The Balancing Act

My mother always said...well, a lot of things; "one or none", "because I said so", "Danny, the garbage is full!", and "chin up", are just a few.  There is one though, that I find myself understanding more as I get older.

Such is life.

This simple statement seemingly applies to the downs in life; the days, moments, and mistakes that you need to let go of.  Realizing that not everything goes your way, and well...such is life.  Letting go is usually easier said than done, but what if in taking the good with the bad we could also learn to leave the good with the bad? 

Last week, I had a really good day.  An excellent day.  A full 24 hours on Cloud 9.  First of all, I LOVE the Christmas season.  The time of winter when cold and snow are almost enjoyable, the lights glow, hearts grow, family and friends reunite, and smiles are just more common.  I had a super satisfying day at work with the radio family that I love, and a successful meeting with an important client.  A perfect day followed up with an even better night.  Top-notch entertainment, visiting with a few of my favourite friends, and unexpected catching up that felt like a long time coming.  The next day I was left thinking, "Yes.  THAT was me.  THAT is my life.  THAT is how every day should feel!".

The problem with landing on Cloud 9 is, you can't stay there forever.  You want to, but you can't.  Just like that prime VIP parking spot at the bank...it usually has a short time limit.  You have to let it go.  AND THAT'S OK!  Life can't be awesome 24/7.  Such is life.

I spent the next few days almost dwelling on how fantastic I had felt that day.  Wishing that day hadn't ended was like wishing the current day hadn't began, and that left me feeling...NOT so fantastic.

Stephanie!  Give your head a shake! 

I had ruined that good feeling of a good day by not just letting it go!  Now, I'm not saying to deprive yourself of happiness.  Be as happy as possible as often as you can!  By all means, when things are going your way, be ecstatic!  Live it, feel it, remember it...but don't hang on to it.  The benefit?  Balance.  So when those bad days, weeks, and individual moments happen, as they inevitably will, you simply do the same: Live it, feel it, remember it...and then let it go.

Such is life.  A simple statement for sure, but I'm learning there is an undeniable power in simplicity.

Another thing my mother always says? "Please write another blog, Stephanie!"

:) Such is life!

Hurry Up and Wait

I've heard that patience is a virtue and virtue is a grace, but where do you draw the line between practicing patience and losing with laziness?  What ever happened to going after what you want...being aggressive, proactive, and persistent?   When did the early bird stop getting the worm?  Is he getting beat out by the guy who strolls in late, lights a smoke and just "patiently" waits for the worm to come to him?

I work in an industry that requires me to play a lot of the Waiting Game (which has severely contributed to my skill level in the Tetris Game, the Solitaire Game, and the Facebook Game).  My sales reps sell air time, I contact the client, and then I WAIT for the client to send me commercial info.  Some clients operate lickity split, while others are slower than molasses.  I have learned to step lightly when trying to rush a client, as they might get nervous from the pressure and decide to cancel their buy completely.  But as I sit at my desk clicking through pictures, texting on my phone, beating high scores...being patient...I literally want to SCREAM!  Don't these people know that the more time I have to write their commercial before it needs to air, the better the final product will be!?

Now, work is work.  I get paid the same amount whether I am writing or waiting, and I would surely lose my job if I started screaming at my clients.  BUT...in my personal life I am the boss, and slow and steady just isn't going to win the race.  I can't sit around and wait for things to come to me.  I mean, it's a real nice thought that if I just sit by my phone Cosmo Magazine will call up with a job offer; and if I think about a sandwich, one with appear on a plate in my hand (along side a cold glass of milk).  Does life work that way for anyone?  And how does being patient apply when it comes to guys?  How long are you supposed to wait before it's considered a waste?  I think that one is a slippery slope where patience can turn into humiliation much too easily.

In life, anything worth waiting for...is more worth going out and getting!  It just makes sense.  The early bird gets the worm because he is hungry enough to set his alarm and haul ass out of bed...I have to keep sending out my portfolio if I want to write a column...If I want a sandwich I guess I'll make one, or at very least cruise over to Subway to pick one up.  And when it come to the numerous games we all inevitably play with the opposite sex...it may not always need to be a race, but you sure aren't going to win if you stand still.  We all need a little action.

And when you absolutely MUST wait, I suggest trying this new quote that I find more realistic; "The secret of patience is doing something else in the meanwhile.".

But, whether it's computer games, or men...just make sure you can minimize or exit with a simple click of the mouse*

Casting Call

Well, it's no secret that I haven't written in my blog for a while.  It's been about 5 weeks actually.  YIKES!  My excuse?  I've been a bit...distracted.  Distracted by summer!  I'm sure the majority can relate that once the summer season is in effect, all priorities are thrown out the window.  Now, I can still make it to work Monday to Friday, but every minute I spend indoors I also spend wishing I was outdoors.  As soon as 5 o'clock hit this past Friday I was hastily grabbing my gear and heading southwest.  Rain or shine, I was going camping...and FISHING!
I didn't grow up in a fishing family, in fact I can say with confidence that my dad never took me fishing.  He just wasn't that guy.  A bike ride or a game of catch for sure, but fishing didn't interest him so it was far from a priority in my childhood summer plans.  Who would have thought at age 24, I would suddenly find the act of casting a line and hook so intriguing?  At first glance (and as my sister would suggest) it's easily chalked up to my choice of company as of lately; an individual admittedly in love with the sport.  The excitement in his voice when telling tales of great catches...the disappointment I can sense when the river is too high or muddy...the energy he had this past Saturday morning when we set out on our hike to the lake.  Sure, he enticed me.  His size of enthusiasm alone could likely convince a fish that biting the hook is a good idea, but upon closer inspection I've discovered that my new passion did NOT just blossom.  I have been fishing since puberty.  I'm talking men now of course.
A couple means 2, a few is 3, and plenty implies 4.  Well let me tell you, the term "plenty of fish in the sea" is the wildest understatement in the world!  There were literally hundreds of fish swimming about in the rather small lake I found myself at this weekend, so I can assure you that there are more than 4 fish in the sea.  And much like fish, men are seriously swarming us!  Like I said...I've only been around for 24 years, and I feel like I've already come across more than my fair share.  There are those who show no interest in your presentation, those who are so dangerous they're sure to bite back...some ugly...some smelly...some with no appetite...and some too small to keep. ;) But that's the beauty of the male creature; there is an abundance of them in a variety of flavors all around us at any given time.  Any one of them can be hooked with the right bait, so we keep on fishing.  It's almost a sport or a game, one that doesn't have to end until you feel like you've won.  But how much time and energy have you wasted trying to figure out which lure catches which species?  When is it time to look in a different stream, river, lake, or even ocean?
We can dress ourselves up, colour our hair, and apply make-up.  We can laugh at dumb jokes, pretend to like rock n' roll, and root for their favourite team...but since there really are so many fish in the sea, why pretend to be anything you're not?  Whether you're a Dardevle Spinnie, Rapala, or Curly Tail Grub, odds are you're going to catch a fish.  Perhaps our time would be better spent locating the right body of water that has the fish we're looking for.  Maybe all it takes is a hike to the right spot.
Now, I'm sure it's not like shooting fish in a barrel, and I'm not saying I've completely won yet...but I went fishing for my first time this past weekend, and I caught a beautiful Brook Trout on my first cast!  I was definitely at the right lake.
*FisherWOMAN'S Advisory: If trying to catch fish OR men, please be warned...the Red Deer River is rough!

The Gag Reflex

There are a number of things that make me gag.  Expired sandwich meat, my ex-boyfriend's stinky feet, seeing someone barf, smelling barf, thinking about barf...I have a seriously weak stomach so, I could go on forever.  Surprisingly, one thing that does not provoke my gag reflex is having a camera fed through my nose and shoved down my throat!  Where is the logic? 

For the past 4 months I have had an unusually scratchy voice.  I have to admit that it began when I started working at Cowboys.  At first it didn't bother me.  Actually, I kind of thought it made me sound tough like, "What?  This voice?  Pfff!  No big deal.  I work a lot.  I strain my voice and don't sleep.  What of it?".  Some people even thought it sounded cute like, "Awe!  Poor little Stephie just doesn't get enough rest, and now she has a small ouchie in her voice!".  Whether it was bad-ass or baby-like, my voice was draining more and more each week.

After a couple of months I almost got used to it.  But while I may have not noticed it as much, in the back of my head I still wondered if I was actually injuring myself.  After 3 months of listening to my scratchy/whiny/super annoying voice, my sister Jody (she's a nurse) scared me into going to the doctor.  

You could need surgery Stephanie.  What if your voice is messed permanently?  You know you could have throat cancer!

As alarming as these possibilities were, they were also pretty easy to ignore when coming from my sister.  A talent I had perfected many moons ago.  So although my doctor had referred me to a ENT specialist, I still chose to brush it off as no big deal.  But as the appointment drew closer and closer, I started to think about how important my voice really is to me.

Last night I laid in bed, tossing and turning at the traumatizing thought of losing my voice.  Not being able to vocalize my opinions, and needs, and wants...to state what I am thinking, my ideas, my reasons.  No singing, laughing, shouting, swearing...not having my personality heard!  The simple suggestion of such was enough to make me hurl.

BLEEEEECK!

I literally threw up.  Just a little...in my mouth...but it happened.  My gag reflex was shining a whole new light on the situation.  This was a big deal.  A big freaking deal.  This was MY voice.  This was ME!  It was the thought of losing myself that made me physically sick.  Although I'm sure that I was pulling a classic Stephanie by over-thinking the situation, it made me at least in that moment a little more thankful for my voice and the right to use it.  I even re-considered voting next time around, just because I want to be heard.

When I met with the specialist this morning, the first thing he asked was, "Stephanie, are you a talker?  Do you like to talk a lot?".  My answer, accompanied by a huge grin, was not just "yes", but "hell yes!".  So I let that doctor shove that camera up and down and around my nose to take a look at my voice inside.  I didn't gag.  I didn't shake.  My eyes didn't even water.  I felt like a Born Again Vocalist, and no procedure is too intrusive when it comes to the sanctity of MY voice.

Thankfully everything turned out just fine, because I have my doubts that any sign language professional could teach me to sign at the speed that I speak.

Recovery or Ruin?

Ingredients Needed:

- 32 year old male, about to get married

- 35 year old male, divorced, 3 kids, single

- 32 year old female, divorced, 3 kids, single

- 43 year old female, divorced, 2 kids, in a relationship-ish

- Me

Directions:

Stand all 5 ingredients together in an office space after 5 pm on a Monday.  Prompt relationship conversation.  Allow ingredients to sit for 30 to 35 minutes, or until visibly discouraged and defeated by self realizations.

Result:

The road to recovery, or the recipe for ruin?

Today I found myself in a rare work-place situation.  There we were, 5 grown adults with no apparent need to rush out the door at 5 pm.  No events to host nor meetings to attend, no supper to cook nor kids to pick up, no...(wait, what is it that I do?)...ANYWAY...What do single people do when stumbling into a conversation?  Turn it into a relationship therapy session!  Just last night a city in our province was burnt down by villainous forest fires, but we chose to talk about ourselves.

As the conversation circled around and around, it quickly took the shape of an A.A. meeting.  You know the type, even if you've never been to one in real life you've seen it in the movies.  Everyone in the group is there for the same reason.  They have a problem.  The same problem.  In our case it was a shared fear of relationships/commitment.  We all had a different root to the problem, but a similar problem non the less.  The only thing missing was the awkward, "Hi, I'm Stephanie, and I have a problem." followed by some high pitched microphone feedback.

One of us has a self declared abandonment issue.  One of us has a hard time trusting people.  One of us thrives on the new and exciting.  One thought the clock was ticking.  One refused to admit to any problem.

We complained about men, and bad mouthed women.  Nothing new there.  We agreed and disagreed, sympathized and judged, and said things out loud that were tough to admit to ourselves let alone to other people.  We talked...and most importantly, we listened.

It really only lasted for half an hour, and as I walked to my vehicle after I instantly felt good.  I felt like I just had a break through session with a highly recommended and wildly over priced therapist.

Ahhhhh... :) See Stephanie...you're not crazy.  They get you.  You're gonna be just fine!  You're on the road to recovery!

This euphoric moment was quickly interrupted though when the over-thinker inside me realized that I had just found comfort in the words spoken by those affected by THE SAME DISEASE!!!!!

Was it like a heroin addict telling you how to "get clean" while shooting up?  A doctor prescribing you the patch then going out back for a smoke?  A fat chick instructing an aerobics class?!?!!!!

I was suddenly a bit frightened.  I have been confiding in people who are no pros!  At the same time, I too have been speaking as an authority on a subject I so clearly no nothing about.  I don't think it's a good idea for 5 people with the same problem to spend any amount of time trying to help each other over come and over power that issue.  It would be like forming a team of pyromaniacs and sending them to fight that forest fire. They wouldn't be able to do anything but fuel it!  This was NOT group therapy...this was a natural disaster!

I've spent the rest of the evening searching my mind's resources for the kind of help I need.

Who knows best?  Who has the answers?  Who are the relationship pros?  Who do I know and trust that has really mastered the technique of being happy with someone?  Uh-oh...*DUH-DUH-DUUUUUUUUH* Dan and Pauline...Platt.  My PARENTS.  The most disgustingly happy couple I have ever seen in both fiction and reality.  EVER.  Now, my little mommy is going to be just thrilled to read this, and since I thought of them I can't seem to think of any other sources of comparable knowledge and experience.  BUT...I better think this through.  Am I ready to admit that they have been right about every guy I have ever dated since I was 14 years old?  That's like accepting defeat by a life long opponent.  Hmmmmm...

Well, ahh...ummm, ya know...Come to think of it...Oh!!!  Maybe I'll generously donate my Platt Parents Therapy Time to my co-workers instead!  Yeah!  That's what I'll do.  It's only fair.  After all, I'm only 24 and haven't even gone through my first marriage yet.  There's plenty of time to source out other methods of distinguishing my wild fire, that don't involve Dan and Pauline Defeat.  In the mean time, I'll just avoid those relationship flammables!

Pick Me, Pick Me!

I know next to nothing about football.  Maybe this fact revokes my right to write on the subject.  But wait...oh that's true...this is MY blog!

The 2011 NFL draft took place a few days ago, and I have a friend who was up for grabs.  He recently wrapped up his senior year with the Nevada Wolfpack and had been putting himself through what must feel like hell, in preparation for the big day.  Conditioning like crazy, attending camps and Pro Day, downing protein like it was his job, and probably mixing in a few nighttime prayers.  It doesn't sound glamorous to me.  It sounds rough.  This guy doesn't just eat, sleep, and breath football...I'd say he makes love to it at night and serves it breakfast in bed in the morning.  100% committed.  Doing whatever it takes to get what he wants, and land the job of his dreams...knowing that the odds of any man making the NFL are bleak at best.  I'm sure that if eating grasshoppers and singing Spice Girls karaoke would increase his odds of being drafted even by .02%, you'd find him belting out Wannabe with a mouth full of bugs EVERY night at the local pub.  That's how bad he wanted it.  Still does.

Now, I'm not joking about the grasshoppers and Spice Girls...he would do it without a question, because THAT's commitment.

A commitment guy...ahhh...sounds dreamy.  Ladies LOVE to commit.  Please consider the following: 

If you know me personally, you've likely heard me say on more than one occasion "Bitches be crazy".  I don't just spout it off to be funny, I simply speak the truth.  If you're a chick out there reading this right now and are getting all offended, please stop for one moment and think...have you ever told a guy that your favorite band is Rise Against when in reality you find it hard to relate to any music that yells at you?  Haven't you ever baked a batch of cookies for a man and almost even convinced yourself that you enjoyed doing so?  Come on.  You'd be lying if you say you haven't sat though an agonizing game watching him belch and hi-five, while you cheer extra loud for his favorite team and offer to buy the next round.

Let's not forget all the secret stuff too that guys don't even see or hear or smell you doing.  The stuff we want him to think is natural, which makes us more desirable/date-able.  Bra stuffing, Spanx wearing, make-up caking, eyebrow plucking, hair straightening, LEG SHAVING!  I once shaved my legs 10 days in a row for a guy.  Did I really think he was going to want to be my boyfriend simply because of my smooth skin?  Ever farted in front of a guy you want to date?  No?  Holding it in doesn't hurt at all, right?  Yeah, I'm going here.  I have a friend who went on a 14 day tropical get-a-way with her new beau, where they shared the most beautiful hotel room...with NO door to the bathroom.  She spent the ENTIRE vacation making up excuses, sneaking around, and running to the lobby to take care of business, just so he wouldn't know she was human.  Now THAT's commitment.  By the time they were boarding the plane to come home, he was probably wondering if she was some kind of spy or secret agent for the FBI.

We do it all with the hope that it'll increase our chances of a relationship by at least .02%.  Personally I've yet to see any of it work, but women will continue to commit to such wild practices until they can get the guy to commit to them.  It's like the draft is here, and we're all screaming "Pick me - pick me!", and doing whatever it takes to show off our amazing skills and feature attributes.  Commitment can make a person do absurd things.  Chomping grasshoppers and soloing Spice Girls to make the NFL wouldn't really be a big deal now would it?  Nope.  It's the NFL after all.  But for a relationship, one that does NOT even pay a signing bonus...BITCHES.BE.CRAZY.

I can only imagine the circus acts performed when a chick is trying to snag a guy who is preparing for any sports related draft.

Hear That? Me Neither!

Have you ever slept with a fan?  I'm not referring to a person who is enthusiastic about an interest.  Nope.  I'm talking about a blower of air.  I'm sure psychologists around the world could come up with all sorts of negative diagnoses of my neurosis, but I sleep with a fan every night and do not plan on stopping! 

Since I was a small child possibly as young as age 4, I have been obsessed with falling asleep to the steady sound of an electric fan.  At first I was only allowed to have a small fan in my room on warm summer nights.  I specifically remember one evening when I asked my mom if it was hot enough for a fan, and as soon as she nodded I immediately told her I was tired and wanted to go to sleep right away.  I was about 5 years old, it was 6 pm, and the sun was still shining.  That's how much I loved sleeping with a fan then, and like any true love, my fan love continued to grow every day.  I am now 24 years old, and sleep with a roaring jet engine like fan right beside my bed...365 days a year.  Yep.  I'm a grown adult who needs a sound-making sleeping aid...Because it drowns everything out!  The TV in the living room, dishes clinking in the kitchen, neighbor man mowing his grass at 6 am.  EVERYTHING!

I live in what is considered the "Getto" of Red Deer, Lower Fairview.  My condo is pretty fantastic and because of it's location, my rent is rediculously low.  I figured I'm a pretty tough bitch, so I signed the lease.  I hear a wide variety of sketchy sounds on the regular that I could really do without.  Some days I can overhear a classic white trash domestic dispute going down across the parking lot.  A few months ago I heard a SWAT team bust into the condo above me.  Why...just yesterday evening I heard 3 gun shots (I quickly discovered that they were in fact fireworks, but not before shitting my pants just a little).  Those kind of sounds are easy enough to escape from during the day when I can leave my house, but when the night is upon me even within my own apartment walls I might fall subject to obnoxious and uncomfortable sounds (my roommate and her man friend bumping uglies)...IF I didn't have my fan! 

Thank god for my Aloha Breeze.  Without it I may be forced to choose between cheap rent in a nice condo, and...sleep and sanity. 

If you have trouble sleeping, or live in the Getto, or have a jerk partner with a snoring condition who can't figure out how to successfully snort Dristan...please be advised - ANYTHING you don't want to hear can be downed out with the right high-powered fan.  

The only problem is...when I find myself stuck in one of those super irritating one-sided conversations, with someone who is carrying on about something that interests me less than water chestnuts...I end up dangerously close to inviting them into my bed!

*The Aloha Breeze can be found at the following locations: Walmart, Canadian Tire, Home Depot, Home Building Centre, Zellers*

WARNING: May significantly increase electric bill.

Get Me the Flick Outta Here!

Last week my sister and I went on a vacation together.  Now that I am home, getting some rest, and thinking back on our 4 day trip to Las Vegas...it wasn't a "vacation" at all.  It was exhausting!  Firstly, spending any more than 24 hours with my sister is a bit strenuous, regardless of the location.  She LOVES to shop, dress up fancy, and requires more attention than Commoner Kate.  Secondly, the Vegas Strip is so long that I think I put in more than enough cardio for all of 2011 in just 4 days there!  After a full day of walking and shopping up and down those 5 miles on Las Vegas Boulevard, my feet were almost too swollen to stuff into my "dress up fancy" shoes.  Thirdly, I have never before spent so much energy turning down men!  Now before you go getting all judgmental on me thinking that I am over-confident or just erroneously flattering myself...keep reading.

On average in Vegas, every 20 square feet you will find a different man recruiting women to whichever night club he works for.

"You girls goin' out tonight?"..."Hey ladies, what club you wanna hit tonight?"..."No line, no cover, free drinks"..."Pure, Surrender, LA X, The Bank"...

With those cat-call like lures, you also hear the forever flicking of cards.  These men are armed with thick stacks of "VIP cards" for each and every night club under the Vegas sky.  They flick those things like they get paid per flick.  Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick.  As we later learned, they actually get paid per girl.  If they can get your name and number to put on their VIP list, they literally get paid by you entering the club that night.  The theory behind it is quite smart really.  As my Asian Boss Man's wife once told me, "Where there are women...the men will follow.".  If the club is busting with chicks, men will be lined up around the block.  Lined up to pay the $40 cover charge and buy the $15 dollar drinks, all for the 1% chance that they might get laid.  Likely better odds than they are used to back home in Rainbow Lake, Alberta.

Speaking of getting laid...Why don't all these horny dudes just grab one of the hooker cards that are also being handed out like free candy from a pervert at a playground?  In Vegas the girls get offered VIP passes to clubs, and the men get offered dirty sex that they have to pay for.  Since I am a female, I was never offered one of the hooker cards.  I saw the people wearing shirts that said...HOT SEXY GIRLS, but they never flicked their cards at me, nor did they cat-call.  I wonder what they say to the men...?

"You guys wanna put your dick in a stranger tonight?"..."Hey brotha, your wife at home right?"..."Yo! Might not even catch an STD, maybe."..."Latino, Asian, blond, red head, short, tall, fat, skinny" FLICK-FLICK-FLICK-FLICK-FLICK  How do those people make their money?  When a guy enters the hooker?  Hookers scare me, and at the same time I just feel bad for them.

At the MGM Grand, there is an indoor lion habitat.  At any given time you will find 3 lions on display in the thick glass enclosure.  At first I felt bad for the lions.  Then I listened to the live voice through the surrounding speakers and learned that the MGM lions in fact have quite a nice life.  They live on a lovely farm just outside of Vegas and get rotated into the MGM for no more than 5 hours at a time.  The habitat is sound proof and kept very clean, and the lions get to nap and feast on juicy steaks all the time! Don't you think it would be smart for one of the hotels to unveil a hooker habitat?  The hookers could just relax in their well-kept enclosure.  They could bathe properly, and get some rest in clean beds.  They would have stripper poles instead of trees, as to feel more comfortable.  They could eat healthy food, and maybe mix in some Nicorette in place of the Marlboros.  Then the tourists and sightseers of Vegas could watch them up close and personal...but be completely safe on the other side of the thick glass walls!  The tree-huggers would be thrilled if they knew I came up with a way to promote hookers without printing off millions of those damn flick cards!

See...my vacation truly was fatiguing.  Endless miles of walking, thousands of dollars spent shopping, infinite catering to my sister, avoiding the flick cards and their over-assertive holders, and mapping out genesis hooker habitat hotel plans.  I didn't need to play any slots or blackjack...making it out alive was gamble enough for me.  I think my next vacation should be somewhere a bit more relaxing, calm, and low-key than the fabulous Las Vegas.  When are Canadians allowed to fly to Libya again?

Veto My Vote!

I was brought up on the far right side of what is commonly known as the political spectrum; conservative.  Things were either right or wrong, black or white...Dad's way or the Hi-way.  There really wasn't room in the Platt house for politics, and if it did sneak in for a visit here or there it was shuffled out the door quicker than an unwanted relative.  The point is, I will be the first to admit that I am politically ignorant.  I know about Obama, Osama, and Oprah, but it doesn't go much further than that...and that's how I like it.  (If you are extremely passionate about politics, take that as a warning that you aren't going to enjoy reading further)

Apparently there is an election coming up.  Federal?  Provincial?  Who gives a shit?  I don't know, because I don't care.  I do however, work with an individual who DOES give a shit.  In fact, he damn near makes it his job to let the entire office know just how MUCH he DOES care.  His name is Joe.  Joe knows I don't vote.  

Around 4:40 PM today, Joe decided to strike up another one of his political debates.  He informed me of the new "genius" media campaign that was recently launched to once again encourage young adults to vote.  As per usual when Joe refers to things of no interest to me, I was silent...at first.  But as he rambled on about it being my right to vote, I closed my word document and opened my mouth.  I told him that no matter what kind of genius campaign has been thought of to force voting upon me like a rapist forcing sex...I still wasn't going to vote.  The frustration that instantly dominated his face made me giggle inside, and honestly fueled me to continue.  I explained to Joe that because I know so little about politics I am actually doing our world a favor by staying home on election day.  Do we really want a bunch of plumbers performing brain surgery?  I don't think so.  This analogy should be no insult to a plumber.  No matter how kick-ass that plumber is with drainage systems and water fixtures, we aren't about to sign him up for a Craniotomy any time soon.  Can you imagine the mess?!  It would be catastrophic really.  Having said that...a plumber is more than welcome to apply for med school if brain surgery is something he wants to dabble into. 

Joe didn't even flinch at my well-played analogy, so...I folded.  I told him if he bought me an ice cream afterward, I'd vote.  It was almost 5 PM anyway and I didn't want to miss my tanning appointment due to plumbers nor politics.

I have always hated censorship.  If I have something to say, I will say it.  When I can form an educated opinion I will present it.  If you ask me to vote on which heels look better with your little red dress...I WILL vote!  I consider myself an expert on shoes.  But with freedom of speech and the power to vote, also comes the responsibility to know when to keep quiet.  And when it comes to legislatures and lobbying, reform and residuals...I'm going to exercise my right to remain silent.

Lucky 21?

I am slowly growing older...1, 2, 3, 10, 24...........meh...
There are a few numbers that become increasingly worrisome as the years, months, and sometimes even minutes pass.The most important is quite obviously age. 
Now, I'm no old crow...in fact, my boss calls me a "Spring Chicken", but I am certainly not getting any younger - any more "Springy".  I have celebrated my 21st birthday 4 times because for some reason that was my fond age.
At 21 I was living alone in southeast Calgary, working for Rogers Radio Group.  Rogers was fine but in such a huge city where I only knew 2 people, I spent most nights bored and lonely.  My sister lived a half hour drive away and my friend, Carlene...even farther.  What else happened at age 21 for me?  Oh, I got in that head on collision.  That was a treat.  Totalled my car, and with no collision coverage was sans vehicle for a while.  At age 21 I moved from Red Deer to Calgary and then back again for a guy I really shouldn't have moved around the block for let alone back to Red Deer.  Then I went from jobless to working at the worst station in the market at the time.  Yeah...21 wasn't so great.  But, I held on to 21.  I liked how it sounded, "I'm 21.".  It's so nonchalant.  It's like no big deal.  At 21 it doesn't matter if you haven't been to college...yet.  No one cares if you still drive a Sunfire at 21.  If you are single and promiscuous and irresponsible...its fine, at 21.  Really if you are anything more, you're put on a pedestal.  When I was 21 I had an education, a career, an apartment, and an automobile...so despite the crap year, I was a success!  The thing about aging is just like time, it never stops.  You can't stop time from ticking, and I am 24 not 21.  24 feels different.  It's only 3 years past, but what was more than enough then, seemed to fall short of satisfactory now.  Why?  I'm actually doing significantly better now...and so I should be!  More importantly, I should be proud of where I am, and where I can still go...beyond 21! 
In the game of Blackjack, 21 is the lucky number.  If you play your cards right, you take the cake.  Anything past 21?  A bust.  But wouldn't it be something if the game didn't end there?  If you could choose to stay in and let the pot grow?  If 21 wasn't the be all end all?  If you could carry on and win even bigger?  Perhaps that would take the meaning out of Blackjack, but for this girl...it puts the meaning into life.  If I keep the ambition and allow it to grow, there's really no way to go home a loser...no such thing as a bust. 
At 15 I wrote in a diary.  At 20 I began writing commercials.  At 24, I added a blog!  Soon I will write a book.  Eventually I'll have a hit, so I will write another, and another...each paperback more successful than the last.  I will live wherever I want, write whatever I feel, and nap whenever I please.  Non of that has anything to do with a number, and I'll be thanking God I got over 21.
And somewhere inside that book, on my first published pages it just might read: To Me, on my 40th birthday.
...and if I'm wearing my slippers, sipping my coffee, and making my living from anywhere in the world...the number 40 won't matter either.

Giving It A Shot

It started innocently enough.  Last October I found myself in a very uncomfortable situation.  Credit card debt.  I was faced with 2 choices (3 including bank robbery); start being ultra thrifty, or grab a second job.  The mere thought of being a penny pincher shot a vivid image in my head of my frugal aunt who literally keeps track of money spent on little things like 5 cent candies, so after almost a full minute of consideration I decided on the later of the two.  Well that was easy!

I immediately hit fast forward on my daydreaming and envisioned myself driving a hot new vehicle, vacationing in hot tropical climates, and carrying bags that were hot out of the Coach factory.  Then suddenly I realized, I had no clue how to land a job that didn't involve writing catchy/annoying radio ads.  It was time to consult the higher powers...grown ups!  I promptly paid a visit to my old radio station to see my good friend Kwame, a seasoned radio announcer I used to work with who had only been in the city for a few years but had quickly become a local celebrity and a fairly "connected" member of social society.  It turned out that Mr. Kwame had a bit of an in with a successful business man who basically monopolized the bar and nightclub industry in Red Deer, so he generously offered to arrange a meet and greet if I was interested in that line of work.  Of course I said yes in the blink of an eye and told Kwame to just let me know when and where, but as soon as I left the station I felt strange...

What is going on?  Could I really work in a bar?  What will my sister think?  What will my dad have to say?  What does that say about me?  What if I have to dress like a hooker?  Where do you even get hooker clothes?  What if I get offered drugs?  I don't want to do drugs! 

Oh Christ...my morals were kicking in.  But as I turned the key in my Pontiac G5 and the Check Engine light illuminated my dash, I decided it was too late to abort the mission.  After all, Kwame was so sweet to do me a favor...and I had already booked a trip to California and had my heart set on Vegas in the spring.  I drove home, cleared my new financial plan with some important members of parliament (a few friends who I knew would tell me to go for it), and tucked myself into bed with a smile on my face and dollar signs in my eyes.

The next few weeks were...interesting.  After much back and forth communication and scheduling through Kwame (who I now call my agent) I finally had a sit down with the gentleman I now refer to as Asian Boss Man.  I instantly won him over with a low cut top and my charming whit, and he threw me right into the tornado of a Halloween party at one of his nightclubs, with only 3 days notice.  I was horrified (pun intended)!  I had no experience, I had no allies, and I wasn't sure if my costume was sexy or just cute.

October 31 arrived quickly.  I was as ready as I could be, which for me then meant my Ghost Busters costume was assembled, my hair was curled, and my bra was cinched up almost tight enough to lose circulation.  I showed up an hour early for a crash course with a 6 foot 1 MILLION black man named Dax who was sporting a Gi for the evening.  Coincidentally, I sort of knew him.  Dax grew up in the village of Trochu, just minutes from my home town.  We were never really friends growing up, but I was glad to have any kind of relation to grasp onto at that point.  Dax had been tossed in as manager that night though he himself was just a bartender as well, which I thought seemed sketchy until he opened his arms, shot me his pearly whites and said "Welcome to the industry!".  He quickly rattled off a price list for me, showed me how to use the liquor guns, and taught me the 5 classic drinks and shots.  It was pretty overwhelming.

How am I going to remember all of these prices?  What if I get a price wrong?  Will that fuck up my till?  What if someone asks for a drink that I don't know?  What if they want me to do a shot with them?  What if I get sweaty?  Can they smell fear?  Is someone going to barf on me?  What if I barf back?

Then something beautiful happened...Barry entered the bar.  Barry was not a regular employee but was stepping in for the Halloween party, and more specifically to be my partner in crime for the night.  Barry is Asian, but I couldn't quite decipher exactly what flavor because I really couldn't see him.  He was dressed head to toe as a panda bear.  Clever right?  Barry the bear!  PANDA bear because he is Asian!  Barry quickly slapped some confidence into me.  The first thing he did when we met was snatch my hand written price list and crumpled it into a ball saying, "Listen Babe...if you don't know it now, you may as well make it up...'cause you won't have time to look at this shit.".  He told me the same sort of rule for mixing drinks and making shots.  He said no one would get mad at me because Halloween puts chicks in a good mood, and my costume was enough to make the men happy.  I laughed because it was funny...and awkward, but as I would learn, Barry was right!

The bar wasn't packed that night.  It was steady but comfortable.  The ideal amount of traffic for the inexperienced me.  Actually the only thing I found uncomfortable that night was my outfit.  I was hot!  Not sexy-hot, sweaty-hot.  You're working fast in a room full of drunk people.  A gal is bound to get a little hot, and a little sticky...neither in a good way.  Oh, there was one other semi-uncomfortable factor I should mention.  This 4 foot factor is called Papa.  He is Asian Boss Man's dad.  He is a very tiny, very old, and very Asian man who stood beside my till for the ENTIRE night just lurking and watching.  I'm not exaggerating.  He literally stood in one spot from 10 'til 2 without flinching.  He didn't speak, he didn't sit...dude didn't even take a pee break!  He DID however find it appropriate to break wind consistently every 5 minutes.  I'm no expert on Asian cuisine, but whatever Papa had for supper was clearly giving him some digestive difficulties.  Lucky me.

Despite Papa's indiscretions, the night flew by.  It was new...it was fun.  Call me a dork, but I was looking forward to the end of the night so I could show off my superstar cleaning skills.  To my dismay, bar tenders are not required to do a lot of cleaning.  Last call was over shortly after 2.  Then we wiped down our bar, and the Swamper takes care of the rest. 

Did you know that every bar or nightclub is designed like some kind of maze or castle?  They are. There are all sorts of strange rooms and staircases, and connecting passage ways of all different shapes and sizes.  After our strenuous clean-up, we took our bucket of money and I followed a girl through 2 rooms and up 2 different staircases to a tiny little closet-sized loft where we sat on boxes and counted our change on a wooden bench.  I felt dirty, I'm not going to lie.

My first night was a success!  I left the bar with sore feet, but had a smile on my face and a wad of cash in my wallet.  I arrived home ecstatic, but with it being 4 am at the time, I had to ignore the urge to call someone to gush.  I slept until 3 pm the next day, and happily so.  For about 2 weeks after that night, all I could think about was that I wanted to bar tend again, and again...all the time!  I was almost obsessed.  I think I only made about $200 that night, but there is nothing quite like the taste of dirty, tax-free cash! 

I've continued to bar tend since.  It's allowed me to do a lot of those original dreamy type things already.  I'm tired at times and have very limited social time, so I'm sure this gig has an expiration date...but it doesn't smell funky yet so it's still good. 
Sometimes I do get a hint of something unpleasant...then I see Papa, with a shit-eating grin.

Can You Really Pass That Up?

In life, there are far too many things that are bad for us.  Cigarettes...poutine...tanning beds.  But why is it that it seems to be the naughtiest of things that so strongly draw us in?

A friend of mine is like most of us, on a diet.  She constantly flops back and forth between starving herself, and binge eating.  The other day, I had a bowl of fresh and delicious strawberries cut conveniently into bit size quarters.  I could have easily eaten the entire thing myself, but I offered her some.  To my astonishment that dear dieting diva took one look at those quaintly-cut berries and said, "No...I better not.".  NO, I BETTER NOT?!?!  Strawberries!  She looked at my bowl of strawberries as if it were a box of dough-nuts from Tim's  that she'd love to devour but she'd "better not.". She passed them up!   When I saw her a few days later, she couldn't stop talking about the ENTIRE PAN of cinnamon buns she had just made, and ate.

Now...I can't help but relate almost everything to men (not to be confused with me relating to men...I don't understand them at all).  "Dieting"; searching for someone healthy for our hearts.  Maybe it's easier than we thought.  Maybe the trick is knowing when to bite!  Learning to SEE the good ones when they're there.  A guy who cooks you dinner, makes you laugh, and kisses your forehead if you fall asleep during the movie.  Can you really pass that up?   Because just like that pan of cinnamon buns that will always be harmful to your hips...certain men will forever be hard on your heart.  So when you find those special ones, who make you feel nothing less than perfect...your best bet is to bite!

I started buying strawberries a few weeks ago.  I've never been more satisfied. ;)