping though my veins like an opiate. Or I excreted the last of my joy in the Parisian-style co-ed bathroom, only to have it re-infect me like a friendly e-coli. Maybe it was my pleasant exchange with Adam.
I tell the girls I’m staying for awhile longer. I still have to talk to Sam. And that tall guy. I wish them a good night.

Here comes the tall guy, right on time.
“Hi. You look familiar. Have we met before” I say. It sounds like a bad line, but he really does look familiar.
“You look familiar too, he says.”
I ask if he’s an actor and he reveals that he went to an arts high school, as did I. We end up talking for an hour about the Toronto theatre scene—a topic I rarely get to chat about with men. I buy him a beer because he’s Dutch, and I’ve been told that in contrast to North American tradition, Dutch women often buy drinks for the men. He’s got an intellectual/philosophical nature, a beautiful face and a body that’s a phenomenal 6’6”. I swoon. I write my phone number on a napkin and say I’ve had fun but I should get going. He kisses me goodbye. Through the happy haze I’m aware that everyone is watching me French yet another guy at a singles event. His body against mine, I’m sentient that I am right now forfeiting my ability to attend any more events put on by this party planning company. I officially have a bad reputation.

I get my coat, reapply my lipstick and begin my quest for Sam. He’s talking to yet another group of people.
“Are you on your way out?” he asks.
“Soon,” I respond.
“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s been really interesting. The guy I met on New Year’s Eve is here. We dated for a few weeks but it didn’t work out. I think we’re officially just friends now.”

Then Adam appeared, holding an extra spicy caesar. Maybe it’s the bartender in me…I like the predictability of knowing what drinks people like.
“Here he is! Sam, you remember Adam?” I say.
“Sure man,” and they shake hands. But Sam is already in conversation with someone.
I ask Adam about his car—did he finally get winter tires? That starts off another round of schoolyard teasing. I make fun of his grease phobia. No-one was allowed to enter his Mazda with greasy hands. And then like a scampy younger sister, I asked him to buy me a drink. We move to the bar and a woman standing with her friend compliments Adam’s shirt.
“This is my friend good friend Adam,” I chime in. “He’s got amazing shirts.”
“Oh yeah?” The woman looks interested.
“Yeah, all designer. Dolce & Gabbana. He’s totally stylin’.”
Adam is smiling like a Cheshire cat. I remember when he showed me his closet and modeled his favourite pieces for me the first time I went to his place. I thought he was vain and immodest, but I liked his taste nonetheless.
“He’s a great guy. We met on New Years Eve and we’ve been pals ever since!”
I’m talking with the enthusiasm of a kid’s show host. Adam and I chuckle at our silliness. Our fling has become our inside joke.

And then the tall guy arrives. He gives me a final goodbye, says he’ll call soon.
Adam introduces himself as my cousin, Tom. We find this side-splitting.
I finish my drink and put on my coat. I give Adam a big hug and promise to unblock him from Messenger.

Finally Sam is alone. I tell him I’m leaving and he walks me towards the exit. He stops by the front table to write his cell phone number on his business card.
“Sorry I was distracted by Adam all night. I really wanted to talk to you more,” I felt compelled to say.
“I saw you were also distracted by the tall blond guy at the back bar.”
“Uh yeah. I get carried away sometimes.”

Then I head home. It’s only 10 p.m. but the rainbow of emotions I’d survived throughout the evening makes it feel much later.

My postscript on this experience is: Maybe I blew it by being overly flirty. Leave it to me to chat up Sam—the brain behind this whole hullabaloo—in between kissing the tall man and goofing off with the guy I already dated. They say intelligent animals don’t eat where they shit, so what’s my problem? Then again, maybe the evening was a success because I overcame my own pessimism. I made lemonade with my lemons, and may have delicately spun a rejected boyfriend into a friend. Whatever the case, this postmodern in-the-back-door-out-the-front search for love is totally fucked up. It’s all about multi-tasking and maximizing and diversifying and getting return on my emotional investments. I find myself quantifying, judging, and empirically measuring success based on how many smiles I’ve received, actually and virtually. And isn’t that just the kind of business-thinking that epitomizes Valentine’s Day? But under the crooked corporate cash grab, deeper than the dollars and cents Hallmark rakes in every year, it’s just about celebrating love and companionship in all their bewildering forms.

Hooray!

The Pictorial Life of Jules

2007-02-20T03:44:00.000-05:00

BORN OCTOBER 4, 1980. 9 LBS, 11 OZ. DELIVERED BY C-SECTION BECAUSE I WAS TOO BIG AND TOO SNOBBY TO BOTHER WITH THE PESKY BIRTH CANAL

3 YEARS OLD AND WEARING MY BIG BIRD SWEATER!

I LOVED BEING 5. I THOUGHT 5 WAS SO MATURE

6 AND CLEARLY ENTERING AWKWARD PHASE. (STARTED DRESSING SELF)

STILL IN AWKWARD PHASE AT 9. TRIED TO BRUSH HAIR LIKE REGULAR GIRLS, NOT KNOWING CURLS DON'T WORK THAT WAY

STARTING TO GET THE HAIR THING BY 12. BUT STILL UGLY THANKS TO BRACES

14 AND FINALLY GETTING ATTENTION FROM BOYS (BOOBS SUDDENLY LARGE)

EXPLOITING SUDDEN ATTENTION BY ACTING. MY HEAD SHOT AT 15

16 AND FINALLY PLUCKING BROWS/WEARING MAKEUP. YET MAINTAINED HIPPYISMS (IE USUALLY DIDN'T SHAVE LEGS)

HEAD SHOT AT 17. HIPS GREW, WASN'T "SKINNY" ANYMORE. THOUGHT I WAS FAT

SKIPPING AHEAD 7 YEARS, HERE'S ME GRADUATING FROM RYERSON UNIVERSITY. THOUGH I LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME, IT WAS AN EVENTFUL 7 YEARS. I FINISHED HIGH SCHOOL, REPAIRED STRAINED RELATIONSHIP WITH PARENTS, GAINED AND LOST 40 LBS, WORKED FULL-TIME AT AN ART STORE, DECIDED TO BE A WRITER, WENT TO RYERSON, BECAME JADED, REFUSED TO WEAR COLOURS OTHER THAN BLACK OR RED, BECAME MUSIC SNOB, DREW COMICS, LIVED IN ENGLAND, EMBRACED COLOUR AGAIN (AND HIGH HEELS), MOVED A HANDFUL OF TIMES, DATED MANY BOYS, BECAME MORE SECURE WITH SELF

Lavalife® Where singles jump off their balconies®

2007-02-04T03:09:00.000-05:00

If I have to go on ONE MORE bad date with one of these computer-mutants I'll flip out and resign myself to dying a spinster. In fact I deleted my Lavalife profile after a particularly dehumanizing date in which yet another man wanted to yap about himself (his job, his travel itinerary, his sister’s house renovations) and showed ABSOLUTELY NO INTEREST in my accomplishments. It played out like an interview, starring me as the interviewer always politely engaged, asking questions. Then he went on for 30 minutes straight about the microscopic details of his job as a project manager. I looked away, I looked at my watch, I eyed the bartender — all hints that he ought to bring the monologue back to a dialogue. As I watched him flap his lips a hilariously tragic image popped into my head: every word was another cartoon nail slamming into a cartoon coffin. PLINK! PLINK! PLINK! I nearly giggled. When he was done his epic speech, as an experiment, I sat silent and waited for him to turn to me and say, “so what do you do?” or something to show he was interested in the brain I might have in my pretty little head.
He just sat there.
And so, in that most uncomfortable minute of silence I remembered those who fell. Him. And the guy before him, the guy before him, the guy before him, the guy before him, and all the guys since the beginning of time — each one in a cartoon coffin. May they rest in peace.

Tonight I voiced my frustration to a group of co-workers at the pub after our shift. A handsome and clever fellow told me, “Don’t give up. I met my girlfriend on Lava.”

"Sure," I said, "You're THAT person...like the person who wins the lottery and so everyone else slugs away buying tickets every day hoping it's gonna happen to them too."

Everyone laughed. Oh Jules, how hilarious and accurate you are. We get a kick out of your faux-mock-bitterness and we can't get enough of your 'bad date' stories.

Well I'VE had enough! I can't go on forever making my life into STORIES for everyone else's pleasure but mine...even though to be perfectly honest I deliver them enthusiastically and animatedly (I include impressions!), I dig the attention, and I secretly enjoy the creative fuel that I've gained by encountering all these bizarros.

So why has fate or whatever given me the shaft in the love department lately? Why couldn’t I have been one of those lucky ones who ended up with a great partner? I SWEAR I’m not doing anything to scare men off. I flirt. I’m open to love. I look good — hell I even dress up to go to the grocery store JUST IN CASE I meet someone there. What’s wrong with me?

Oh Jules, love always comes when you’re not even looking for it, they say. My retort: So I’m being punished for being PROACTIVE? That laissez-faire attitude doesn’t cut it when it comes to finding a job or an apartment or getting the errands done so why are you saying I should sit on my ass and wait for my man to appear by my side like a phantom?

But then there's that little voice inside, that last grain of optimism. "now jules hang in there pal...your time will come, just be patient." And so tonight, when I got home from the pub, I reinstated my lava profile. I added a few details to help ward off joyless, egocentric, immature, socially awkward, aloof, overeager, stupid, just-on-here-to-make-friends freaks. As for my impatience, disappointment and frustration, I’ll try really hard to internalize my mantra: I’M A WARRIOR. THIS, TOO, MAKES ME STRONGER.

MY PROFILE PICTURE
Nickname: JULES SAYS. Opening line: "Kisses for honest/artistic intellects whose minds meet mine"

MY PERSONAL MESSAGE

Hi I'm Jules!

I'm intelligent, artistic, articulate, witty, goofy and honest. My insatiable curiousity causes me to be interested in meeting new people and discovering things about the world in general. I'm always on the look out for new rock bands, books, restaurants, pubs, art exhibits, documentaries and plays. If you think you can dig that, then we've started off on the right foot!

I would probably try anything just to see what it's like and I'm looking for a fellow who is equally open-minded. If you're racist, sexist, homophobic, commitment-phobic, or dimwitted, kindly find another girl. I'm also looking for someone who wants a woman to be his intellectual equal, not just his arm candy. I don't believe in Prince Charming, but I do need someone who's great because I'm great, if I do say so. And if you get on my good side, I'll TREAT you like Prince Charming — I may even candy your arm from time to time — but our minds would have had to click first.

I work as a journalist/writer and have my own apartment downtown. I'm independent and career-driven, but equally interested in finding love with a man who is on his feet (ie. you don't live with your parents). I'll tell you whatever else you'd like to know if you message me. I've nothing to hide.

Take it easy,
Jules

The Socio-economics of Handbags

2007-01-30T17:12:00.000-05:00

GUCCI RED PYTHON WITH RED SUEDE AND SILVER HARDWARE, JUST $4990 —>

I often confuse Yorkville and Yorkdale, which makes sense because the mall is just an indoor version of the neighbourhood — right down to a miniaturized Holt Renfrew.

I went in there and felt like a sewer rat on a mushroom trip. Everything was shiny and wonderful and a thousand dollars and I didn’t belong. My hair was falling apart and I was sweaty and unemployed and I had globs of that super dentist’s toothpaste on my cheeks because I’d just had my teeth cleaned. I ran my fingers across every leather handbag, and inspected the inner linings — most of them more opulent than the exteriors. Fendi, Gucci, Prada…names I’ve only ever heard of, let alone violated with my grubby fingers.

A gaggle of private school girls browsed in the Juicy section. One of them answered her phone and casually told her mom she was in Holt’s, the way I would have told my mom I was in McDonald's when I was that age. “Yeah yeah mom, be home soon…I don’t know WHEN mom, just SOON GAWD.”

In Stoneridge I picked up a royal blue clutch I wasn’t particularly interested in.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said the sales associate. He took it from me and removed the tissue filling.
“It’s Matt and Nat.”
I nod. I don’t care.
“I can tell you like royal blue,” he says, handing it back to me.
“Ya, well I’m wearing royal blue so…” I say plainly as I motion to my sweater.
“And it’s not leather. They're a vegan label.” He says.
“Oh.”

VEGAN PURSES DON'T SMELL AS NICE THOUGH

I would have discovered the bag’s colour, brand and material in good time with the five senses nature gave me, were it not for him distracting me with blatancy. I would like nothing more than to feel it and smell it and inspect its lining but you can’t sniff bags like a drug-detecting dog with all these commission-hungry clerks around.

I put the bag down and move to the opposite wall.
This time, a woman.
“These are all on sale. Buy one get the other 30% off.”
“Yeah, like this sign says,” I say with a hint of condescension.
“Yup.”
All I want is to browse at my leisure. Don’t tell me about the sale on fugly satchels when all’s I want is a clutch, bitch. I mean, I’ve slaved away in retail myself, but I was NEVER as pushy as these freaks.

In Coach, the prices aren’t even written on the bags, so I’m forced to ask one of the salesfreaks how much junk costs. “This one’s $250, that one’s $320.” I’m embarrassed by my ensuing expression of shock and disappointment that signals to the salesfreak that I’m not the sort of person who should be in here, so there’s no use helping me further. I am left alone for the remainder of my browse and I find that refreshing.

AT $698, SHE'S OUT OF MY LEAGUE *tears

In conclusion, if looking like a penniless sewer rat will get these freaks off my back, then I should funk up my hair and smear toothpaste across my face all the time! Should I ever get rich, I’ll go back to Holt Renfrew and slink around in that condition until security starts eyeing me, and then I’ll pick up the loveliest handbag and dump it on the counter with a surprise draw of my gold plastic just to show them this customer is always right.

Another Strongly-Worded Letter

2007-01-26T16:44:00.000-05:00

Dear Canada Post,

I'm writing to complain about the poor delivery service in my area.

I'm upset that a pair of concert tickets (that Ticketmaster mailed to my correct address) was put into the mailbox of another tenant in my high-rise apartment building.

I discovered the problem on my way to work this morning. As I was leaving my unit, I spotted my envelope in the middle of the hallway, a few feet away from my door. The envelope had been opened and stepped on. LUCKILY the tickets were still inside — probably because the tickets were to see Wolfmother, an Australian hard rock act that no-one in my building would be cool enough to want to see. Were they tickets to see U2 or a major sporting event, for example, they would be long gone.

I realize that human error is normal, but because the tickets were put in the wrong mailbox by one of your letter carriers, another tenant in my building opened them (another offense — this one of a LEGAL nature), whereupon they were nearly stolen and left for dead in front of my door. I hate to think of this scenario happening with another piece of mail — especially one containing credit card information or other personal details. Identity theft is a growing problem in this country and I presume Canada Post is trying to prevent it...but maybe you're not trying hard enough.

In conclusion, with this letter I urge Canada Post to improve service in my building by encouraging your carriers to take greater care in putting mail in the right mailboxes. If carriers lack time for such accuracy — especially in light of the concentrated population density within my neighbourhood's high-rises — please hire more carriers.

If there's anything I can do to help — such as putting up notices in my building about the penalties of mail fraud — please let me know.

Thank you,
Julia Somerville

Medical Emergency

2007-01-22T17:15:00.000-05:00

I descend to find the subway parked at the platform at Queen station. Just sitting there, doors open. Just a delay, no worries, I’ll find a seat and get out my ipod.

After a minute, fellow passengers are fidgeting and frowning and checking their watches. I take out my ear buds. I want to ask someone, pardon sir how long has the train been sitting here?

Then the announcement: “We apologize for the delay. There is a medical emergency on this train. Emergency Services are on their way.”

A medical emergency on THIS train? Usually junk happens on other trains, ahead on the track, going the other direction.

Eager to get home, I figure I could switch southbound and ride the U down to Union and then back north again. Then I’ll switch to the Bloor line and I’ll be home faster than waiting here forever. I get up and leave the train.

Now there’s a crowd on the platform, people are looking into the car. I walk towards the exit and through the opened subway doors I get a glimpse of a man on the floor, his face grey-green.

I think about crossing myself, like in case God exists and responds to that sort of thing. I want to do something. I had a bottle of water in my purse. Maybe he’s just dehydrated? But I keep walking.

I’ve only ever heard of people turning that colour…this is my first time actually seeing it. Even my grandpa looked peachy in his coffin, thanks to a strategically-placed pink light, makeup, and embalming fluid.

I switch to the southbound platform and watch the scene from the other side. Some passengers remain in the car where the man is laying, holding the poles or reading newspapers like they should be moving along any minute now.

I catch my train and hear another announcement about the northbound delay at Queen. The woman across from me frowns at the news. I want to tell her I saw it. I saw the man laying there probably dying, OK. What if someone had jumped, ma’am? What if there was another bomb scare? So wipe that furrow from your forehead.

I’ve made that expression thousand times, myself. But in that moment I decided to quit making the “what the eff is the delay” face because, compared to what that guy was going through, my delay is inconsequential.

The Job Interview

2007-01-22T16:27:00.000-05:00

She asked me what TV shows I watch.
“Desperate Housewives, Degrassi…even though some people think I’m too old for Degrassi. And I’m not just listing those because they’re CTV shows. I also like Six Feet Under.”
“So you like dramas.”
“I do. I’ll watch any teen drama.”
“What about magazines. Do you read Entertainment Weekly, People?”
“Sure.” (A lie. I don’t read them on purpose. I have an US weekly in my magazine rack, but only because I put it in Heather’s Christmas stocking and she left it in my possession when she was finished with it. And I do flip through trash-mags when I’m, say, at the doctor’s office — but only because flipping languidly from vapid article to glossy ad makes more sense than staring at the other patients, guessing what’s wrong with them, eavesdropping on their conversations, then writing about them on my blog like the sick puppy I am.) “I have a Vanity Fair in my bag.” I pulled it out and Irene smiled.
“That’s a great magazine.” (Also Heather’s)
Score!
I might have gone on too long about an article I disagreed with. Hitchens purported that women aren’t funny. Were I a cleverer person, I would have veered back to the television industry somehow — mentioned Corner Gas, how funny THAT is(n’t), and the great contributions women are(n’t) making to that show.

A few days later, I sent a follow-up email:

Hi Irene,

I'd like to thank you again for our meeting last week. I hope I answered all of your questions and sufficiently convinced you how good I would be in the position. As you saw on my resume, this would be a bit of a change from what I've been doing at Rogers TV, but I did get plenty of experience with logging tape, editing, and the TV industry in general during my time there. I think I could really jive with your team.
I'm eagerly awaiting your decision...and until then, happy interviewing!

Take care,
Julia

She replied by telling me thanks for my interest in the position, it was nice chatting with me. But the job was given to a person who has already been working at CTV. She’ll keep my resume on file.

So the Vanity Fair didn’t help much after all. Maybe a Macleans would have given me an advantage over this punk already working for the company. If the job was given to a snot-nosed Degrassi alumna, I’ll have no alternative but to add the show to my ever-expanding Boycott list — relevant teen issues or not!

Operation LOST FAKE WALLET

2007-01-06T09:18:00.000-05:00

Friday, January 5, 2007

10:20 a.m.

Union Station was in the grips of late-morning rush hour. A crowd had disembarked a train and was running towards Bay Street like a herd of buffalo. Others were on the wire mesh seats, waiting for god knows what…and that’s where I saw the light-haired young man.

I dropped the fake wallet without pause and immediately descended towards the subway. The young man kept his gaze fixed on the fake wallet. It sat on the floor all illicit and sexy, worn black leather. It had belonged to a friend but he discarded it at my apartment when I gave him a new one as a gift. It had been confined to my drawer for months, and was finally free to travel anywhere in Ontario and beyond.

Wallet contains:

A card that reads: ‘Congratulations! You’ve found a fake wallet! Please call Julia at 416 *** ****.’

A BYID card drawn with markers (including caricature mug shot of me). Fake Visa card, fake TD Debit card. All placed neatly into the card slots.

$1.30 in Canadian Tire money. Two Fake cheques.

I went home feeling proud of my act of kamikaze kindness. Thus began my experiment in human curiousity, my submission to destiny…Very Amélie.

9:20 p.m.

My phone rang. The display showed the number was from the 519 area code. Is this my new wallet-friend, I wondered. Or maybe my cousin with news about her ailing father?

“Yeah hi. I found a fake wallet?” said the young man.
“Great! You found it! It was my experiment in human curiousity. Where were you going when you found it?”
“I was waiting for my train. I saw you drop it. I thought it was a bomb. Wow, you put a lot of effort into it.”
“Ya, fun with markers. I remember you. You were sitting on the corner, right? The guy with the light hair.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Well I dropped the fake wallet cause I wanted to see who I could meet. I got the idea from a funny day planner my friend gave me for Christmas. Every few pages there’s another weird challenge that’s supposed to change your life. Where were you going when you found it?”
“Windsor.”
“No shit, I have family there! So what do you do in Windsor?”
“I go to school.”
“Cool. Hey what’s your name, man?”
“Peter.”
“I’m Julia. But I guess you knew that already. Are you going to be back in Toronto anytime soon?”
“Probably not. Will you be in Windsor?”
“It’s possible.”
“Well gimme a call if you are. I can take you for coffee with all this Canadian Tire money.”
“Ha ha. Sure man.”
“Well have a good night.”
“You too. Bye!”
“Bye.”

I felt proud of myself. I probably added some excitement to Peter’s day. First he thought he might be killed by a wallet-shaped bomb, then he opened it and had the whole train ride to wonder what kind of kook would make a fake wallet. Maybe he showed it to the stranger sitting next to him and their laughter about it bonded them together — if even just for a few hours. Likewise, I got to wonder about who would actually call me and why. Would they understand the experiment and have a chuckle, or be disappointed to hear that there’s no cash reward. What kind of mischief did Destiny have in store for us? What would be revealed about the nature of human curiousity?

I’ve decided that my hypothesis was true: people are curious, yet cautious. What if it WAS a bomb? Peter still picked it up and called my number. This curious/cautious behaviour was even displayed by a fellow I was on a date with on the eve of the wallet-drop. I showed him the fake wallet. He eagerly added two more Canadian Tire notes and the two fake cheques. But he wondered why I was trying to “meet guys with a fake wallet.” I assured him it wasn’t about GUYS, it’s about ANYONE, so quit worrying so much.

This Christmas, I’m Grateful for MY BLESSINGS

2007-01-03T17:32:00.000-05:00

I was laid off from Rogers TV two weeks before Christmas. I immediately wrote a post about how much life sucked, called ‘The Worst Day of My Life’. It outlined my pain at losing my job, my wooziness about an ex who had found a new girlfriend, and my frustration over the water shut-off in my building. The piece ended with a melodramatic hint that I might jump off my balcony were it not rude to inconvenience friends and family with my demise this close to the holidays. I didn’t post it on my blog because some intellect shone through my self pity and told me it’s not cool to bitch and moan when there’s people with real problems out there.

Even my mom, who is battling breast cancer, stops to remind herself that she’s lucky. Two years ago, the chemo wiped out her hair, made her toenails fall off, and killed her immune system so badly she was sent to the hospital and put into enforced isolation. Now she’s trying a ‘long-term’ chemo that causes her feet to spontaneously blister to the point where walking is painful, it makes her forget things and — worst of all — she’s on an emotional rollercoaster of anger, self-pity, fear, and then…gratitude.

“Thank God I’m not in a wheelchair,” she said on the phone last night. “Thanks for not giving me spina bifida. Thanks for sparing me the hassle of injecting myself with insulin every day. Thanks for North American healthcare, which saved me from measles when I was 10 and saved our lives in childbirth.”

I’m grateful too. I’m grateful we survived the C-section. I’m grateful Mom didn’t die when I was 12 — around the time she was first diagnosed. I was only a child then, and thank the universe I’ve been given the gift of knowing her as an adult. Things could be phenomenally worse for most of us…being laid off from my first career-job is really just a mild inconvenience until I find a better one. It’s probably a blessing in disguise, and so I’m grateful for that too.

This Christmas I said thanks for my excellent family and friends, my financial privileges, my health, the healthcare system (slow and bureaucratic, though it may be), my fine physical assets (especially my straight teeth and my educated brain), my artistic talents, my peaceful surroundings, my freedom to choose anything I want (including the choice to NOT wallow in my own bullshit.)

Have an honest and happy New Year!

Dedicated to Mom

The Salon

2006-12-02T15:54:00.001-05:00

Jennifer grabbed some scissors and chopped my hair at shoulder length before I was ready to say goodbye to my Rapunzel legacy. Though I was shocked, I trusted her instinct. It helped that she looked a bit like Natalie Portman. And if science has taught me anything, it’s that people are more prone to trust those who are pretty. My trust in this stranger with the scissors was enough empirical data I needed to believe that’s a sound theory.

I came to the salon because I was bored with myself. I needed something to change, and chopping all my hair off was cheaper than getting a new wardrobe or having cosmetic procedures, and less hassle than quitting my jobs and moving to Edinburgh to play a wench in medieval re-enactments for tourists.

But then Jennifer brushed my hair. It poofed out like Gilda Radner’s as Roseanne Roseannadanna. My trust was wavering.
“This is how I would wear my hair if it was curly,” she said.
No.
“Yeah, but it’s editorial,” she said.
That’s cause you’re prettier than me, I thought. You can pull off any look.

PHOTO OF JENNIFER FROM 'MY STYLE' SECTION OF NOW MAGAZINE

Two hours of grueling highlighting challenged my sanity. The weight of the tin foil made my neck sore, I was thirsty, early ’90s dance music was blasting, there were too many reflections in too many mirrors, and all I had to read was a rubbishy fashion magazine. I had to breathe and talk myself into believing that I’m a warrior because I was one degree away from having a panic attack in front of all the beautiful staff and clients of W Lifestyle Salon and running out into Queen Street. Then Jennifer returned from her cigarette break and removed the tin foil. I was smiling again.

As she gave me a curly bob, Jennifer and I chatted about her new apartment and my pest problems. I don’t know why I’m always talking about my pest problems…I should really encourage myself to feel more ashamed of it so I’ll stop broadcasting my squalor across the world. I’m sure I’d look chic if I just talked about my new boots and all the money I spent on them, like other girls do.

Then again, maybe pests are a fine topic. As a hairstylist, I’m sure Jennifer gets stuck chit-chatting about irrelevant bullshit all day and some gritty honesty could do her good. Not that I was about to tell her that, after all was dried and hairsprayed, I looked like a poodle from the ’80s. I smiled and said thanks for the makeover, then spent the next week figuring out how to tame my frizz.

The Doctor’s Office

2006-11-25T03:23:00.000-05:00

John complained in the waiting room about the $500 fee that first-time patients must pay.
“Don’t worry about it, John,” said the wife.
John fidgeted in his chair. One of his crutches fell. The brother picked it up. I pretended to read a fashion magazine.
“Five hundred dollars…” John lamented.
“I’ve got it, John,” the wife said gently.
After a few minutes of silence, John announced that his stomach was really hurting.
The wife pulled an envelope from her purse and removed two pills from it. She handed them to him, along with a bottle of water.
“Which one’s the morphine?” He asked. She pointed to one of the pills.
Fuck, I thought. Morphine. That’s SERIOUS. I returned to the photos of winter accessories.
The doctor walked out of his office, past the waiting room, handed something to the receptionist, then returned to his office. John, his wife, and his brother followed him with their eyes.
“I can’t do this anymore,” John said. The wife and the brother said nothing. Maybe they’ve heard his despair too many times already.
Then John turned to me. “Is this your first visit?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve been seeing Dr. Rona for 5 or 6 years now.”
“And the price went down the more you saw him?” asked John.
“Yeah, it’s $500 at first, but then it’s $90 per visit…and you get some back from OHIP.”
“And did he help you?”
“Yes. I used to have high cholesterol. It’s because of him I lost 40 lbs.”
John rolled his eyes, like dropping a few pounds was NOTHING compared to his trauma, which is probably true. But when you’re 20, chubby, and your sense of self-worth is EXPECTED to be based on your abilitity to attract and reproduce with men, and a doctor helps you turn your life around by telling you which vitamins to take, damn straight Dr. Rona has me as a life-long devotee.
Despite feeling slightly insulted, I figured John needed any hope he could get right now. “My whole family comes to him. My 90 year-old grandfather swears by him,” I said.
That seemed to appease John. That, or the morphine was kicking in.

And Once Again, Jay Ferguson of Sloan

2006-11-25T03:08:00.001-05:00

This time I spotted the omnipresent Sloan-man walking up Yonge Street by the Hard Rock Café.

It was a Thursday afternoon. Having failed in my mission to buy plastic toonie rolls and empty spray bottles on behalf of Massey Hall, I was heading back towards work feeling defeated. I was gearing up to pass the Hard Rock, where I was in grave jeopardy of being spotted by Someone Sucky Who Works There.

My mood immediately lifted when I saw Jay Ferguson. He wore a scarf, a handsome jacket, skinny jeans and Cons. He seemed to be in a rush, as he was walking briskly with his hands in his pockets. Perhaps he was cold, dear little guy.

DEAR LITTLE GUY

My star-sighting confirmed that my connections to this city are rock solid, yet phenomenally creepy. I don’t like the idea that Toronto is just a small town masquerading as a dangerous metropolis because I often feel liberated by my cloak of anonymity. But that anonymity is ruined when, in a city of millions, I could GUARANTEE to see at least 3 people I know every day. And I’m not THAT popular.

I also saw Max that afternoon. He’s a new friend who's in Canada from France on an internship. I also pretended not to notice Marty, a man who used to work at this deco-style coffee shop that went belly up merely six months after I began frequenting it.

Friday afternoon I ran into: 1) Sarah, my best friend who was in town from London. She randomly stopped by Massey Hall to say hi to my current/her former boss, Jeff. Leaving work, I spotted 2) Ado, an old high school pal. She used to be stoned ALL the time, but now seems to have found premature wrinkles and a responsible job with the school board. And on the subway, I sat across from 3) a sexy fellow I had sat across from the day before.

As much as I’m accustomed to fearing strangers, all I want to do is observe them and find meaning in the non-coincidences of bumping into people I sort of already know…like Jay Ferguson. What are the heavens telling me? CanCon is cool?

Next time you’re out and about in your city, take the 3-person challenge. Ten bucks says you’ll spot at least that many by midnight. How many you actually want to talk to, versus the number you’ll cross the street to avoid, however, is all up to you…not the heavens.
Enjoy!

The Paper Trail, Dear John Department

2006-11-18T14:43:00.000-05:00

I love the tradition of letter-writing. Here’s why: First, I’ve always been more articulate on paper than in person. Second, the fact that letters occur on paper gives me great satisfaction. I think any document seems more assertive and serious in hard copy. And paper lasts a lifetime — unlike digital files (my hotmail account is reaching its storage limit yet again.) Third, letter-writing proves to the letter-recipient that I handle my emotions in a contemplative, intelligent, and pre-meditated manner, therefore I’m probably the most classy, logical, and organized woman you’ll ever lose.

May this selection of letters I’ve written to various guys throughout the ages inspire you to write letters of your own.

Jan 2002 [excerpt]

Dear Barista Boy*

Point blank, you’re not The One because I don’t intend to marry you. I’m 99% sure that you feel the same way about me. But what’s the point of all this? We could just go on, as we have been, for years, until some force, either internal (we grow to hate each other) or external (you get sent to Africa to update their computers) splits us up. Or we could bide time and have some fun doing so.

The thing that’s been on my mind these days is the question: what am I missing while I bide my time? Am I missing opportunities to meet people, both friends and lovers, because so much of my time and energy is spent with you? Could I be better in school without the demands of a relationship? Could I be in a club or be writing a novel? These questions weren’t so pressing a year or even a few months ago because at the time, I felt like we were still growing and learning from each other. Now we’re at a stand-still.

I didn’t get into this relationship, or any, actively looking for a life-long mate. It occurred to me somewhere in the middle that, in fact, I WAS looking and had been all along. That’s what dating is. A trial period before you decide to either get serious or split and find someone else. And I realize this may be coming from left field for you…or perhaps not. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve been distant lately. Well, I’ve been distant all along. I’ve just made excuses. Every time you ask me what’s wrong and I reply, “nothing,” there’s been tons wrong, I just couldn’t bring it up for fear that it’d be over if I opened the can of worms that is my heart.

Love Jules

[CAN OF WORMS THAT IS MY HEART? Way to go, Shakespeare.]

Nov 13, 2006

Dear Mofo*

This letter is telling you that I don’t want to see you anymore. I feel this way because it hurts to beg for scraps of your time. Since you took me aside at the Imperial and gave me the “let’s see where this goes” spiel a month ago, you’ve asked out on just two dates. I typically don’t give people multiple chances to get it right, but you keep saying you care, and I care enough about you to see what you’ve got. But nothing’s changed. Six months later and you still make excuses for not following through with your actions. No shyness, ex-girlfriend, job stress, or family shit should stop you from wanting to see me. Cause if you were open to it, I could make you feel better about all those things.

I hate that you ushered me into the cab like a leper on Friday, after I had dragged my friends to the Imperial because I wanted to see you. Then I didn’t hear from you all weekend…not even a text. The fact that you do, sometimes, call is a non-issue because you do it only because I told you to. And I wasn’t about to call you and beg — again — for your attention. YOU were the one on shaky ground who had to prove yourself to me. Looks like I was right to be skeptical that anything would be different the third time around.

It sucks that you keep getting my hopes up and then disappointing me. Am I just the most convenient woman to have a quasi-relationship with? That’s lame. I’m no-one’s last resort. I’m a catch. And clearly, you don’t think so, or you would have tried harder to catch me. So let’s quit this farce for good. No dates, no booty calls, no “I like you Jules” trickery.

See you around,
Jules

[Zing!]

April 27, 2006

Dear Coward*

As you know, I’m not into high-drama confrontations about issues that can’t be changed. So, In keeping with tradition, I’ve opted to write this letter in an attempt to release from my brain a few nagging regrets I feel about our break-up.

Clearly, it was shitty. I wasn’t expecting you to say you didn’t want to be with me in the middle of a restaurant right before I had to go to work. Had we been in private, we could have reached a clarity of expression that just wasn’t possible in a crowd of strangers slurping noodles. Then again, maybe the speed of the moment worked in our favour in that it spared us the pain of having to drag out the ugly details of our deteriorated love. But still, to honour what we did have (a generally good year) I think we owe ourselves more than a “maybe we can be friends” followed by a valley of silence.

Please don’t interpret what I have to say as a criticism — we’ve both felt enough pain. But I need to say it nonetheless. First off, you should be mindful of the fact that when someone loves you, they are inadvertently joining you on part of your life journey. I always felt like you thought you were the only one on the road. From plans for the weekend to plans for the future, you never included anyone but yourself. I still don’t know why you were afraid to include me. Maybe you never liked me that much after all. Maybe you were scared to open up and be vulnerable. Maybe you figure that YOU is all you have in this life — everyone only has themselves — but that’s just not a very nice way to live, especially when I would have been honoured to walk with you.

I wish you could have come to me with your concerns and anxieties rather than sweeping them under the rug. Cause the truth is, we both knew they were there, and for months, we chose to deny their existence. I know that part of your concerns and anxieties involved me. Unfortunately I never knew what you were really feeling cause you rarely told me. I wish you could have told me sooner that you didn’t want to be with me because directness (though harsh) is far easier to deal with than drawn-out waffling. Your indecision about your feelings took a huge toll on my confidence. You unnerved me for months. I thought you wanted a perfected version of myself rather than the real me. You never once told me what you needed from me, even when I asked you. So I tried to be what I thought you wanted, then I realized I was misusing my energy and denying my own happiness. And for what? To be honest, now that we’re apart, I feel like I can return to being the confident and happy woman I once was.

That’s not to say I don’t miss you and think about you. I might have called, had it not felt so sad and hard to do so. I heard your career is taking off at CBC, and I am genuinely proud. But keep your life-priorities in order. Don’t neglect the poet in you – he should get every opportunity to walk amongst the trees. Just allow your path to curve…and maybe you’ll bring someone along next time.

Bye,
Jules

[Nice metaphors, Jules. Wow I’m a nerd.]

*Aliases used to protect whatever dignity these guys have left.

Dedicated to Heather

The Paper Trail 3

2006-11-15T23:52:00.000-05:00

MORE MUSINGS

Here's one I wrote on the bus ride from Amsterdam to Paris during my 'Euro Trash 2004' tour. It's about an Australian guy I met in Edinburgh. Written April 16, 2004.

The Paper Trail 2

2006-11-15T23:13:00.000-05:00

TAKE A PAGE FROM JULES!

Here's an excerpt from an entry I wrote in grade 9 about a chick who hugged my boyfriend. Written Nov 24, 1994. (One of the first entries written in pen instead of pencil). My fave part is when I'm using scribbles and "bleeps" to replace the swearing, like I was afraid Mom would read it.

The Paper Trail

2006-11-15T22:14:00.000-05:00

A PAGE FROM MY JOURNAL

This is an excerpt from an entry I wrote about a high-school-reunion party I attended. Written Dec 29, 2001.

Someday, I swear, my journals will be used to ruin someone...like Cruel Intentions and shit.

Silly Boobs

2006-11-11T22:23:00.000-05:00

The worst part of bra shopping is when the sales lady knocks on the door of your fitting room, “How’s it going in there? Shall I come in and measure you?” A disturbing question in itself. Made worse when you’re in a fitting room without a lock and the bramonger barges in, brandishing the measuring tape.

She sized me up, my sweaty, pale flesh, under the fluorescent change-room lights. Incidentally, she helped me find a bra that fit. A surprise, at D34.
“I’m a mutant,” I joked. She assured me many girls would love to have my size.
“I don’t see why, but thanks.”

A year later and 10 lbs lighter, I was a B36. So I lost weight in my boobs but re-distributed it around my ribcage. Consequently, I’ve added back fat to my laundry list of body-image concerns.

And now who knows what size I am…sometimes C, sometimes D…34, 36, 38…it all depends on the brand, my weight, and how co-operative my boobs are feeling that day.

At any rate, they need support. But it’s hard to get a supportive bra in an exotic colour. If I have to buy another one in black, white or beige, I’ll stab myself through my left breast (which is slightly smaller than the right) and pierce my bloody heart. Maybe the geniuses down at Triumph, Warners, Wonderbra, Playtex, Olga, Outline, Roots, Joe Boxer, and Calvin Klein figure that only fatties have large breasts — and fatties don’t care about beauty, clearly! (Just wander into a plus-sized store next time you’re in the mall, and check out the limited fashions that larger ladies have to suffer with. Those muumuu-like dresses with matching jackets are practically ads for gastric bypass surgery, I tell you.)

A victim of society’s mixed messages, I’ve always wanted to have tiny tits — perky fuckers that wouldn’t need to be harnessed with this bondage gear. They could be left well enough alone, or shaped occasionally with a flattering push-up. But these jugs of mine, Betty and Mary, must be monitored. They must be pushed, pulled, shaped and supported, put in line and reminded who’s boss.

I used to have little tits when I was in grade 8 but I didn’t appreciate them at the time. I stuck them under Smashing Pumpkins T-shirts without a second thought. Then, during the summer before grade 9, I grew two cup sizes. I stopped taking my girls for granted when I realized that I could use them to attract grade 11 boys.

Not that it mattered in the long run. Today, boys don’t shepherd me through the lingerie department and help me buy underclothes. No, my jugs and I are on our own to navigate the racks of underwires, non-underwires, sport, nursing, minimizing, maximizing, full-support, full coverage, strapless, seamless, demi, sheer, lace, satin, spandex, and even aloe-vera infused fabric (cause there must be a chapped nipple epidemic I don’t know about?).

During my most recent trip to the Bay, I panicked at the thought of people spotting me in the control-top panties section. I don’t belong here, I tried to make my expression say. I’m looking for low-rise thongs with matching bras on the clearance rack, I smiled to a fellow shopper. The other ladies seemed just as self-conscious as I was. A grandmotherly woman was wandering around, holding a 3-pack of Jockey cotton briefs. I was holding a thousand push-ups and G-strings in pink and purple. Anywhere else in the mall, we’d be two ordinary shoppers who would pass each other without consequence. But here, our secrets are revealed. We can see each other’s souls cowering under our clothes.

And what truths are uncovered? Based on what we’re each holding, it seems like the jockey-buying grandmother is a prude and I’m a harlot. My would-be purchases reveal that I’m a hot young chica who has mobs of men to seduce. I’m occupied with looking sexy. I worry about important issues like visible panty lines.

Her, she’s past all that nonsense. She’s at the stage in life where comfort takes precedent over aesthetics. She no longer has to trick men into thinking she’s a larger cup size than she actually is, or appeal to masculine senses with seductive fabrics and romantic colours. She’s free!

I tried to take refuge from the unmentionables by browsing in the PJ section. There were fish-patterned silk capris and ‘You Go Grrrl’ tank tops and the like. Beyond, laid the Sea of Flannel — an endless expanse of nighties — thousands of paisley patterns and polyester lace collars made me vicariously itchy. I like to sleep in T-shirt and sweats. I never dug getting tangled in my nighty and waking up, legs paralyzed due to unconscious tossing. It sends panic down the spine and ruins mornings.

After an hour of wandering, fondling, and fitting, I decided on 2 bras: one cranberry, the other baby pink. They’re T-shirt bras, which means you won’t be able to see them under Ts…but you can…cause everyone knows that breast aren’t just BORN at attention, ready for duty.

I bought undies to match my bras because I want to seem like a coordinated and responsible human being. God forbid anyone catches me on period-undies day and sees how truly hideous I am without my arsenal of unmentionables to choose from. Not that anyone ever mentions the unmentionables. They’re usually just removed and tossed on the floor. And that means they’ve succeeded in their purpose, I suppose. The only bras that seem to get a reaction are the fiddly front-fastening ones which, I imagine, have interrupted many a man’s mojo.

Despite the futility and frustration associated with bra shopping, I left the department store feeling happy as a clam at high tide. I spent only $24.47 on the whole kit and caboodle. Nothing like a sale to placate my moral objections to unnatural beauty ideals.

The Bay. Go there…if you dare.

Another Post about Feelings

2006-11-09T02:54:00.000-05:00

In the opening pages of the book, High Fidelity, the narrator likens his heartache to a cold. By that, he means the pain that used to crush him in his youth is now just an inconvenience — like the sniffles. He seeks out old girlfriends and asks them what went wrong in an attempt to figure out why his most recent relationship broke up. The story ends with him getting back together with the girlfriend — a woman he never really wanted to commit to. He settles for her because he’s lazy, she’s convenient, she’s easier than being alone. It was the most defeated and realistic ending I’ve ever read in a work of fiction. I identified with it wholeheartedly.

It got me thinking about my weekly break-ups over the phone with my first real boyfriend, Fergus Blair. I would sit on my bed, crying and trembling and wishing on stars that I could keep him. This, despite the fact that he was a manipulative fuck who sculpted me into His Perfect Girlfriend. This was the source of all those tears, which smeared the bubbly handwriting in my journals? This inspired doodles of impaled hearts in the margins?

As preposterous as that sounds now, few things since then have felt so pure and immediate. Subsequent relationships, and their inevitable collapse, conditioned me to expect pain. So when I feel it, it’s uncomfortable for a while, but eventually clears. The only drawback of having built antibodies to my own emotions is that my wisdom has diffused the pains and the thrills, alike. Yeah, the pain might not be as acute but on the downside, I’ve never been as randy as I’d get when Fergus and I were fooling around in my parent’s basement. It was all so brilliant and new. When we finally did sleep together, I thought it was the best thing EVER. [Now everybody’s doing it. Sex is as special as a handshake in most circles.]

Back then, falling in love was an optimistic act. Now it’s awkward. Having a crush was all-consuming. Now it’s just another time killer. Having a drink was illicit and sexy. Now it’s just a Monday night.

With this post, I’d like to announce that: as much as I’ve acclimated to life’s excitements, may I never become blasé and defeated like the guy in High Fidelity.

[John Cusack made the character loveable in the movie, but the guy in the book is a joyless wank. Just read it.]

A List of Things I Hate

2006-10-30T15:09:00.000-05:00

- The name Cody
- Littering
- Parsnips
- Uggs
- The sound of sweaty flip flops
- Nokia tone
- Misspelling in signage
- People who stand left, despite the ‘walk left stand right’ signs
- Fergie of Black Eyed Peas
- Bra shopping
- Backwards baseball caps
- Single ply toilet paper
- In-grown hairs
- Lack of straws at the Artful Dodger
- The sound of someone shuffling in a plastic bag
- Abba
- Morning show hosts
- The woman who, during the intermission of a ballet, having eavesdropped on my conversation with Shaynna about how I’m writing a ‘Things I Hate’ list, turned around in her seat and suggested I write a ‘Things I Love’ list to balance my world view because she figured I needed advice from a bitch whose husband later asked why she was ‘talking to the lesbians in the seats behind us’, and who then produced 5 Ziploc bags of crunchy snacks to feed to her two fidgety kids while the husband fucked around on his Blackberry.

…and because the bitch has a point…

A List of Things I Love

- Random conversations with friendly strangers
- My parents
- Running into old friends on the street
- My beast, Purdy
- Music, loud and/or live
- Writing my blog/journals
- Making greeting cards with markers
- Singing Joni Mitchell songs in my apartment
- Walking fast down city streets
- My iPod
- My computer
- Sales at the Bay
- Cashmere sweaters
- Warm, pink, sunlight
- Lush forests
- Animals
- Beer, premium and imported
- Coffee in the morning
- All cheese
- All candy
- Crisp asparagus smothered in butter
- Eggplant tempura
- Sex romps
- Long sleeps
- My birthday
- Genuine compliments
- Sudden realizations such as: It’s beneficial to balance hate with love, even when the hate is more interesting and in keeping with one’s persona of being The Dark Girl with a pen like a dagger, writing a Hate List at the ballet of all places.

Denied!

2006-10-24T16:48:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday I motioned to a short-skirted girl across the street and said, “Snatcherella looks cold.” My date didn’t acknowledge my vulgarity. I thought he hadn’t heard me over the excited voices of GTA-ers on their way to the clubs. “Hey, look, she’s snatcheriffic!” Again, nothing. And so, with no humour between us, I decided to not see this guy again.

Now I find myself analyzing the art form of Painless Rejection. The Humourless guy is one of several fellows I’ve been dating. Another guy is secretive and fishy (my guess: married) and in the other case the plane just didn’t leave the tarmac. But the thought of having to muster enough courage to give them all the “let’s just be friends” talk makes me want to barf. Even the overused white lie of “just being friends” gives me the willies. And then there’s the variables like, where to stage the let-down (restaurants = too public. My place = too private), anticipating and avoiding grotesque emotions, and what my script will be:

I think you’re great, but…
I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, however…
I’m going through a selfish stage, therefore…

The truth is, all I want to do is neglect to phone anyone back and avoid the mess. But that feels like sneaking out the back door — made worse when So-And-So follows you out the back door, so to speak, to leave forlorn messages on your phone asking if you’re OK cause he hasn’t heard from you in awhile. Yeesh.

I’m left pondering the age-old question: when is it still OK to not phone back? What is the point of no return? Let’s say you had three fine dates with a fine person. There hadn’t been any physical or emotional intimacy, but you had a few laughs until the point — and there’s always a point — that it all went south. How do you break it off in a dignified, painless manner? Don’t say, “Tell him the truth!” cause you and I both know that the truth isn’t usually an appropriate thing to be spilling to someone you’ve only hung out with a handful of times. Coming out and admitting to a person that you find them joyless, short, and nasal is overkill. Save the painful truth for mofos who deserve it.

Simultaneously, I’m wondering how to get a certain fellow off of my mind. This is someone I actually like, but can’t have. So how do you break from someone who makes you ache with desire when, secretly, you don’t want to break from them because your inner masochist says unrequited feelings are stylish. Oh I know, you tell them you’ll be “just friends” so you can continue hanging out with them and, whenever opportunity permits, you can get away with touching them on the sweet sweet elbow, like the pathetic worm you are.

Why are there no easy answers? I feel like if I just brainstorm hard enough, I could come up with a simple solution but — Alas!

P.S. Wow I need a new hobby. Boys are tiresome, brain-scrambling, beasts. Permaps I’ll take up gardening and dedicate this blog to the moral issues of pesticides v. organics. Wouldn’t that be refreshing for us all.

Ode to Beast

2006-10-15T00:45:00.000-04:00

In my last post, I let the cat out of the bag about the fact that I’m a crazy cat lady. This is an accurate diagnosis, I think, because my symptoms include: preferring her to most people, going home early Saturday nights because a cat on my lap feels better than partying, talking to her because she ‘gets me’, and using “I have to feed my cat” as a valid way of worming out of social engagements.

So in honour of my lovely beast Purdy, here’s a portrait of Her Meowjesty and a poem, entitled ‘Ode to Beast’.

PURDY BEAST

Purdy is friendly when you touch her correctly
She purrs and arches to accommodate your hand
But if you rub too rough she’ll fuck up your arm
with claws Jules dared to trim.

She pounds on the bedroom door
because nocturnal solitude isn’t acceptable
Jules sprays water at her, which is a nuisance
Not a deterrent — not discipline! — surely.

When she manages to get inside,
she attacks the enemy’s sheeted feet
then returns to her kitchen
just to show she doesn’t give a piss.

The bathtub is her secret spot
As is under the bed
(harder now that she got fat)
(light kibble made her a popple.)

Other cats won’t do
Or dogs
Or men
Or alarms
But rock music is fine
Bugs are fun
Birds look neat
— for now.

Spinach is tasty
and houseplants
and string
and tuna
But not salmon, she regrets
— too heavy.

This Thanksgiving, I’m Grateful for THE TRUTH

2006-10-10T18:05:00.000-04:00

If you want to make a friend, tell them a secret. That’s my motto.
Consequently I pimp out my secrets to those who intrigue me, all in the interest of making them think they’re seeing the ‘real’ me. The logic in this is that when people think they’re seeing the ‘real’ me, they reveal the ‘real’ them. And then presto, we’re pals. I shared a secret just this evening during a moment of one-on-one time with a co-worker, and I reckon this person and I are now bonded by this prohibited information.

Before I continue, I must point out that perhaps this revelation is too personal to be published on my blog. Now all of you friends and lovers out there will think my moments-of-truth are disingenuous — mere pawns in my game of winning your friendship — but I assure you this is not so. Though I admit it’s a handy tool.

Don’t you wonder how secretive people get by in the world? When they reveal nothing, they risk nothing, and what is a friendship but a risk on another person? When you care about someone, you put your heart on the line, you open up and risk judgment. But every day, I meet distant and deceptive individuals who, despite seeming as interesting as a ball of lint, have ten thousand friends. How do they get by on surface alone? How long can you talk about the weather? Or recipes? Or movies? Or sports? Isn’t it a bit more interesting for someone to bleed TRUTH all over the place? Uncomfortable and inconvenient — but refreshingly REAL?

Like the time my mother, who has been battling an illness, told me at Spring Rolls that she and Dad had just bought their burial crypts at Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. Lovely, I thought, and so bloody terrible.
Or several months later, also at Spring Rolls, when I suddenly and calmly told the man I loved that it was over. The truth freed me from a shitty relationship but made me feel shitty for having lied to myself the whole time we were together.
Or the time I confronted a boyfriend about his alcoholism. He smiled and thanked me for finally noticing.
Or when a friend gave me a play-by-play of her abortion.
And a man told me about the 5 years he spent in Taiwanese prison.
And my ex-best friend told me, in one paragraph, that she was 1) gay, 2) got beat up and kicked out when she came out to her parents so she sought refuge with her raver friends and, consequently, 3) she got hooked on crack but eventually she 4) went into rehab and then moved across the country to attend Ryerson.
And then there’s the time you and I cried on my balcony because life is so sad, silly and strange. Then we laughed, because isn’t it liberating to acknowledge the craziness?

In celebration of TRUTH, here’s a short list of my secrets:
— Even though I play it cool, I suffer from late-twentysomething career/relationship/apartment anxiety.
— Despite what you think, I am not aloof. Even Jules gets the blues.
— I will probably always want to lose 5 lbs.
— I have a self-diagnosed form of OCD when it comes to the efficient use of space.
— I’m possessive of pens.
— I have to write everything in my agenda. Were it not for the fact that future engagements are listed on the upcoming pages, the future had may as well not exist at all.
— I’m snobbish about music, and would love a dictatorship of juke boxes.
— I’m a crazy cat lady.
— I’ve secretly watched the Young and the Restless my whole life.
— I also secretly watch all teen shows, from Degrassi to 90210.
—Taking a cue from my ex-best friend, ‘The Ex-Crack Addict’, I sometimes spike my morning coffee with Bailey’s.
— I don’t like to say goodbye at parties, so I disappear through back doors and hope no-one notices until I’m in the taxi, well on my way home.
— I, too, Appear Offline.
— Despite being a heathen, I prayed on my birthday…just to say thanks for 26 (even though 26 makes me twitchy, as aforementioned) Amen.
— Yes, I am a word nerd. I have a dictionary right beside me and am referring to it now.
— I’ve had secret flings with people you might know, and am still reluctant to tell you about them.
— I know you keep secrets too, but I haven’t confronted you about them. I’m waiting for you to bring them up.
— So tell me!

Snailz

2006-10-02T03:29:00.000-04:00

Just seeing if I can post some comics on here and lookit I can! For those of you who don't know, I used to publish comics about Snailz in the Ryerson newspaper. To see more, check out the sidebar link or go to http://www.theeyeopener.com/images/snailz/

Memoir: Jules Almost Gets in a Fist Fight

2006-10-02T02:44:00.000-04:00

Right after Christmas ’03 I went to Bournemouth — a beach town on the south coast of England. I would be there for several months on a school exchange, studying BBC-style journalism and traveling around Europe with my classmate, Briar.

BOURNEMOUTH BEACH

Despite the fact that we weren’t friends yet, she and I decided to live together near the university. Briar checked out the student accommodations website and responded to an ad placed by a girl who needed to sublet 2 bedrooms in a 4-bedroom house for one semester. Stephanie and Hannah were Welsh nursing students who claimed that they were going to Salisbury on a work placement, and our trans-Atlantic phone calls with the girls were consistently peachy. We would be living with 2 boys (also students) named Adam and Ray, the girls told us. Yes, the landlord knows you’re coming. Uni is 10 minute walk through the woods. We’ll pick you up from the train station when you arrive in Bournemouth, and drive you to the house. How lovely, I thought, to make friends with some real Welsh people!

Briar and I arrived in Bournemouth and sat on our luggage as we waited for the girls to arrive. Then there they were.

First clue: They looked like hookers' daughters. Fake blonde hair, fake tans, hard makeup, stilettos inappropriate for train station pick-ups. (I later realized that everyone in Bournemouth dresses like a tart, so these two were just par for the course. But still.)

Clue 2: The girls had a bunch of shit in the boot of their car. With no room for our luggage, Briar and I took a taxi to the house.

Clue 3: Upon arrival, the Welsh didn’t offer us tea or make obligatory small talk about our journey the way socially adjusted people would. Rather, they moved the shit out of their rooms and shoved it in their Peugeot. Some shit didn’t fit (stuffed animals, broken stereo, pink lamp) so they left it in a storage room upstairs.

Clue 4: The house had been unoccupied for a few weeks during Christmas vacation. Adam was home in Bristol and Ray was back in London. Consequently, the house hadn’t been heated. The Welsh pointed at the gas meter and told us that it would probably come on soon.

Clue 5: They took our cash deposits ($500 CDN per room) and hastily mumbled that we’d get the money back at the end of the semester if the rooms looked good. Goodbye.

SCENE OF CRIME

Briar and I nearly froze to death that first night because the heat didn’t come on, as promised. We were also without electricity. The phone was missing. The door to Adam’s room was locked. Our attempts to get things working were fruitless, so we got Chinese takeaway (which nearly froze on our plates as we were eating it) and I cried myself to sleep on the smelly mattress. The next day, the man at the convenience store told us about the top-up card, which is a kind of credit card that you place money on, and then insert into your gas meter. Of course the Welsh had left no money on the card, and presumed that people all over the world heat their homes using plastic fucking cards.

On the first day of school, Adam and Ray came home. They were surprised to see two young redheads in their house. Stephanie and Hannah had told them that we were fat, 30-something Swedish women. The boys had asked the girls for our contact info so they could touch base with us before we arrived, but of course the Welsh gave them fake numbers, and the whole thing was forgotten as everyone retuned to their hometowns for the holidays. And now the shit was hitting the fan.

The same day, the landlord, Mr. Harvey, came to pick up the rent cheques and was shocked to find two Canadians at the door. The Welsh hadn’t told him we were coming after all. They had broken their lease by subletting the rooms. They took our money because they had given their deposits to Mr. Harvey, which they wouldn't be getting back from him, so they opted to break even by tricking some foreigners. As for Mr. Harvey, he wouldn't give their deposit money to us and correct the whole situation, no no no, because then he would be out of pocket. But we CAN stay for the semester…that’s the Welsh for ya, a bunch of pikey sheep shaggers, ho ho.

FOOTBALLERS IN PARK BEHIND HOUSE

At the bar that night, the boys orated a laundry list of atrocities that the girls had committed, including not paying their £200 phone bill, and that’s why Adam locked the phone in his room. We all got so worked up that it suddenly seemed like a good idea to call Stephanie, drunk at 3 a.m., and demand that she and her slag friend Hannah come pick up the shit they left in the storage room.

The next night, the Peugeot pulled into the driveway. I immediately called Mr. Harvey and asked him to please come by and help us sort out the situation, now that the Welsh were here. They clopped upstairs and collected their stuff (all but the broken stereo, pink lamp, and a smelly duvet, which I had locked in my room as collateral). I had also locked the back door and hidden the key in my cleavage. I approached the girls on the driveway and calmly told them that the landlord was on his way, so they shouldn’t leave until he arrives. “Well we’re leaving now,” said Stephanie in a snotty tone, re-entering the house with Hannah. Adam, Ray and Briar were in the lobby, leaning on the walls and watching the Welsh try to get away with it.

“I’ll have to ask for my money back.” I said, trying to sound nice.
“Well I haven’t got it,” she sneered, stilettos clopping upstairs.
I closed the front door and stood in front of it.
The Welsh descended and approached me as though I was supposed to get out of their way. I stood my ground.
“Excuse me,” Stephanie said.
“You’ll have to stay until Mr. Harvey gets here.” I replied.
“Get out of my fucking way!” she ordered, like I was about to take orders from a pikey tart. After I elbowed him in the arm, Ray mentioned the unpaid phone bill.
“Move!” she demanded.
“Give me my money back!” I said.
“Move or I’ll have to move you!”
She grabbed my arm.
“I don’t think so.”
And neither did she, apparently, because she turned around and tried the back door. When it didn’t open, she claimed she would break the fucking window.
She returned to the lobby where everyone else continued to stand around and watch this shit like it was a movie, starring me blocking the door.
“I’ll have to punch you, then.” And she held up her little manicured fist behind her little peroxide head. I looked at her like, go ahead bitch. Let’s see.

And then there was a knock at the door: Mr. Harvey.
He came in and halfheartedly chastised the Welsh for breaking their lease. They claimed they didn’t have the money to pay us back. So I got a sheet of paper and we drew up a contract on the spot, which said Stephanie and Hannah would pay us back by the last day of the semester. Dated, signed and witnessed. I followed them back out to the driveway and wrote down their license plate, just so they would know to NEVER fuck with me again.

In the end, Briar and I didn't get our money back. The Welsh didn’t answer our emails or phone calls, end of semester came and went, and the University was unwilling to punish the girls or even give us their addresses in Wales. With advice from a campus lawyer, we submitted the contract and our initial emails about the sublet to the Bournemouth court. Of course we won the case and the court ordered them to pay, but they never did. As I discovered by opening the bitches’ mail, they had no intention of paying anyone back. They were veteran rip off artists, of the blondest variety. Stephanie’s Visa account was frozen because of £550 in unpaid charges. Then her blank chequebook arrived in the post. I wanted so desperately to forge myself a cheque, adding another $500 in interest and emotional damages, but I didn’t want to risk getting caught. As for the British justice system, the time and money required to hire a collector to chase the bitches down was too much for us to afford.

But the story has a happy ending, regardless. As much as it sucked to be ripped off, I learned the very important lesson of crossing Ts and dotting Is. In rental situations, always sign a contract. Assholes might not honour those contracts, but at least you won’t look like a pushover who doesn’t know the legal system from your elbow. And every once in awhile, get in a near-fistfight with some bitch who thought you were a pussy just to show her — and everyone watching — that you’re the farthest thing from a pussy, even if you have one between your legs. And even if you do get fucked over, try to relax and enjoy the walk through the wonderfully lush woods to uni in the morning, listen to BBC radio on a broken stereo, learn to love dance pop and vodka redbulls, date a proper alcoholic Englishman, get some tarty pink stilettos, see Europe, become great friends with two British roommates, and get to know and love another feisty redhead.

This is for you, Briar.

US, EXTRA RED DUE TO BARCELONA SUNBURNS

THE WALK TO UNI

ME ON BUS INTO TOWN

Learning to Love the Neighbourhood

2006-10-01T21:48:00.001-04:00

I’ve begun a mission to rediscover my appreciation of St. James Town and Cabbagetown. I’m gearing up to renew my lease for another year, so I reckon I’d might as well learn to stomach the patina of grime on the high rises and enjoy the bargains on bruised produce at Food Basics rather than get the creeps every time I leave my apartment.

The apartment itself is fine. I have a fab view of St. James Cemetery and Don Valley, the walls are sound-proof, the laundry facilities are great, and I pay cheap rent for a junior 1-bedroom I share with my cat because I’ve had a hard time living with humans. I really should love it here, especially since I’ve experienced several classes of squalor at various spots along Gerrard Street, where I lived with deceptive and messy student-types. Bloor and Parliament is better than my bedbug-infested digs beside Hooker Harveys, and the decrepit house across from Regent Park, and the sweltering attic down the street from the Don Jail, thank god.

However. St. James Town/Cabbagetown is unlike any other Toronto neighbourhood I’ve visited. Eighteen thousand people live in its 18 apartment buildings, which (according to Wikipedia) makes it Canada’s most densely populated community. It’s also one of Toronto’s lowest income areas. Taking that into consideration, it’s curious that the trillionaires in Rosedale are connected to us by a footbridge that extends across the valley like an undefended border between rich and poor. A hop, skip, and jump down Parliament reveals Old Cabbagetown millionaires walking briskly to the bistro, past beggars, immigrant families, and the residents of Regent Park. I can’t define the “community” here, other than to say that we’re an uncomfy mix of everyone and anyone, from CEOs to Tamil Tigers, to the cockroaches in my kitchen.

Therefore, I celebrate the great things about my hood by sharing these beautiful photos with you.

I took these pics last winter at Riverdale Farm, which was the original location of the Toronto Zoo before it moved to Scarborough in 1974. Riverdale isn’t quite my hood, but it’s close enough. Horses make me happy.

St. James cemetery. Some people think I’m morose for enjoying graveyards. But they’re just parks with spirit. Plus I have ancestors buried here. I look down at them from my balcony and say hi.

Memories Lurk Like Zombies

2006-09-27T03:21:00.001-04:00

I was standing alone under a tree. I had been enjoying an evening of pool and rock & roll at the Rivoli with friends, and went outside for some air. I shivered in the September breeze and watched people walk past — everyone on the pull or on the piss, all in their Saturday night best.
Then I spotted someone approaching, wearing a dumpy green H&M shirt with the words ‘Farley Point’ written across it. I hated that shirt cause HE wore it too often and HE’d never been to Farley Point: the poser equivalent of Ashlee Simpson in an AC/DC tee. My eyes moved up to the person’s face. It was HIM. Beside HIM, walked a petite brunette.
HIS eyes flicked towards me. For a split second, I wondered if HE would look back and make any kind of gesture to acknowledge our botched relationship. Like, thumbs up to pretending to love you for a year of your precious young life, Jules. Peace sign to the homicidal thoughts I’ve had about you since I acknowledged your deception and stormed out of the restaurant five months ago, MOFO. Giant middle fingers!
His eyes fixed on mine as he walked by. “Hi,” he said to himself more than to me.
“I understand,” I said, too quietly for him to hear.
He gave me a cutesy wave over his shoulder. I nodded. I couldn’t be bothered to lift my hands from my pockets.
I watched him walk away with the brunette then I returned upstairs to my friends. I kept it together long enough to finish the game of pool and get myself home.
Even though I too am dating and have NO reason to feel anything other than fabulous, I went into a tailspin. Every wound I’ve ever had ripped open, and I hemorrhaged emotions for days. My bones were hollow, my blood was bile, my heart caved inwards, and he’ll forever stroll down the street, blissfully ignorant to the damaging effects of cutesy waves.
And that, right there, was my eureka moment. I realized that his ignorance is why I didn’t want him. His cowardice and coldness were so fucking taxing, so thank my lucky stars he’s not my problem anymore. He’s her problem now, that poor innocent brunette.
I am SHE who has battled and escaped, and now stands victorious under trees.