Great Expectations and the subsequent lunch bag letdown: the more you know?

If you really know me, you know I’ve never read the Harry Potter series (or Dickens’s Great Expectations for that matter). Sometimes I’m left out of conversations with my friends about why that’s so Slytherin, but other than that I’m not convinced there is an integral part of my life missing. I also survived four years at Queen’s University and never bought Ugg boots or Lululemon pants. All I really lost there was not having cold, soggy feet and a perky ass (augmented by pants, anyway). For the most part, I’d like to think I’m not one for succumbing to hype.

Similarly, I’d like to think that I keep myself open to new experience. Just the same, it could be said that I simply think too highly of myself. In any case, I’m like a poster child for NBC circa the age of the “The More You Know” PSAs. I’m a firm subscriber to believing that you can’t make an adamant decision unless you know all sides to a story.

In the context of commitment, I’ve previously said that I don’t have very many favourites. Furthermore, within in the context of knowledgeability, I can’t call anything the best because I haven’t seen, heard, tasted, felt or smelled enough to be that authority. So I’m always on the quest for something new; something in the untried arena so I can expand my opinions, my palate, my knowledge and not be stuck in the same old, same old we all sometimes fall danger to. What this lends itself to, for me anyway, is having a much keener sense in what I know I don’t like because at least then it’s tried, tested and true.

Insofar as I don’t subscribe to hype, I do have a lifetime subscription to the expectations I create for myself. And sometimes what fate has in store for us makes me laugh and just reminds me that while knowledge is power, it’ll never live up to the fantastical delusion we would rather create for ourselves.

It was Toronto Fashion Week a few weeks ago and I found myself at the highly hyped (whoops) Thompson Hotel at an invite-only fashion party. I’m still peeved that I haven’t made it on to the rooftop yet, but it’ll happen – guaranteed. While I was standing outside waiting for my plus-one, I was standing with a few smokers: one woman to my left and two men to my right. Please see below for a script I couldn’t have written myself had I tried:

[Woman on my right starts calling out to one of the men to my right]

Woman: Mike! Mike!

[Upon receiving no response, she walks over and says]

Woman: Excuse me, is your name Mike?

Man: No, sorry

Woman: Are you an actor?

Man: Yes, my name is Shane.

[Bystander (me), who has been eavesdropping the entire time, takes a closer look at the man standing three feet from her]

Woman: Oh you just really look like my friend Mike.

She then skulks off to finish her cigarette; he returns to conversing with his companion – I, on the other hand, jump on my phone and send a multi-blast out “Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m standing next to Shane West” right now. The best answer I got back was “Um, where are you? 2003?”

Let me tell you a little something about Shane West. Along with Joshua Jackson, he is someone I was convinced I was going to marry when I was in the tenth grade. I knew everything about him: hometown, age, height, dating status. I absolutely agree with you that it’s quite pathetic, but a gentle reminder that 23-year-old yuppies were also once 15-year-old bored suburban high school girls. I would even fantasize that I would meet him when my family went away for vacation to Aruba or Puerto Rico and somehow we’d go sailing off into the sunset. If you had told me that I would be see him standing outside a hotel eight years later while I was attending a fashion party, I probably would have laughed in your face.

And isn’t that just how it works? You dream of these exotic and storybook meetings, but then when it happens you’re standing outside wearing shorts on a particularly chilly October night and there’s cigarette smoke surrounding you. To assuage the build-up to the answer to the question you want to know – I didn’t talk to him; people I tell this story to in person are disappointed to that I didn’t. But maybe I just wanted to preserve the last of the fantasy. What if I did talk to him and he was a complete idiot (the odds may be high)? Really, I think I was more afraid that I was say something stalker-esque and embarrass the hell out of myself. The odds of that were exceedingly probable.

Perhaps then sometimes the less you know the better. But in the spirit of new experiences I broke one of my cardinal rules and agreed to go on a date with someone I’d met at a bar. It was back in the glorious days of the Leafs pre-season (i.e. before all the losing) and I went on a date with a Maple Leaf. In a mixed bag of expectations, some were met; others were exceeded (kind of like a performance review –but isn’t that what first dates really are? But I digress). He talked a lot less about himself than I expected. We ended up discussing (or I discussed) the over-prescription of medication in Canada. I swear to you, and I swore to him, that is not my A-game first date material nor something I figured I’d discuss with a pro-hockey player – he asked my opinion, okay? Plus, he can do math; fine, simple arithmetic and yes, I did watch him add the tip and total the bill. (Obviously just so I know he’s not a bad tipper.) We both like to round to the whole dollar! Squee, that’s what real love is made of. Ha. In terms of vocation, I’m going to say that I’ll strike profession puck bunny off the list though. But hey, at least I know for sure, right?

Whether you have had celebrity crushes or have gone out with someone whose paid job is to work out for four hours a day, you may also have great fortune of having the elusive One That Got Away. I am one such fortunate person and not too long ago he told me something, though not dire, suddenly makes him seem imperfect in my eyes. I guess when someone you’ve built up as virtually ideal in your head and in reality he isn’t, it sucks (in lieu of a poetic word) to know that perception is also deflated. One excellent friend told me that knowing we probably aren't as perfectly matched as I had imagined will help me move on from always wondering what might have been. Another superb friend reminds me that no one is perfect and it’s impossible to hold someone to that standard.

And in a world of great expectations, maybe that’s what we have to temper – the fact that we are all human and with that comes its imperfections. Actors, athletes and all those past and future that may capture your attention and perhaps your heart are all just people searching for someone who meets and/or exceeds their expectations too.

I choose to take the same approach I do to everything in life be it definitively finding my favourite restaurant in the city or the best cappuccino or figuring out what I might want from a partner in life. You have to try on a lot of suits to find the one that fits you best. Unfortunately there is no life tailor who can custom-make one for you (yet). In the mean time, I’m hell bent on having as much fun as possible trying to figure it out; it sure makes for a better blog entry.

Glass half something or other

My oh my, where doth the time go? It's almost been two months since my last entry where I said I would try to keep up my blogging during my travels. I wish I could tell you that I've been saving orphans or brilliantly penning the next Great American Novel, but then I'd be lying.

I'm not here to complain, but if I was it would be totally fair game since this would be one place where I'd feel entitled to do it.

I don't know if I'm a glass half empty or a glass half full kind of person anymore, or rather if I ever really knew. If you asked high-school me (whom I've mentioned before) she would say glass half empty right away. But she was teenage angst at her finest; then I turned 20 and decided when you're no longer a teenager being angsty just makes you sad (read: pathetic).

I used to work in a very negative workplace, where I became that always-positive person just to counter balance all the negativity around me. Sure, we'll say it was for team morale, but really it was just to save my own ass from becoming a cold, embittered person. But right now I'm kind of half something, be it full or empty.

I'm halfway through a lot of things and that's not like me. I'm halfway (or so) through writing a long ass blog entry about my trip to Asia (which feels like eons ago). I'm halfway through sending a package to the very kind family (friend of friend) who housed me (and said friend) for a weekend in Chicago. I'm halfway through handwriting an "epic" (laughably so) story which I know I'll want to remember in the future for its absurdity. I'm typically 100% into what I'm doing, but I'm feeling this immense lack of inspiration these days, as if I'm too lethargic to do anything. I can't find the right physical surrounding or the distinct quietness to write in and I'm finding it hard to motivate myself to do all the things that matter to me.

Maybe I am just complaining now, but I don't hate my life or anything or think woe is me, I have so many problems. I'm just in a funk, I guess and I'm hoping to see/feel/meet/do something that inspires me to bring back my alacrity, put sparkle back in my eyes and bounce back in my step. This rut will not be cured by a new pair of shoes. However, should anyone wish to contribute to a new pair, I shan't discourage you.

I hope you have less trouble falling asleep and less of the impending cycle of coffee that accompanies insomnia than I do.

xoxo,
-S.

Same same, but different - where the grass is green, and the people are sweaty

By special request, I've decided to devote time to updating my blog. See? There's at least one person in the world who reads this. That and the internet is free here - a wonderment not seen since the joys of Fukui and perhaps the Apple store in Tokyo. Here I am in Hanoi, Vietnam: it's 40 degrees, regardless of time of day and no point of a Humidex because everyday is just humidity up a creek.

I bought a silk robe today for 10 USD. Perhaps it was a silk-like robe, who really knows - I was offered a polyester one which was called "same same" but cheaper. And if you know me, polyester is a poly-no-sir. I don't wear synthetics; I don't care what country I'm in. I bargained the woman down from $15 to 2 for $20, and all I could think while triumphantly walking away was I could taken her down to $8 each. Either way, I'm quite happy to bring my delicious new robe home - it matches my silk throw pillows from Home Sense, which I'm sure I egregiously over paid for given the prices I've seen here - perfectly.

When I first got to Vietnam, it took me a while to notice that they drive on the non-British (i.e. North American) side of the road here, unlike in Japan. And just after I got all used to walking on the right and standing on the left on escalators! Not that I've been on a single escalator since reaching Hanoi. There are probably an equivalent number of motorbikes to people in this bustling city of 3.5 million. For everyone empty one you see parked on the sidewalk, three more whiz by with a family of four sitting on it.

Hanoi is starkly different from Tokyo. Both are chaotic in their own rights, for sure, but in Hanoi traffic lights are merely a suggestion and no one really seems to heed to them. I am becoming the master of dodging traffic here. Basically, you have to just walk onto the street and mentally say "my turn" and the bikes will kind of go around you. I do wonder what the rate of traffic accidents is here...no matter.

My delightful travelling partner and I made a pact not to get Hep A. We both have our shots, and are only drinking sealed bottled water, but I can't help but think about Slumdog Millionaire where little Salim reseals water bottles with tap water. hmmm...It also probably doesn't help that we bought pineapple from a woman carrying them on a balance with a rice hat on. It's every stereotype you're thinking about. We squared off two vendors for 2 bags of cut pineapple for 20,000 dong (which is like $1.10 CAD) and in their bartering technique they put the scale on us and the hat to let us take a photo. Those will be posted eventually...

I should be off to the night market now, I have table runners and wall hangers to bargain for. I hope I find that stall selling $2 one-size-fits-all linen capris again. I shouldn't even pause to think about those things. What I love the most are the Louis Vuitton shoes with a Gucci label on in the instep. It's all the same same, but different.

I've got one hand in pocket and the other one clutching my passport

Things I'm going to miss while I'm exploring the "motherland"

1. G20 pandemonium in Toronto come next weekend
2. The opening of The Counter (24 hour diner) at the Thompson Hotel (Bathurst and Wellington)
3. The start of Summerlicious reservations (June 24)
4. The ability to control my hair versus the persistent Asian humidity
5. You

Oh baby, guess whose tax return just landed in her bank account? That's what you get when you file a month late. I guess that sums me up quite well - a month late (but not pregnant!) and always a buck short.

My first purchase was in the Airport Mall in Narita (Tokyo) Terminal 1. You can't send me to the land of UNIQLO and expect me not to go nuts. I forgot to bring pajamas. And when I say forgot I really mean it skipped my mind because I never wear pajamas at home. I'm more of an au neutrale kind of girl. But I guess they don't take kindly to that in hostels. Or perhaps a little too kindly.

I'm here at Michael's house in the small town of Fukui (which is about the same population of Cambridge, ON - should that have any relevance to anyone). I will post a photo of us beautiful people shortly. I still don't think it's quite kicked in that I'm in a foreign country. Mostly because Michael is home to me. And seeing him just feels normal. It's like I'm going to wake up from this dream (and I had some weird ones the flight over) and have to go to work tomorrow - whenever tomorrow is, because it's not like I have concept of time anymore.

Everyone keeps talking to me like I should know what they're saying...how odd.

ALLIVED ARIVE!

I worry about my stereotyping. They might not look kindly to that here.

I don't know if I'll have all too much time to be writing, this Internet is free and I'm on a Mac Book, which I hardly understand - but at least it's North American (esque? I think Michael bought it here in Japan). I wonder if this is like Europe where in every country the damn @ sign is somewhere different on every keyboard.

In case you're checking here's where I'll be for next few weeks:

June 21 - Fukui/Kanazawa
June 22/23 Kyoto
June 24/25/26 Tokyo
Jun 27/28/29 Hanoi, Vietnam
June 30/July 1 Phnom Penh, Cambodia
July 2/3 Siem Reap, Cambodia
July 4/5/6/7/8 Hong Kong
July 9 245 Eglinton Ave E, Suite 300, Toronto

There will be hos in different area codes – put your hands up in the air and wave them side to side

There’s something to be about refrigerator magnets. Currently my mother has an expanding collection of tacky tourists magnets which she collects on her many travels as a recently minted retiree. I suppose there are worse things. There’s one magnet that I have a rather vivid memory of, which is not actually from any travelling at all. It’s a grey rectangle with blue text on the top a giant number in the middle and a date written at the bottom. The blue text reads something along the lines of “change” or “better service” or something of that ilk. The red text reads “October 4, 1993” and the number in the middle: 905. I could go back to suburbia to find out exactly what that line of text is, but who are we kidding? I don’t set foot in suburbia unless there’s free food in the mix.

Can you believe we’ve been living in the era of the 905 area code for 17 blissful years now? My cousin and I were having dinner at Pizzeria Liberetto one evening and she mentioned that the Greater Toronto Area would be getting yet another area code in 2013. She moved to Toronto in 2000 but in her memory has always remembered her cousins in Mississauga having a 905 number. No: I reassured her – from birth to the age of six I was a bonafide city girl (by area code jurisdiction). But on October 4, 1993 Bell Canada took that away from me and made me a 905er, which is something I’ve been trying to run away from since.

Days later, proving that they are always a few days behind the curve, Toronto Life published this guide to the area code hierarchy in the GTA. 2013 will bring about the 365. I can think of the jokes already: living in the 365 - sucking 365 days a year.

A few Saturdays ago I went to Rockwood to celebrate a friend’s birthday in the Entertainment District or Clubland or whatever you want to call it, but I just call it an area I normally avoid at all costs. Why avoid it? I find that the district brings out the most obnoxious types and yes, Torontonians blame it all on the 905ers. When I got to Rockwood, there were at least three police cruisers and a bunch of people being arrested. In an incongruous juxtaposition, Rockwood is right across from the Hotel Le Germain which is one of the ritziest boutique hotels in the city. Want to guess which locale the hooligan brawling came from? This type of situation is exactly what my overbearing mother warned me about when I was eighteen – stay away that John and Richmond area, you don’t want to get shot. So what did I do? I walked right in. That night I opted to go with an ironic look, so I flat-ironed my hair and back combed the middle section in the front to give myself the iconic (deadpan) Snooki pouf. However, like ironic facial hair on hipster males, it’s only ironic if everyone else doesn’t have that hair style too.

Unless I’m super plastered, I spend more time in clubs people-watching and developing analysis for blog fodder. Oh God, please still hang out with me; I swear I’m still fun. Between the guy who felt the urge to wipe his overly gelled hair (dry, thank heavens) against my left scapula and the plentitude of girls arguing with bouncers as to the degree of drunkenness their friend being tossed from the bar was or wasn’t, I was all too happy to walk home.

A friend of mine who grew up in a smallish town in Eastern Ontario says that he couldn’t live in Toronto. It’s just too busy and noisy to him – I couldn’t disagree more. I can’t help but feel like the reputation of the city is based upon Friday and Saturday nights and Monday to Friday rush hour. I mean sure, there are things in the city that I can’t stand; I live at King and Bathurst which is basically at the intersection of Yuppie and Douchebag. I find the King streetcar like some form of abuse on weekday morning in its sardine-esque packaging. People always ask me if where I live is really noisy, honestly the worst I get is the couple next door yelling at each other. It’s not as if there’s a riot going on outside my front door every night. We’ll see what happens during the G20 though.

I invite you to see the city the way I do: don’t just come see us for the nightlife, come and see the city during the day, but the right parts of the city. You’ll never find me at the Eaton Centre on a Saturday. I do, however, love the third floor of the Bay Queen St. right across the street like a not-so hidden gem. It frustrates me that people’s perception of the city is that it’s always noisy and no one gives a damn, so you can come in for the night (with your DD so you can drive back from whence you came), scream belligerently and urinate where you please.

I encourage you to experience Toronto on foot, which is something people from out of town also never do. I love to go on a long aimless walks within the city on the weekends. I walked from King West to Leslieville one Saturday to meet a friend at Te Aro for coffee. You can experience how wonderfully quiet Toronto really is if you take the time to listen for the silence. A friend from Vancouver was so surprised when I told him I lived in a house smack in the middle of the city (my centrality in the city is debatable by various core snobs). This isn’t just a playground for the young and carefree. For every starving artist there are three many grandmothers mowing their lawns and putting laundry out on the makeshift line.

This past Sunday I took a long stroll down by the water; it’s amazing how close I live to it, but never seem to be down there enough. Where else can one see nuns on rollerblades? I invite you to come take a walk on the serene side; there’s even free parking on my street on the weekends, also a rarity in the city. One word of caution though: you have to parallel park and suburbanites just can’t do that. Trust me, I know where I grew up and what nice Asian driving school I went to.

Pearls and Taffeta: a bit of class mixed with a bit of sass

There are 364 days in a year where everything is about me. But there's one day a year where I take one giant step back and put others in front of myself. Don't be stupid, it's not Christmas - I love presents way too much. Today was the Boutique Ball for The Corsage Project where I was allowed to used my vacuous powers for good instead of evil.

To provide some context (and a brief summary for those too lazy to click a link and read - which is odd considering how you got here) The Corsage Project works in partnership with the Children's Aid Foundation and their goal is to provide formal gowns and accessories, free of charge, to Toronto area high school girls who are unable to purchase their own prom attire. In its eleventh year, girls are nominated through confidential referrals from school guidance counselors, Children’s Aid, youth, or social workers to attend the Boutique Ball. She and a guest are paired with a personal shopper who help them pick out a brand new gown, shoes, shawl, handbag and accessories (donated by designers, boutique and stores across the city) along with getting their make up done by professional artists and having a keepsake photo taken.

This is my second year with the project and, no bullshit, this has become one of my favourite days of the year. This year I helped with set up, which consisted with me opening boxes upon boxes of dresses, hanging them on garment racks, sorting them by size and then colour blocking them. It was such a major departure from my everyday that I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Spending Saturday morning playing in piles of clothes? Count me in.

Now, I know what you might be thinking - this is such a "you would" type of event, Sarah. You may be thinking that I'm just another vapid girl who likes to shop too much. Sure, I buy shoes when I'm upset, I wander the hallowed halls of Holt Renfrew when I'm sad and sure my credit card is sitting in a tupperware full of water in my freezer - but this event is so much more than clothes and handbags. (Duh, there are shoes too!)

I was so excited after this event last year that I went home to tell my family all about how wonderful the entire experience was. And one Chan (whose title might rhyme with llama) commented that it seemed like a bad idea to instill these girls with such excess and vanity that they wouldn't be able to have again. And you can guess that I pretty much jumped on the dinner table and beat my chest like an ape (pause for visual) in order to defend what I know to be true: regardless of who you are, you deserve to feel and be beautiful and know that you have self-worth.

If this is one thing I can help a young woman with, you can sure as hell bet that I will. Better still, I can use the hours that I pour over The Cut (NYmag's Fashion Blog) to help a young woman achieve it, then yes I will spend time helping them picking out a dress all in quest for self-esteem. I could go into my self-esteem issues but today isn't about me, remember?

Let me tell you about the day I had: my first client came with her friend (also a corsage girl) who brought her sister. She started off the day thinking that she wanted a long gown, but she ended up with a one-shoulder fuchsia mini-dress from FCUK. When I told her I was going to buy that when it was in-store, she was pretty impressed with her choice. Moreover, she asked me if I was going to get a dress from here too. When I said no, she asked if I was going to get anything. The answer to that was also no and she said, in an almost confused voice, "so you're just here because you want to be?" and when I agreed she said "that's really cool." And that's just it right there - that in itself makes the whole experience worth it.

She and I had no luck with shoes for her super sassy dress, but she was so happy to find these spectacular gold earrings. She was apprehensive to get her make up done, but I assured her they were legit make up artists from MAC. And during her photo shoot, I saw a young woman who hesitantly walked into an overwhelming room full of racks of dresses walk out poised with her head up a little higher and with a much bigger smile on her face.

After a ten minute break where I chugged a bottle of water and ate a piece of bread with baba ganoush plus a few cubes of cheese (bless picked over volunteer food) I was off to meet my next girl. She came with her mother and younger sister. Her mother reminded me a lot of my own: meddling and overprotective. I instantly liked my girl all the more. Her mother swiftly found her a floor length strapless corseted mahogany brown gown with delicate beading within three minutes. It was the first dress we tried on and it was the winner. I guess mother does know best.

I found out that after graduation she was hoping to move out to go to school (truly a girl after my own heart) for sociology and drama. You can't judge these girls just because they come from a different background than you do. They have dreams and goals; they work hard and want the same things we all want (and also to get away from their crazy mothers).

While my client was in the make-up chair, I had some time to bond with her younger sister. She and I are both bratty younger sisters, both excel at math and science and both played (or are playing) sports with the boys at that age. But she had this inherent confidence that I never had at the age of thirteen. I told her that I really wanted to see her in four years when it was her turn to be a Corsage girl. And I meant it; because for sure I will be there in four years.

In the end, her mother gave me an enormous hug and the whole family headed for the subway with a Swarovski necklace, dress, shoes, bag and shawl in toe with the Pink! Victoria Secret gift bag that had full sized Estee Lauder products that I can't even afford.

And that might be one of my other favourite thing about the event, and no these girls aren't stupid or live under a rock, but for the most part they aren't "tainted" by labels and designers. Amidst the racks there was Hugo Boss, Emanuel Ungaro, Vera Wang but these girls aren't tag readers they are just girls who want to be beautiful for one night of their lives. And you wouldn't believe the power of stopping a girl in the hallway and telling her that she looks absolutely beautiful.

It was also really wonderful to see notable Toronto fashionites at this event too: Sarah Nicole Prickett (Fashion, Eye Weekly) was sorting dresses in the change rooms, Jessi Cruickshank (The Hills Aftershow) and Anita Clarke (fashion blogger @ I Want, I Got) were both personal shoppers. I apologized to my first client that I wasn't a celebrity.

If my heartwarming personal shopping experience hasn't melted your icy heart, I will say this: you're right, I haven't cured cancer, there are still international conflicts, people still went hungry. But in two one-and-a-half hour interactions with two young women I was able to establish a rapport, build trust and help them feel genuinely happy. What the hell did you do with your Sunday?





Coda: What the hell, it's past midnight now, it's all back to me now: I am glad that there are roadblocks on the expressway to douchedom that I seemed to be zooming down. I'll always be the same girl I always was, and somehow I'm okay with that.

Popping the life cherry and other rites of passage

They say that timing is everything. Whoever it is that they are, I’m honestly not sure exactly what they mean, but we seem to accept it as a universal truth. Timing was the overarching theme for me in second year university. I lost out on something that could have been the best or worst thing to happen me, but now it lives in “what could have been” pile. Timing is also a very convenient scapegoat for being too scared to grab life by the balls, but more often than not timing is not something we can control.

I was having brunch at the Drake Hotel on Sunday with a most excellent friend. Her grandfather has just moved into a seniors’ residence or whatever the most PC term is for it is and it’s a huge readjustment for any family when that happens. I would know: it happened to my family over a decade ago. My maternal grandfather died when I was five, and I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral with everyone else in the limo. That was my extent of understanding of death and loss at the time. I never met my paternal grandmother and when my paternal grandfather died in Hong Kong only my father returned for the funeral.

My maternal grandmother moved into a nursing home when I was twelve. At that age you have a pretty good understanding of what aging is (even though you swear it will never happen to you), but you’re also a heinous bitch because you’re a pre-adolescent. I never quite gave my mother the credit she deserved for being so devoted to her mother’s care. I would often visit with her on Sundays, but then I’d get bored and whine to leave so we could go to the suburban mall. See? What a total bitch. When my grandmother passed away I delivered the eulogy at the funeral I was finally deemed old enough to attend. Even at a young age I’ve always been the resident writer and public speaker in my family.

So I guess I’m quite accustomed to death and loss, though it’s not something I’m particularly proud of. I’m somewhat glad that I went through those experiences before I could fully understand what it all meant. I still built the foundation of coping mechanisms which carry me through my days now.

While I learned how to handle death at a young age, I still feel like I was quite retarded (in the truest sense of the word) in handling the end of relationships. I had my heart broken for the first time when I was twenty. It’s up to your interpretation whether that’s late or not, what the hell do I know about societal norms?

Hindsight being 20/20 as it always is, I would recommend getting your heart broken for the first time at a younger age, so you know how to handle it later on in life when you should really be focusing on things like studying instead. Say when you’re seventeen and everything seems life-altering and devastating so that’s the perfect time to learn how to handle getting your heart trampled by someone you thought was “forever” and how to pick yourself back up. And believe me, life gets better from seventeen, I promise. And it’s not to say that I thought that this guy was “the one” (vom), not even close, but getting dumped always sucks.

A girl I know in university had been dating her boyfriend since grade eleven and then he broke up with her in their third year. It was her (and I would presume his) first big break up and she ended up taking a semester off university to deal. Now, I can’t say for certain that there weren’t other circumstances influencing that decision, but that seems really drastic to me. I just think that if you experience these things at an earlier age then it stings less when it happens to you in your wise, older years.

That being said, there are plenty of things that I don’t think one should do at a young age to experience it sooner rather than later. I am not encouraging twelve-year-olds to have sex. For sure it is a reality, but I am quite certain kids (because that’s what they are) at that age are emotionally prepared for what sex means. Or maybe the meaning is changing, like how pre-marital sex was unfathomable (or just don’t ask, don’t tell) at one time. All I know is that if kids are doing it, I would prefer that they were at least educated in safe sex. Abstinence only education doesn’t work. But that’s a public health discussion saved for another time.

I also don’t think people should get married at a young age. Ideally, marriage is something you want to do just once, so I firmly believe that people should take the time to get it right the first time. If I had to choose one experience that I could avoid entirely or not become really good at coping with it would have to be divorce or maybe drug addiction. Hmmm…

In and above my "wealth" of experience or at least multitude of opinions, there is one thing I’ve never experienced that many people have. My family’s home has always been the same. Sure, I moved away for university and pretty much every year after that, but never my childhood home. I don’t know how I’m going to feel when my parents finally give the place up. Moreover, it’s ridiculous the amount of crap you’ll accumulate in a place after almost thirty years.

These life milestones or collective rites of passage are things you can’t force to happen. I didn’t ask for all of my grandparents to pass away before I turned fourteen. We all make choices given the consensual situations we find ourselves in: when to call it quits in a relationship, when to have sex for the first time, when and if you and your partner get married. But we don’t live a vacuum though, there are so many factors that veer us off the perfect life course we all wish would work out. After all – it is about timing. Life plays its cards on its own schedule and isn’t that half the fun?

Q1 in review or that one time I briefly dated an investment banker

If you’re on a calendar year fiscal, you’d know we’re well into the second quarter of the year. It’s becoming sadder and sadder really, there was a time where I could write every day, then it became weekly, monthly and now we’ve arrived on quarterly.

An oft-repeated phrase in my life these days is “it is what it is” – don’t dwell and move forward, so let’s do it to it.

Here I am on a Friday night in the prime of my early 20s at home with my laptop, listening to a Michael Buble song, surrounded by candles. I’ve been in need of this kind of time for some time now; but you can go ahead and think I’m a loser, that’s cool. My feet need a rest from the stilettos and the bags under my eyes which I don’t even care to put make up on for work just might lighten a bit if I get more than six hours of sleep in one night. In fact tomorrow I’m going back to the dregs of suburbia from whence I came to retrieve my Birkenstocks and file my taxes. Isn’t that what home is all about?

I’ve been in this constant tug of war of trying to remember who I am/was and who I am/might be turning into. And this bipolar uncertainty is very much what the first thirteen weeks of 2010 were all about.

Throwback:

• A trip to Medieval Times (granted a more alcoholic experience than in childhood)
• John Mayer Concert
• Volunteering at non-profit events (albeit scoring more free bottles of booze than before)
• Keg party
• Long-lost friends
  
• A “standing” concert (even though there wasn’t a mosh pit quite like I remember from when I was sixteen, I realize I’ve been sitting down for way too many shows these days)
• Tequila Thursdays

Flashforward (of no relation to the television series):

• Hangover Fridays (with a 9 am start time regardless)
• Delivery of custom designed sofa
• Purchase of first piece of original art
• Charity poker games at the Four Seasons with bankers in tuxes and the working girls paid to “love” them
• Wine with a three digit price tag on a first date
• Porsches

As you may be able to tell, there are some parallels (Tequila Thursday = Hangover Friday) and even some interesting overlaps between the throwbacks and flashforwards. And you may be also able to tell I want to tell you about them.

I love events: the behind-the-scenes thrill of what really goes on is a high that I absolutely love. Moreover, I love people watching and some of these hoity toity charity events bring out the best (worst).

In one week I gate crashed an event a charity poker game at the Four Seasons (I’m just practicing for crashing weddings, I promise). It was a $5000 buy-in, but if you are wearing the escort uniform of 4+ inch heels and a black dress you can just walk right in without using your fake alias of Alice Yang from the Power Group at BMO. Thanks Alice, whoever you are, but my attuned snob event dress code sense got me into that party just fine.

I couldn’t help but feel like a call girl; they (we?) were all standing between tables and watching the men play. It gets worse, and no I’m not talking about the open bar, the event was also complete with an absolutely pointless lingerie fashion show. If you put open bar and Sarah Chan in the same sentence, you can bet I started spouting some bitter feminist sentiments and also how this was at all relevant to the children’s charities (of which I could not find any representation of, but was kindly told by some drunk banker dude that the night was for the SickKids Foundation and Ronald McDonald House). I mean, if it’s all for the kids show as many taut stomachs and heaving cleavage as you’d like, right?

The very next night, I volunteered at an invitation-only preview event for SNAP the photography auction for the AIDS Committee of Toronto. Sadly, this time I missed the dress code cue and was not attired in all black (albeit sensible flats versus stilettos), however I was there to work: I spent this evening bussing the cocktail reception. From one glamourous extreme to the next, maybe I’m inherently somewhat manic that way. This too was an open bar event, however volunteers don’t get to drink (as much) and the only person I needed to use my feminine wiles was the catering chef to score the food I wasn’t allowed to touch, but only serve. Plus he was the only one my wiles could work on, as you may or may not be aware, the community that the AIDS committee serves tends to skew more to men who have sex with men. Instead of a lingerie fashion show, the AIDS committee hires (and yes, such a service exists) beefcake waiters/event boys by the half dozen. At the actual auction, these boys served as easels for the art and as the bidding got higher, they’d remove articles of clothing.

So there you have it, whatever the cause breasts, buns and biceps can make the sale. See – gay or straight, men are just the same.

But enough of my commentary of normativeness between heterosexual and homosexual male populations, you want to hear about the boy. Yeah! Drama! After all, you’re bored; why else would you be here?

Here’s what you need to know: dating an investment banker is a lot like Fight Club. The first rule of dating an investment banker is that you don’t want to be dating an investment banker. True statement, he told me that himself! Okay, so it’s not exactly like Fight Club because I did talk about it, but I digress.

A few very uncharacteristic things happened on the first date: the waiter picked the wine, but I didn’t limit him to the upper range of the list where I usually would (thus the three digit price tag), he also picked our food, we didn’t really read the menu, but I give the waited mad props for doing a supreme selection job. And then the most un-me-like thing happened: the bill was put in front of the XY chromosome carrier and I didn’t even flinch or say a word in contest of the assumption that a man would pay. I sat there, smiled and said thank you. A short month later he decided that he didn’t want to go down that “path” with me, because he was adamant that it could never end well with him. And he would rather not take the chance, than to have it all blow up in our faces and have it hurt [me] like a bitch. He did give me fair warning on our first date that he had absolutely no idea how to balance his life, and I guess that much is glaringly obvious. So he dumped me before I could dump him. [edited to add:] And I warned him that I always love a good story and that I'm some kind of wannabe writer, so let me warn you all - if I know you, I might write about you. Fair warning.

The upside is that I got to ride in his Porsche Cayman for 2.3 km (I couldn't resist looking it up) from College and Bathurst to King and Bathurst before I got the big heave-ho. Sweet. That’s about the most abridged version I’ve ever told of that story. I will say that my attendance at "hooker poker" had nothing to do with him; he declined a seat in the game and instead went out to dinner and drinks with lawyers from New York instead. Don’t worry though, for you ladies or gents who still dream of dating a banker, there are plenty who can make it work – but better still, there are hedge fund managers.

For the time being, I’m resting my party girl stilettos and retrieving my hippie Birks, but maybe it’s not about one or the other. I’ve always found a way to somehow balance people in my life who are night and day (well actually the solution is that those people tend not to cross paths with each other except for the celebration of my birth, which in fact happened in the last quarter), instinctively I should be able to balance myself. Then Q2 perhaps isn’t for redemption or retrograde behaviour, per se, but finding a better balance – and isn’t balance what we’re all trying to achieve? All but one investment banker.

In a minute there is time - for decisions and revisions in which a minute may reverse

I have to describe this moment for you because I found it some kind of magical (maybe you won’t, but that’s okay): I was crossing Spadina at Wellington; there’s only a pedestrian crosswalk there so you press the button and you stop traffic and streetcars north and south on Spadina. When the light changed there was just this magical moment of complete silence. People were filling up their tanks at the Shell station, thankfully no one was blaring obtuse music; all the cars were at a standstill and no sirens whirred in the distance. It was just this complete stillness on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of the city. How serene. And I crossed the street in this silence and it was like I was the only thing moving for about ten seconds. Amazing.

I think we miss out on moments like this when we spend our whole lives in this haze of constantly being plugged into our iPods and smartphones. Our self-absorption causes us to miss the little quirks that make life so strangely beautiful.

Sigh, I haven't been around enough to write a long form blog. This weekend it's either blogging or my taxes. Guess which one pays me more. Bonus points if you know what poem this title is from.

Mini-break for the very broke

Every now and then I get really cabin fevered if I don't leave Toronto for a while. It's my home and of course I love it, but sometimes you need to trade one big city for a bigger, better city.

Hotel on the Upper West Side
Sample Sale in Chelsea
Shopping in SoHo
Dinners in Tribeca and Alphabet City
Bar Hopping on the LES
Brunches on the UES
Bottle Service in Meatpacking

NYC 2010 = amazing. That's an equation I like, now if you'll please excuse me I need to go put my credit card in a plastic Tupperware full of water and put it in the freezer.

Until next year NYC...

The new post-it – Facebook I love you, but you’re bringing me down

It’s an urban legend: we all have a friend of a friend that it’s happened to. Like the one about the girl with the pet snake that lay outstretched next to her not because it loved her, but was sizing her up to eat her. This urban legend, on the other hand, is less so of the snake variety and more of the douchebag kind. This one entails the end of a relationship via the removal of “in a relationship” with so-and-so to single with no sign of warning to the other person. Ouch – there it is the virtual Jack Berger post-it. If you’re unfamiliar with the post-it, you can Google it really quick.

The end of a relationship is never fun, so the fact that we live in a ridiculous reality where every part of our lives can be broadcasted all over the world doesn’t help at all. More often than not, after the end of a relationship the delicate post-break up dance begins. As much as I like the phone call cha-cha and the texting tango, my personal favourite always come in the form of the Facebook foxtrot.

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but deleting someone off your list of Facebook friends has suddenly become the ultimate insult. It seems more people would rather you spit in their face than delete them as a superficial Facebook friend. Every now and then I consider going on purges of people that I seriously never talk to and have actually walked past and not said hello to because I’m sure they don’t actually remember me. But then my ego kicks in and I like to keep my number of friends high so I feel like an important person. I know I’ve been deleted, and there has been a slight pang of knowing that someone went through their list and decided you were just that expendable, but then again I guess I'm just jealous they're less egotistical than I am.

I think I’ve only deleted three people off my list of friends, and they all pertained to the end of a relationship, so sit back and let me tell you some stories.

The first cut wasn’t the deepest, sorry Cat Stevens. It was a girl I was friends with in high school who became a little bit weirdly obsessed with me and my boyfriend at the time. Not in the Swimfan kind of way, but in the living vicariously through it kind of way. I decided I didn’t need that leech in my life (I’m sorry, was that too harsh?) so cut she was.

Cut number two is better (funnier). The aforementioned boyfriend and I broke up, and I swore I was doing okay and clicking on his profile only five or six times a day (to see absolutely no changes, as he was pretty much a social recluse) was part of the grieving process. Then one day I heard something about hickeys and the bar and I went on to delete him. Take that! What a “great” (note sarcasm) feminist moment it may have been except for the fact that I had to tuck my tail between my legs and re-add him soon after for work purposes. Remember: if you choose to dip your pen in the company ink, do not delete them off Facebook. Save yourself the indignation.

Cut three is when I realize just how stupid deleting a person off Facebook really is; also it reminds me how I only seem to do it when enraged. Don’t drink and Facebook and don’t rage and Facebook! Long (stupid) story short, when the text messages starting dwindling I chose to find out what was keeping this person so busy by clicking on his profile umpteen times. I guess I didn’t learn anything from the last deletion, oops. Later on I accidentally found out some stuff through an innocent third party that bruised my ego, got unreasonably angry and decide to hit the delete button. When I contacted him later on, he was all Judy-attitude-y about why I would get in touch with him if I was the one who deleted him off Facebook. See what I mean? Bruised egos, miscommunication, failed relationships – and all because of Facebook, this is the shit Greek tragedies were made of.

I’ve never been one to advertise my relationships on Facebook though. To me, it’s for insecure girls who need to prove they have a boyfriend. Can someone please tell me if it’s ever been a guy’s idea to put up a relationship status? Do please, I love to be proven wrong. It always seems to bite people I know in the face, so why bother?

One of my friends changed her status to “engaged” and it caused an uproar of congratulations from people she hadn’t spoken to in ages and the response was just so overwhelming (even if it was positive) she had to take it down. My roommate has a friend who didn’t take down her “engaged” status when her relationship ended until three months later because she wanted to deal with it herself first, and knew that as soon as she took it down the questions and pseudo concern would pour in. Somehow, never having been in the situation myself, I can’t understand how it is easier to keep your online self as “engaged” and see that everyday staring you in the face.

One day my friend noticed that our friend’s ex-boyfriend deleted the both of us off Facebook. We wondered what we’d personally done to him. It turns out that he deleted everyone he knew through her off of Facebook because he said it would be too hard to ever see photos of her posted with another guy. Oh brother. Don’t even get me started on what posting photos on Facebook does to a person, let alone relationships; let’s just say I probably shouldn’t run for public office.

In case you were wondering, my relationship status reads that I'm married to a woman. Marriage at this point in my life is a laughable concept. I also don't indicate that I'm interested in men, which if you must know, I am; but it's really none of Facebook's business anyway. Plus keeping it ambiguous is always so much more fun and I can't be bothered to take my Facebook sexuality too seriously.

Here are the lessons that I’m going to take out of this:

1. If you choose to dip your pen in the company ink, do not delete them off Facebook.
2. Don’t rage and Facebook
3. Relax kids, it’s only Facebook. (says the girl who just wrote an entire post on it)

Shades of grey or valuable life lessons from Tupac Shakur

A friend of mine has told me that he thinks I’m quite resistant to change, and I’m very sure that I vehemently disagree with him. His rationale stems from the fact that I resisted getting a cell phone for so long (until second year university, which was in 2005) that I don’t like change. Other friends think that I’m some kind of archaic relic who still uses a flip phone and still manages day-to-day function without an iPhone or Blackberry. But sometimes change sneaks up on you so gradually that you aren’t really sure how it all happened and when you became the person you are today.

Allow me paint you a picture: my Thursday night was spent dressing models for a fashion show at a white tie gala in support of the Toronto Public Library Foundation; Friday at Brant House being served bottles of Grey Goose; Saturday at a condo party in St. Lawrence Market with a hired piano man and free flowing champagne and Sunday at a John Mayer concert. And my holiday Monday is being spent in an independent café on West Queen West with my laptop and a mug of fair trade tea writing my blog. Oh, but of course it is. So what does it all mean? Am I implying that my life is far more glamourous than yours? Perhaps, but only you can make yourself feel that way. Would fifteen year old Sarah try to kick twenty-two year old Sarah’s ass? Probably, but that’s okay, other than by sheer will of teenage angst, I outweigh her by quite a bit.

When John Mayer sang “Bigger Than My Body” on Sunday night I turned to my dear friend next to me and said how when this song first come out (we finally agreed that it was around 2003 when we were both in grade 11) that I never imagined I’d be there in 2010 still singing along. And that’s just it, the beauty lies in the uncertainty of life and that’s why change is the only constant we can rely on in life.

Here’s something I’ve discovered in my short time in this consciousness and through a short stint as a pseudo scientist: making naïve claims about anything just makes you look like a dumbass. In a not so distant past where I thought what I knew at the time was all there was, came some interesting, but not overly rude, awakenings. My favourite thing that I learned (and the only thing I’ve retained) in university was why it is important be critical of everything. Never take anything you read at face value; not even this blog post.

I want to soak up and learn about not just both sides of a story, but every side. I’m trying to develop a 360 point of view where I want to see where everyone is coming from other than resigning to calling everyone else a douchebag and accepting that as the go-to answer for everything. So if you’re looking for someone to spinelessly agree with you and say that the world is out to get you, then move along because that’s not bullshit I subscribe to.

I’m still a person who is ready to defend my beliefs, whatever they may be. However I feel that what I do believe in now may not always be the most conventional or popular but is founded in a more slightly more evolved, independent thought process – my own. Uninformed (dare I call them ignorant) people oftentimes see things in black and white; I feel I can say that because I used to be just like that. But as I’ve travelled different parts of the world, left the safety net of schooling, been an observer as well as a participant in the world around me, these cumulative experiences have taught me that everything is its own shade of grey. And it’s actually a brilliant thing.

Reluctant as I might be to some things, it’s not just because I’m being an asshole, because I actually relish change. The last time I refused to do something out of stubborn “principle” was never watching Battlestar Galactica; by some small miracle I think I’m still living a full life. And in life, there are so many changes that are not within our control. But for the things that I can choose to change, I want to make the best educated choice for me, not just believe what everyone else says is the latest and greatest.

So have I changed? Evidently, yes, as we all have. Have I evolved into a vapid and vacuous punter? Maybe, depends who you ask. But at the end of the day, whether you hang out with male models, bankers who bankroll bottle service, birthday girls who throw a fabulous party or the person who loves you unconditionally at a concert, just be sure you do everything in your power to truly know who you are and take the time to enjoy being whoever that is, because that’s just the way it is and things will never be the same.

Paranoid Android – I love the smell of [panic] in the morning

I’ve never actually seen Apocalypse Now but I’m hoping it’s okay that I borrow its most famous quote, only to subsequently butcher it. However, perhaps we are headed for an apocalypse; after all, we live in a world post 9/11 world of H1N1, Mariam Makhniashvili, Tori Stafford, Cecilia Zhang, Jane Creba and ridiculous flight restrictions into the United States. And believe me, I’m not here to dispel the seriousness of these news stories, nor am I here to take away from the real tragedies that have taken place. I am here, however, to give a counter-spin to mainstream media and play my favourite game of devil’s advocate.

In a very poor transition statement between paragraphs, I must selfishly say that I’ve discovered someone who has my ideal career. He travels the world, writes for the masses and gets to do both in the name of healthcare – our shared passion. André Picard is the public health reporter for the Globe and Mail. I saw him once; he moderated a panel discussion at a health conference on hospital wait times at my school during undergrad. However, at that point I wasn’t brazen enough to go up and talk to him and demand I become his successor. What a shame. In any case, Mr. Picard has written an interesting article about new empirical data that has been compiled by Statistics Canada. The article postulates what could be the cause for children today to be markedly more overweight and obese than twenty years ago. Picard goes on to say that leading a healthy lifestyle is more than hockey practice once a week or 20 minutes of school board mandated exercise, but an all-round commitment to actually being active in one’s day-to-day life.

I know that I firmly agree with him, and I recognize that living in the city that I’m probably more likely to walk somewhere than say someone living in the SUV-laden suburbs. However I’m also the holder of a TTC Metropass so the part of me who screams for value of my all-you-can-ride mass transit card battles it out with my active lifestyle self – but when it’s -30 outside, you can guess who wins when I take the subway one stop.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell most of you how hard it is to have an active lifestyle when you work an office job. You wheel around the tight confines of your cubicle and the furthest you go is to the printer or the bathroom. I work in a four storey building and everyone takes the elevator. I walk up the stairs (if I remember to throw my security pass into my ever changing purse arsenal) every morning, however when you can’t use the stairs after 6 pm because it’s not safe. And I’ve hardly ever left my workplace before 6 (or the sunset) so I wouldn’t know what it’s like to descend those stairs. I think someone told me the reason was that the stairs weren’t safe after 6 pm. And I’ve heard before that less than favourable people lurk in enclosed stairwells, but as firmly as I believe that activity needs to be intrinsic part of one’s life, I also believe that enough is enough with the fear mongering.

Now then, that’s not to say that I condone putting yourself explicitly in harm’s way like trying to run across a major highway for giggles. I’m just saying that there are far more “dangerous” things out there in the world that are far more likely to happen to you. In Picard’s article he mentions that parents now always drive their kids to school instead of letting them walk because we are convinced that they will be kidnapped. We want to be as cautious as possible, but to what end? Are we are going to stay inside our homes and not go out in the dark after a while? Isn’t that how the terrorists win? (I do jest.)

I am reminded of a news story from back in 2008 (whoa, that’s so last decade); perhaps you remember it, click on the link if you don’t. In New York City (the scariest in the world!), a mother gives her 9-year-old son a Metrocard, $20, a map and says she’ll see him at home. Is this an example of the worst parenting ever? It caused quite the uproar when it happened, but I’d like to think I would do the same thing. (But I do add a slight disclaimer that I could be one of the worst parents ever.) In fact, I might have actually witnessed the same thing today. I got on the subway and there was a child (probably about age 7) standing by the doors. I couldn’t see anyone who really looked like his parent anywhere near him. He didn’t look scared or mischievous in any way. I got on after him and got off before, so I sincerely hope nothing happened to him.

For the most part though, we all also fall victim (that’s a little ironic) to the bystander apathy effect where we don’t want to seem intrusive busy-bodies and embarrass ourselves if we overreact. That’s a bit paradoxical isn’t it? As a society we are overly cautious and anxious people, but when something is actually wrong, no one will do anything to help to avoid seeming overly cautious and anxious? To me, that’s just fucked up.

I’m straying a bit further from my inaugural point (that only goes to show how badly I need a real editor), which is our paranoia-caused sedentary behaviour will result in a much realer fate than being accosted for change by a homeless man. You just might develop type 2 diabetes -- unbeknownst to you, you might be slowly killing yourself and your family. Shock and horror should abound. And it’s not just the aforementioned paranoia doing it to us either. Picard’s article also talks about the kind of food we ingest on a daily basis. It truly is hard to have two working parents and still have the time to put fresh food without a little help from something pre-made on the table. The article goes on to say that parents are working longer hours to earn more money to try and provide the best of everything for their children. But at the same time while carting them off to horse back riding lessons, Scouts, or choir practice we’re eating McD’s in the van en route. To what end do we trade these things off?

I agree with Picard when he says that exercise alone is actually not the sole answer. Every terrible “as seen on TV” miracle home gym equipment does expressly say that you have to follow a diet plan as well. You just might be missing that part while you swoon over those washboard abs of the actors. Moreover, in order to escape these real, live (and completely preventable) atrocities we need to do more than regimented exercise alone, we need to adopt actual healthy (and incredibly simple) lifestyle habits and stop freaking out over ridiculous things you can’t control, thusly allowing paranoia to rule your life. These simple steps include: working a little less (an outrage!), eating more (in a nutritiously dense way) and feeling better (psychologically as a result as less anxiety, and physically because your body will thank you). And you can actually trust me on this one, I’m a gym major.

The Year of the F Bomb

It's time to check in: we're about three weeks into the new year, which is about the time people fall off the wagon of their new year's resolutions. Last year I set a new record; my resolution was to capture moments of my life vis-a-vie photograhpy, but that becomes a moot point when you're so drunk you lose your camera at the bar on new year's. So this year I didn't make any resolutions; however, I do like themes, moreover, I'm a huge fan of alliteration. Thus I call 2010 the year of the F bomb.

Really awesome words start with the letter F, allow me to provide some examples:

• Fun
• Food
• Family
• Friends
• Free
• Freedom
• Fries (heh)
• Fancy
• Formal
• Fame
• Fortune
• Flirting
  
• Foreplay
• Fornication
• Flan
• Fortitude
• Fermenting
• Fact
• Fiction
• Fitness
• Forgiveness
• Fire

I thought I couldn't think of any F words that were bad but then I thought of famine, fighting, foreclosure -- so I guess everything F isn't always the best, but it's not all bad either! Uh, win? It would be difficult to focus on all of these f words so I'll choose my top three:

1. Food
   
2. Friends
3. Fitness

I think these are fabulous goals for the year, the forthcoming Winterlicious festival in Toronto will be good for 1 & 2 but not 3. Please don't make me draw another Venn diagram. Wow, a whole post about the letter f and I never said the actual f word once. Fuckin' eh. Okay, one time.

Woman on Top – but it’s not at all what you’re thinking or maybe it really is

Ah you’re a perv, now I remember why we’re excellent friends/moderately acquainted/not repulsed by each other. And if you know me at all, you’ll also know I consider myself a “feminist”. I often hesitate to use that word because I once lived with a women’s studies major who called herself a feminist, but let me tell you, each are mutually exclusive things. In any case, this isn’t a preachy “I am woman, hear me roar” rant either – not overtly anyway, I’m sure I’ll throw in some less than subliminal jabs here and there.

Let me start off by saying that I’m sorry I haven’t been around for a while. I keep telling people my full-time employment gets in the way of my unemployment blog. But what keeps a person (namely me) writing? I’m glad I asked; as it gives me time to consult the handy Venn diagram I created in Paint (because that is the extent of my computer skill).

So as we can see (or maybe you can't -- I don't know why it got so blurry) for “increased writing frequency” can be a result of “ample time” or being “angry at men”. HINT: I can’t see any sand around me, and that my spinning class tomorrow is going to be phenomenal. I will also add that I have to be up in less than six hours, but I’m hell bent on writing this anyway.

I’m a self-proclaimed bonafide (oxymoronic) storyteller; I talk a lot with my hands (must be the Italian in my blood) and more than once I’ve been asked if I’m an actor. Storytellers need stories (preferably their own); which means one would need a plethora of experiences to draw upon. And today my stories come from a character I like to play called: a single girl on the town.

Act I, scene i

[Single girl on the town (SGOTT) is walking up a flight of stairs from the bathroom at Brant House when a hand rests on her arm]

Man the first: You’re really good looking.

SGOTT: Thank you.

[Both continue walking up the stairs, SGOTT waits for her friends who didn’t scamper up the stairs quite so quickly]

Man the first: I’m Ryan Murphy.

SGOTT: Oh, are we on a full name basis now? I’m Sarah…Chan.

[unmemorable chatter ensues – until]

Sarah Chan: So what do you do?

Ryan Murphy: I work in the big tower on King

S. Chan: The BMO tower? Neat, I work midtown; I wish I worked right downtown.

R. Murphy: [distracted by the loud booming music] Listen, I don’t really care what you’re saying; you’re a really good looking girl. And I definitely think you should call me.

S. Chan: ???

Act II, scene i

[Past last call at Tattoo Rock Parlour. SGOTT is dancing her pants off (figuratively) with her two lovely friends when someone places a hand on the small of her waist]

Man the second: Hi.

SGOTT: Hello.

Man the second: I’m Finny

SGOTT: I’m – Andrea.

[Hesitant arms length dancing (but not quite grade seven slow dancing) ensues. At some point he takes off his hat to reveal a shaved head]

“Andrea”: I shaved my head once too.

Finny: No way, I don’t believe you.

“Andrea”: Why would I lie?

Finny: Bullshit.

“Andrea”: I did Cuts for Cancer a few years ago

Finny: That’s really admirable. I bet you guys still hit on you. It doesn’t matter what your hair looks like you’ve got a pretty face.

“Andrea”: Thanks(?)

Act II, scene ii

[Nearing the coat check line and about to exit Tattoo, enter Man the third desperately seeking the last minute hook-up]

Man the third: You’re so sexy.

SGOTT: You have yourself a nice night.

Act II, scene iii

[Soliloquy]

SGOTT: At one point in the night a lesbian couple started making out on the dance floor. And

those of the presumably heterosexual male persuasion started losing their shit. It’s one of the ultimate male fantasies, isn’t it, to get it on with two girls? But the best part is that lesbians aren’t making out with each other for the aim of being noticed by men. They aren’t drunk college girls (or if they are, they aren’t feigning homosexuality) with low self-esteem vying for attention. Lesbians have all the control in this situation and straight men are weakened at the knees by this fantastical girl-on-girl action. And that kind of power is something I wish I could have. Alas, the soft, supple kiss of a woman is just not for me.

Through the misadventures of this single girl on the town I’ve learned many a lesson. Being single in this city comes with its share of hilarity, especially the thought of my panties immediately dropping to the ground because someone calls me sexy as I leave the bar. Though it can be argued that my experiences could easily happen to a girl who is part of a couple, from what I observe and have experienced myself, couples are usually more likely to stay at home and watch a movie. And then they actually make it through the whole movie and not use air quotes to describe their night. Come on, you’re pervy; you know what I’m talking about. Also, I’ve learned that I’m still hot, but no one cares what I have to say and that beauty is only hair deep? Moreover, we most definitely still live in a world where straight white men hold an abhorrent imbalance of power. (There’s that not so subliminal jab I promised.) But I’d say on the sexual hierarchy men have met their Achilles’ heel. So more power to the lesbians, says I. Finally, a woman on top. Oh get your mind out of the gutter.

[END SCENE. Exit stage left.]