While I continue to find living in a new city so far from home a challenge, there is one huge advantage: I now live six hours away from New York City — by car! Growing up in Vancouver made it difficult to visit the East Coast without considerable effort, not to mention a great deal of cash for a plane ticket. Now it's just a stone's throw from my front door.
That said, I will concede that it took an entire year of living in Montreal to finally make the trip down south. And the next time I go, I don't think it will be on a long weekend. At least, not one that is celebrated by Canadians and Americans alike. The next time I go to New York it would be nice to actually see a few native New Yorkers rather than slews of goggling tourists all trundling to and from the same landmarks I'm trying to capture with my digital camera.
Friday afternoon rolled around and my boyfriend and I hit the road with the intention of driving most of the way through New York State that evening and then making the rest of the trip Saturday morning so as to arrive bright-eyed and bushy tailed in Manhattan on Saturday morning. Not only was this plan meant to save us some energy, it was also supposed to save us some dollar bills — NYC on the last holiday weekend of the summer ain't cheap.
Alas, it turns out you have to actually book a room somewhere if you want to save any money. Driving into to a town and expecting to find accommodations at 9:30 pm the Friday before Labour Day doesn't work so well. What you will find, however, is row upon row of cat statues, all painted in different fashions, lining the main street — and a surprising number of rowdy men with shaved heads. Welcome to Catskill, NY, where they take the hilarity of their town's name seriously! So seriously that they commissioned an artist to cast several dozen over-sized cats and then used them to punctuate the monotony of a street lined with parking meters.
After stopping at the Catskill ATM and having a brief look around, we decided to keep moving. While the cat statues were causing me to giggle uncontrollably, the skinheads were not. And besides, there was no room at the Comfort Inn due to the annual underwater basket-weavers' convention — or something like that.
We drove a little further and managed to find a little place with a diner and one very expensive room left. The rather frumpy young lady behind the counter informed us that this was a smoking room and then decided that her final selling point would be: "I usually put truckers in there." The room was only free because there had been a last-minute cancellation and we decided there wasn't much hope of finding anything better, so we took it. I'd liken the experience of staying in that room to sleeping in a bowling alley, but hey, we were gonna be in New York the next day!
As we approached the city the next morning, bellies full of McDonald's breakfast, I felt the kind of anticipation I hadn't experienced in nearly a decade — I was about to see a city I'd joyfully experienced time and time again on the big screen, a city that is pretty accurately known as one of the greatest in the world, a city where you can get 15 "I heart NY" T-shirts for $12! It was almost too much to take.
While the Pennsylvania Hotel's staff were unfortunately incompetent, our room had everything we needed (a king-sized bed, an alarm clock with an iPod doc, and a tiny shower with perfect water pressure) and it was steps away from Times Square and pretty much everything else in midtown. In the short time I was there I managed to go shopping, visit a bar featured in Mad Men, see a Broadway show, visit the Brooklyn Brewery, and see almost all of the major landmarks I'd heard of (many stumbled upon by accident). Of course now I have an enormous list of all the things I'd like to do in New York the next time I visit, but that will just have to wait until a later date.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
mbo vs. going to the movies alone
A few weeks ago I tried — and failed — to see Bridesmaids with a group of friends. We went on the first Tuesday after it opened and here in Montreal they still follow the time-honored tradition of Cheap Tuesday. As a result, everyone and their dog bought tickets to the seven o'clock show before us and we ended up turning around and going home.
Rather than trying to arrange another social outing, I did what I always do when I really want to see a movie: I go to a matinee alone. I started doing this back when I worked at Starbucks and would often work the 5:00-11:30 a.m. shift. I'd finish work, grab by complimentary coffee, and head down to Tinseltown Mall, a large — and largely empty — shopping center that straddles the boundary between Chinatown and the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver — and has a pretty good movie theater.
I now work for Chapters/Indigo where I often get the 6:00-10:00 a.m. shift restocking shelves before the store opens, and it gives me the same wonderful opportunity to spend my early afternoon alone in a theater. There are never any lines or sold-out shows, and sometimes, when I'm feeling really adventurous, I'll sneak into a second show (for free!). I figure a movie theater is kind of like a museum or art gallery: once you've paid your admission, why not stick around and check out the other exhibits?
Now, I know what you may be thinking. "This girl is a cheap loner who needs to get some friends and a better job!" And you may be right. But the funny thing about this is that what bothers some people the most is not the theater hopping, it's the fact that I go to the movies alone. Not just the matinees either, I'll go to a regular showing by myself. Sometimes it's easier than finding someone who hasn't already seen the movie I want to see, and who is available to watch it at the same time as I am. But mostly I just like to see movies alone.
I ended up calling my coworker on the afternoon I was going to see Bridesmaids. I knew she wasn't working and didn't have plans until that evening, so I sent her a text to see if she wanted to tag along. She responded quickly and we made plans to meet up. We got some slushy coffee-based beverages and had our choice of seats since there was hardly anyone in the theater (always a bonus of going to matinees).
Afterward, as we walked home, it came up casually in conversation that I hadn't contacted her as a replacement movie date, I was in fact planning to see it alone, and at the last minute, I decided to invite a her. I wouldn't say she was appalled, it was more that she'd just never heard of someone doing something like this. Or maybe she did a really good job of hiding her feelings about my weird movie-watching habits and how much they disgust her. Perhaps I'll never know.
The funniest part is the taboo of going to a movie theater alone doesn't seem to have anything to do with the act of watching a movie — no one thinks it's weird to watch a DVD alone, or TV for that matter — it's perfectly acceptable to behave this way in the comfort of your own home. I suppose the same rule applies to eating: we all know people sometimes eat alone, but don't do it at a restaurant, you're making the other groups of diners uncomfortable. That's why they invented lunch counters and takeout for chrissakes.
Well, I don't subscribe to this doctrine, I thoroughly enjoy my solo dates. Sometimes I'll take myself out to dinner AND a movie, and I'll have a great ol' time. No one to argue with over where to eat or what show to see, and no one to whisper annoying commentary in my ear while I'm trying to watch the movie. I'm pretty much my idea of a perfect date. And now I'm pretty sure I understand why I had to transfer to that "alternative enrichment program" back in high school. I believe in therapy, this is what they refer to as a "breakthrough."
Rather than trying to arrange another social outing, I did what I always do when I really want to see a movie: I go to a matinee alone. I started doing this back when I worked at Starbucks and would often work the 5:00-11:30 a.m. shift. I'd finish work, grab by complimentary coffee, and head down to Tinseltown Mall, a large — and largely empty — shopping center that straddles the boundary between Chinatown and the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver — and has a pretty good movie theater.
I now work for Chapters/Indigo where I often get the 6:00-10:00 a.m. shift restocking shelves before the store opens, and it gives me the same wonderful opportunity to spend my early afternoon alone in a theater. There are never any lines or sold-out shows, and sometimes, when I'm feeling really adventurous, I'll sneak into a second show (for free!). I figure a movie theater is kind of like a museum or art gallery: once you've paid your admission, why not stick around and check out the other exhibits?
Now, I know what you may be thinking. "This girl is a cheap loner who needs to get some friends and a better job!" And you may be right. But the funny thing about this is that what bothers some people the most is not the theater hopping, it's the fact that I go to the movies alone. Not just the matinees either, I'll go to a regular showing by myself. Sometimes it's easier than finding someone who hasn't already seen the movie I want to see, and who is available to watch it at the same time as I am. But mostly I just like to see movies alone.
I ended up calling my coworker on the afternoon I was going to see Bridesmaids. I knew she wasn't working and didn't have plans until that evening, so I sent her a text to see if she wanted to tag along. She responded quickly and we made plans to meet up. We got some slushy coffee-based beverages and had our choice of seats since there was hardly anyone in the theater (always a bonus of going to matinees).
Afterward, as we walked home, it came up casually in conversation that I hadn't contacted her as a replacement movie date, I was in fact planning to see it alone, and at the last minute, I decided to invite a her. I wouldn't say she was appalled, it was more that she'd just never heard of someone doing something like this. Or maybe she did a really good job of hiding her feelings about my weird movie-watching habits and how much they disgust her. Perhaps I'll never know.
The funniest part is the taboo of going to a movie theater alone doesn't seem to have anything to do with the act of watching a movie — no one thinks it's weird to watch a DVD alone, or TV for that matter — it's perfectly acceptable to behave this way in the comfort of your own home. I suppose the same rule applies to eating: we all know people sometimes eat alone, but don't do it at a restaurant, you're making the other groups of diners uncomfortable. That's why they invented lunch counters and takeout for chrissakes.
Well, I don't subscribe to this doctrine, I thoroughly enjoy my solo dates. Sometimes I'll take myself out to dinner AND a movie, and I'll have a great ol' time. No one to argue with over where to eat or what show to see, and no one to whisper annoying commentary in my ear while I'm trying to watch the movie. I'm pretty much my idea of a perfect date. And now I'm pretty sure I understand why I had to transfer to that "alternative enrichment program" back in high school. I believe in therapy, this is what they refer to as a "breakthrough."
Thursday, March 17, 2011
mbo vs. the gym
It seems to be a symptom of our modern society, this so-called "freshman fifteen" — the phenomenon wherein college and university students pack on the pounds as a response to their new stress-filled sedentary lifestyle. And I, like so many before me, fell prey to its inevitability. Although, I don't know where this arbitrary number comes from (I suppose it gives a nice quality of alliteration), because by the time I was finished my four-year undergraduate degree, I was a whopping 30 pounds heavier.
I also know plenty of students who never gained a pound while in university, and a few who lost a bunch of weight while pursuing higher education, so I guess it's probably a crap shoot. Nevertheless, I want to whinge about my woes, so sit tight, and let me take you through my trip from a size 5 to a size 10 in only four short years!
Back in 2005 when I first decided to take the plunge into higher learning I was working as a shift supervisor at Starbucks — a job I'd held for four long years, and one that kept me on my feet and constantly moving. It, combined with the cost of living in The Most Beautiful Place on Earth, also kept me so poor that I survived mostly off of Starbucks prepackaged lunch items I had to pick out of the trash at the end of my closing shift.
The sandwiches, you see, contain ingredients like mayonnaise, and therefore could not be donated to homeless shelters the way the day-old baked goods were. No, and we were also forbidden from handing them out to the local homeless people (Vancouver has more than you can imagine), for fear that these less fortunate souls be industrious and decide to sue said coffee company for feeding them food that made them ill.
At first we would just take them out of the pastry case at the end of the day, but once they had installed cameras, it had to be documented that we indeed were placing them into the trash can and not "stealing" them. But I digress, the point is this: I was skinny and I didn't even know it.
I gave up this job, though, as I was off to bigger and better things! I also had this naive notion that I needed to give school my full attention, something I wouldn't be able to do with a part-time job keeping me down. So, at the start of my first year, I had a student loan in the bank and only my classes to keep me occupied.
Eventually, this predicament got old; I didn't know how to be a student, I hadn't been one in almost four years, and I quickly learned that a student loan in one lump sum, disappears real quick.
The job I found in my first year was at a small, privately run liquor store in the bowels of Burnaby. It was a lazy job and my coworkers and I soon found ourselves drinking on shift. It started out innocently enough: finishing off the dregs from a tasting done in-store that day. Then we began helping ourselves to the free samples attached to the booze bottles as a means of inciting customers to pick that particular product. Eventually, though, we were just buying drinks and hanging out in the office until a customer meandered through our door, causing the bells to tinkle and signaling to us that someone had to get up.
Selling alcohol while inebriated is a lot easier than you'd think. In fact, I'd argue we were friendlier and more sociable while intoxicated, having long chats with our most-likely-a-little-drunk-themselves customers. People buying booze really don't have any right to tell you off for smelling like alcohol — after all, you were probably just brushing up on your product knowledge.
Everyone knows the authentic college experience wouldn't be complete without a handful of drunken tales to one day bestow upon your grandchildren (or something like that). And needless to say, I had my fair share by about second year. However, having a job that requires so little movement, and so much "product knowledge" takes a tole on the waistline. Combined with late-night study sessions and a general dislike for the gym, you've got yourself a recipe for fat.
It was sneaky though, there was actually one summer where I managed to get back down to my original size, thanks to a grueling but awesome job on a honey farm. One month of physical labour and a whole lot of sweating, and I was back in my skinny jeans! It didn't last though, I went back to school in the fall and back to my job as editor of the student newspaper (which, as you can imagine, involves a lot of sitting, and a lot of drinking), and soon enough my pants were feeling tighter and tighter.
Four years is just long enough for those around you not to notice the difference in your size. And it's also long enough for you to know that there was always the option to exercise regularly — after all, the SFU fitness centre membership is included in your student fees, and there is no opting out of that club, so you might as well take advantage.
But I still have a fundamental hatred of jumping and giggling and sweating up a storm in the company of strangers. Especially when it gets you nowhere. I mean that in the sense that there's no instant gratification from a trip to the gym the way that there is at the end of a hike, or a game of beach soccer, or a day of wandering through a new city. After being at the gym, I feel fat and gross. And it doesn't help that a university gym is infested with varsity athletes (i.e. girls who can wear gym shorts that resemble leggings cut off at the very base of the butt cheeks because they're on the basketball team).
So that about takes us up to now. I don't live in Vancouver anymore, so there's no one around to remember me when I had a body built for a bikini, but I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to start doing something before it's too late. With that, I was given a chance to try out my roommate's gym for free, and the first step with these folks is to come in for a session with a personal trainer. Boy, was I in for a treat.
I was under the impression that this gym was bilingual, but from the moment I sat down with Bassem, I knew my French language skills were going to be put to the test. He would ask me a question in French, I would respond in English (usually this is the easiest way to sway a conversation into the language of your choosing), but then he would just keep at it with the French. Not only was about to embark on a totally new experience, but I would also be getting a very odd vocabulary lesson.
Let's just say, I have a new found respect for anyone who's ever been tortured — and, I suppose, any Hollywood celeb who ever "let herself go" and had to get whipped back into shape. There is nothing else quite like being coached to keep going (Fun Fact: in French they chant, "Courage!" at you too keep you from passing out) while simultaneously feeling like your body is going to just give up, no matter what you are telling it to do, and all the while having flashbacks to elementary school as someone mispronounces your Anglo name with a special shrillness only the French can pull off.
I also know plenty of students who never gained a pound while in university, and a few who lost a bunch of weight while pursuing higher education, so I guess it's probably a crap shoot. Nevertheless, I want to whinge about my woes, so sit tight, and let me take you through my trip from a size 5 to a size 10 in only four short years!
Back in 2005 when I first decided to take the plunge into higher learning I was working as a shift supervisor at Starbucks — a job I'd held for four long years, and one that kept me on my feet and constantly moving. It, combined with the cost of living in The Most Beautiful Place on Earth, also kept me so poor that I survived mostly off of Starbucks prepackaged lunch items I had to pick out of the trash at the end of my closing shift.
The sandwiches, you see, contain ingredients like mayonnaise, and therefore could not be donated to homeless shelters the way the day-old baked goods were. No, and we were also forbidden from handing them out to the local homeless people (Vancouver has more than you can imagine), for fear that these less fortunate souls be industrious and decide to sue said coffee company for feeding them food that made them ill.
At first we would just take them out of the pastry case at the end of the day, but once they had installed cameras, it had to be documented that we indeed were placing them into the trash can and not "stealing" them. But I digress, the point is this: I was skinny and I didn't even know it.
I gave up this job, though, as I was off to bigger and better things! I also had this naive notion that I needed to give school my full attention, something I wouldn't be able to do with a part-time job keeping me down. So, at the start of my first year, I had a student loan in the bank and only my classes to keep me occupied.
Eventually, this predicament got old; I didn't know how to be a student, I hadn't been one in almost four years, and I quickly learned that a student loan in one lump sum, disappears real quick.
The job I found in my first year was at a small, privately run liquor store in the bowels of Burnaby. It was a lazy job and my coworkers and I soon found ourselves drinking on shift. It started out innocently enough: finishing off the dregs from a tasting done in-store that day. Then we began helping ourselves to the free samples attached to the booze bottles as a means of inciting customers to pick that particular product. Eventually, though, we were just buying drinks and hanging out in the office until a customer meandered through our door, causing the bells to tinkle and signaling to us that someone had to get up.
Selling alcohol while inebriated is a lot easier than you'd think. In fact, I'd argue we were friendlier and more sociable while intoxicated, having long chats with our most-likely-a-little-drunk-themselves customers. People buying booze really don't have any right to tell you off for smelling like alcohol — after all, you were probably just brushing up on your product knowledge.
Everyone knows the authentic college experience wouldn't be complete without a handful of drunken tales to one day bestow upon your grandchildren (or something like that). And needless to say, I had my fair share by about second year. However, having a job that requires so little movement, and so much "product knowledge" takes a tole on the waistline. Combined with late-night study sessions and a general dislike for the gym, you've got yourself a recipe for fat.
It was sneaky though, there was actually one summer where I managed to get back down to my original size, thanks to a grueling but awesome job on a honey farm. One month of physical labour and a whole lot of sweating, and I was back in my skinny jeans! It didn't last though, I went back to school in the fall and back to my job as editor of the student newspaper (which, as you can imagine, involves a lot of sitting, and a lot of drinking), and soon enough my pants were feeling tighter and tighter.
Four years is just long enough for those around you not to notice the difference in your size. And it's also long enough for you to know that there was always the option to exercise regularly — after all, the SFU fitness centre membership is included in your student fees, and there is no opting out of that club, so you might as well take advantage.
But I still have a fundamental hatred of jumping and giggling and sweating up a storm in the company of strangers. Especially when it gets you nowhere. I mean that in the sense that there's no instant gratification from a trip to the gym the way that there is at the end of a hike, or a game of beach soccer, or a day of wandering through a new city. After being at the gym, I feel fat and gross. And it doesn't help that a university gym is infested with varsity athletes (i.e. girls who can wear gym shorts that resemble leggings cut off at the very base of the butt cheeks because they're on the basketball team).
So that about takes us up to now. I don't live in Vancouver anymore, so there's no one around to remember me when I had a body built for a bikini, but I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to start doing something before it's too late. With that, I was given a chance to try out my roommate's gym for free, and the first step with these folks is to come in for a session with a personal trainer. Boy, was I in for a treat.
I was under the impression that this gym was bilingual, but from the moment I sat down with Bassem, I knew my French language skills were going to be put to the test. He would ask me a question in French, I would respond in English (usually this is the easiest way to sway a conversation into the language of your choosing), but then he would just keep at it with the French. Not only was about to embark on a totally new experience, but I would also be getting a very odd vocabulary lesson.
Let's just say, I have a new found respect for anyone who's ever been tortured — and, I suppose, any Hollywood celeb who ever "let herself go" and had to get whipped back into shape. There is nothing else quite like being coached to keep going (Fun Fact: in French they chant, "Courage!" at you too keep you from passing out) while simultaneously feeling like your body is going to just give up, no matter what you are telling it to do, and all the while having flashbacks to elementary school as someone mispronounces your Anglo name with a special shrillness only the French can pull off.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
mbo vs. vegetarianism
At some point in my early teenage years I decided to stop eating meat. I was probably about 14 or so, and I'm pretty sure my best friend at the time also decided to stop eating meat — power in numbers! Nothing original there, I think there are lots of teenage girls who go through vegetarian phases, until some evil-doer comes along and tempts them with a big pile of fragrant bacon. I'd compare it to the number of young women who tell their parents they want to be a veterinarian when they grow up.
My youthful vegetarianism lasted four — count 'em, four — whole years, until one day I was sitting in a McDonald's with my friend Kellen. He was happily devouring a tray full of cheeseburgers and I was probably staring at him, making him feel self-conscious enough to persuade me to join him in his carnivorous delight. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was not bacon that acted as my gateway meat, but Chicken McNuggets, with all of their glorious dipping potential and tantalizing sauces.
The funny thing is, I don't think it was the meat that I was really drawn to. Once I discovered there were highly suitable, soy-based "chicken" nuggets available (Schneider's Au Naturel anyone?), I bought them instead, even though I ate meat. But, as a 19-year-old preparing for a backpacking adventure around Europe, it was even more practical to give up this vegetarianism thing if only because it is so inconvenient to travel with dietary restrictions. Some may call this lazy, but it's a proven fact that human beings will usually take the path of least resistance.
As I got older, I still found myself eating vegetarian meals frequently because I enjoyed them (and because I don't like cooking meat), but I just couldn't seem to commit. I still ate meat, it was just easier. I've never believed that people shouldn't eat meat, I'm just fundamentally against the mass production of animals for human consumption. If people weren't meant to eat meat, they wouldn't have the teeth and digestive enzymes to facilitate this action. Animals who are herbivores by nature don't go around telling other herbivores to stop eating chickens and cows — they just don't eat the stuff.
So now, after many years as a "flexitarian" (a clever term for us sometimes-veggies) and a weekend trip to visit a vegetarian friend in Ottawa, I've decided to take the next step in my relationship with meat: I've stopped eating it full stop. No chickeny snacks consumed while inebriated, no bacon sneaking into my cream-based pasta sauces, no meats period. However, don't let me climb up on that high horse yet — I am still eating seafood, which makes me a pescetarian, not a vegetarian, but how many non-English majors are familiar with that term?
All in all, I haven't really made that big of a sacrifice, and the more I think about meat and how much I dislike preparing carcasses for consumption, the less I miss it. I'm not about to give up eggs and dairy though. I think becoming a vegan, while insanely restrictive and possibly unhealthy, may give you super powers (I saw Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, I know how these things work), but I also think it is way harder to give up all things animal-related than it is to cut out meat. Seriously, eggs and dairy are in EVERYTHING. Plus, you can't fake cheese, it's just not the same.
As good as a vegan restaurant like Aux Vivre (in Montreal) is, I still don't think I'll ever go vegan, it is way too complicated. Instead, I'll keep looking out for ethical options when it comes to eggs and dairy, and if I one day find myself with access to a farm where I know that the animals were treated with respect, I just might decide to eat their meat. For now though, I'm gonna stick with this no meat business (and possibly give up the seafood, too) and keep naively hoping that my efforts might impact the way meat is farmed — or at least I might lose a few pounds: I bet you don't know many fat vegetarians!
My youthful vegetarianism lasted four — count 'em, four — whole years, until one day I was sitting in a McDonald's with my friend Kellen. He was happily devouring a tray full of cheeseburgers and I was probably staring at him, making him feel self-conscious enough to persuade me to join him in his carnivorous delight. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was not bacon that acted as my gateway meat, but Chicken McNuggets, with all of their glorious dipping potential and tantalizing sauces.
The funny thing is, I don't think it was the meat that I was really drawn to. Once I discovered there were highly suitable, soy-based "chicken" nuggets available (Schneider's Au Naturel anyone?), I bought them instead, even though I ate meat. But, as a 19-year-old preparing for a backpacking adventure around Europe, it was even more practical to give up this vegetarianism thing if only because it is so inconvenient to travel with dietary restrictions. Some may call this lazy, but it's a proven fact that human beings will usually take the path of least resistance.
As I got older, I still found myself eating vegetarian meals frequently because I enjoyed them (and because I don't like cooking meat), but I just couldn't seem to commit. I still ate meat, it was just easier. I've never believed that people shouldn't eat meat, I'm just fundamentally against the mass production of animals for human consumption. If people weren't meant to eat meat, they wouldn't have the teeth and digestive enzymes to facilitate this action. Animals who are herbivores by nature don't go around telling other herbivores to stop eating chickens and cows — they just don't eat the stuff.
So now, after many years as a "flexitarian" (a clever term for us sometimes-veggies) and a weekend trip to visit a vegetarian friend in Ottawa, I've decided to take the next step in my relationship with meat: I've stopped eating it full stop. No chickeny snacks consumed while inebriated, no bacon sneaking into my cream-based pasta sauces, no meats period. However, don't let me climb up on that high horse yet — I am still eating seafood, which makes me a pescetarian, not a vegetarian, but how many non-English majors are familiar with that term?
All in all, I haven't really made that big of a sacrifice, and the more I think about meat and how much I dislike preparing carcasses for consumption, the less I miss it. I'm not about to give up eggs and dairy though. I think becoming a vegan, while insanely restrictive and possibly unhealthy, may give you super powers (I saw Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, I know how these things work), but I also think it is way harder to give up all things animal-related than it is to cut out meat. Seriously, eggs and dairy are in EVERYTHING. Plus, you can't fake cheese, it's just not the same.
As good as a vegan restaurant like Aux Vivre (in Montreal) is, I still don't think I'll ever go vegan, it is way too complicated. Instead, I'll keep looking out for ethical options when it comes to eggs and dairy, and if I one day find myself with access to a farm where I know that the animals were treated with respect, I just might decide to eat their meat. For now though, I'm gonna stick with this no meat business (and possibly give up the seafood, too) and keep naively hoping that my efforts might impact the way meat is farmed — or at least I might lose a few pounds: I bet you don't know many fat vegetarians!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
mbo vs. unemployment
Ever since I was 12 years old I have had a job of some sort. Actually, I got my first job when I was four, but as it turned out, I wasn't destined to be a model or a child actress (although, I'm proud to admit that my episode of 21 Jumpstreet is now on Netflix). Until last August, I had gone 14 years without ever having been unemployed — sure, the first two years I only worked summers, and the next three I only worked evenings and weekends, but I always had gainful employment, and like so many before me, I believed that a post-secondary educations would only help my odds of finding work. How wrong I was.
I gave up my job editing the student newspaper partly because I made the foolish mistake of dating a coworker based solely on the fact that he was into me and I was lonely. It turned out, what was an enjoyable friendship translated into a disastrous relationship, and after we broke up, being around this guy made me even more enraged than when we were dating. You'd think I wouldn't be compelled to give up a sweet (paying) job that fit my class schedule so perfectly, but every time some new contributor brought up the fact that the aforementioned editor and I dated (conveniently, none of them new that our "relationship" last less than three weeks, and who was telling them anyway?), it made me want to get that much further from the whole incestuous office. The fact that he shared an apartment with two other editors in the building complex where I and another editor lived didn't help much either.
I was sad to leave that job and i missed the camaraderie of production night every week, but between my student loans and a couple of shifts at the honey farm where I worked for the past three summers, I managed to stay afloat. Having met someone amazing on a trip in the spring, and having no great reasons to remain in Vancouver, I moved to Montreal at the end of August where I planned to finish up the last two classes of my undergraduate career over the internet while I got a feel for the city and maybe scouted out a few potential jobs.
I don't regret my decision to move to Montreal before my degree was finished, it was good to see the city when it was still warm and walkable. And I even got hired as an assistant/paralegal at a small law firm downtown — unfortunately, I might have accepted the position a little too hastily, overlooking the fact that the two lawyers who hired me neglected to even look over my resume before meeting with me, and then attempted to throw me into a job I had very little qualification for, without training me properly. The girl I was meant to replace didn't even bother to show up on my first day (she was supposed to train me that week) because she had an interview. The fact that she was leaving without even having found a new job (and that she didn't care enough to wait out one more week at this one) made me realize that this was probably going to be an extremely thankless job. I quit after one day and they never even paid me.
If I had stuck it out at that law office (and i might have been able to, had that chick showed up to train me) I wouldn't have been able to fly home to write my last two final exams, spend Christmas with my family and friends, and attend my brother's wedding in early January. This was all well and good since I don't know when I'll be back in Vancouver again, but as soon as my exams were done, I started wondering how I was going to make a living. Without a lot of connections in Montreal, I was going to have to work harder than ever before to find a job — and for the first time in my life, I wanted to find something permanent, possibly even related to my field.
Unfortunately, it turns out none of my experience or my degree actually qualify me to do more than sell stuff. And my level of bilingualism is a hard sell as I doubt anyone believes that a girl from B.C. can speak decent French. I know that if I were actually immersed in a French-speaking environment my skills would improve ten fold, but so many of the entry-level jobs I've been looking at involve phone conversations and I'm terrified of trying to understand quick-talking French Canadians without the aid of their hand gestures!
So now I am on week number three of sitting around surfing job sites with a lap full of cat, and noting how palpable my level of desperation is becoming. At first I was only applying for interesting communications-related positions. Now I'm crossing my fingers that one of the 10 Starbucks I applied at might give me a call back. I'm trying not to get too discouraged yet, after all, my cousin still owes me another $2000 towards the car I sold her back in December and my cost of living is so low I can actually make that last for a few more months. Of course, that doesn't count my massive student loan debt, or the credit card bill I racked up over funemployent Christmas. But at least I won't be homeless just yet!
The worst part of all this is I know if I moved to an English province I would improve my chances of finding employment significantly — after all, I'm pretty sure I can answer the phone in my first language — but I don't want to leave Montreal just yet. I like that I get to speak the language I spent so many years learning, and there is so much more culture here: better bars, better shows, better shopping, and it's so much closer to some of the greatest cities in the world (including ones I have yet to visit). Still, I don't know how much more of this I can take. I guess I'll just have to start working on my novel, who knows when I'll be able to get away with spending this much time sitting at my computer wearing pajamas ever again?
(From February 7, 2011)
I gave up my job editing the student newspaper partly because I made the foolish mistake of dating a coworker based solely on the fact that he was into me and I was lonely. It turned out, what was an enjoyable friendship translated into a disastrous relationship, and after we broke up, being around this guy made me even more enraged than when we were dating. You'd think I wouldn't be compelled to give up a sweet (paying) job that fit my class schedule so perfectly, but every time some new contributor brought up the fact that the aforementioned editor and I dated (conveniently, none of them new that our "relationship" last less than three weeks, and who was telling them anyway?), it made me want to get that much further from the whole incestuous office. The fact that he shared an apartment with two other editors in the building complex where I and another editor lived didn't help much either.
I was sad to leave that job and i missed the camaraderie of production night every week, but between my student loans and a couple of shifts at the honey farm where I worked for the past three summers, I managed to stay afloat. Having met someone amazing on a trip in the spring, and having no great reasons to remain in Vancouver, I moved to Montreal at the end of August where I planned to finish up the last two classes of my undergraduate career over the internet while I got a feel for the city and maybe scouted out a few potential jobs.
I don't regret my decision to move to Montreal before my degree was finished, it was good to see the city when it was still warm and walkable. And I even got hired as an assistant/paralegal at a small law firm downtown — unfortunately, I might have accepted the position a little too hastily, overlooking the fact that the two lawyers who hired me neglected to even look over my resume before meeting with me, and then attempted to throw me into a job I had very little qualification for, without training me properly. The girl I was meant to replace didn't even bother to show up on my first day (she was supposed to train me that week) because she had an interview. The fact that she was leaving without even having found a new job (and that she didn't care enough to wait out one more week at this one) made me realize that this was probably going to be an extremely thankless job. I quit after one day and they never even paid me.
If I had stuck it out at that law office (and i might have been able to, had that chick showed up to train me) I wouldn't have been able to fly home to write my last two final exams, spend Christmas with my family and friends, and attend my brother's wedding in early January. This was all well and good since I don't know when I'll be back in Vancouver again, but as soon as my exams were done, I started wondering how I was going to make a living. Without a lot of connections in Montreal, I was going to have to work harder than ever before to find a job — and for the first time in my life, I wanted to find something permanent, possibly even related to my field.
Unfortunately, it turns out none of my experience or my degree actually qualify me to do more than sell stuff. And my level of bilingualism is a hard sell as I doubt anyone believes that a girl from B.C. can speak decent French. I know that if I were actually immersed in a French-speaking environment my skills would improve ten fold, but so many of the entry-level jobs I've been looking at involve phone conversations and I'm terrified of trying to understand quick-talking French Canadians without the aid of their hand gestures!
So now I am on week number three of sitting around surfing job sites with a lap full of cat, and noting how palpable my level of desperation is becoming. At first I was only applying for interesting communications-related positions. Now I'm crossing my fingers that one of the 10 Starbucks I applied at might give me a call back. I'm trying not to get too discouraged yet, after all, my cousin still owes me another $2000 towards the car I sold her back in December and my cost of living is so low I can actually make that last for a few more months. Of course, that doesn't count my massive student loan debt, or the credit card bill I racked up over funemployent Christmas. But at least I won't be homeless just yet!
The worst part of all this is I know if I moved to an English province I would improve my chances of finding employment significantly — after all, I'm pretty sure I can answer the phone in my first language — but I don't want to leave Montreal just yet. I like that I get to speak the language I spent so many years learning, and there is so much more culture here: better bars, better shows, better shopping, and it's so much closer to some of the greatest cities in the world (including ones I have yet to visit). Still, I don't know how much more of this I can take. I guess I'll just have to start working on my novel, who knows when I'll be able to get away with spending this much time sitting at my computer wearing pajamas ever again?
(From February 7, 2011)
mbo vs. "real" winter weather
Well kids, I'm finally back in Montreal after an extended and gluttonous sojourn back in my hometown, and just as I'd expected, it is actually winter here. None of this "eight degrees and raining" shit, I'm talking lows of my minus 27, and that doesn't include the wind chill! It is really and truly the Great White North, and I am coming to realize that survival in this type of weather is an adventure all on its own.
I knew full well what I was getting myself into when I packed up my car and drove across this great land last summer, but nonetheless, this kind of cold takes some getting used to. While I've spent a few wintery weeks in Saskatoon and Ottawa, it doesn't change the fact that where I come from minus three is reason enough to stay home until conditions improve. This province of Frenchies has developed a thicker skin — I'm not sure if the kids here have even heard of a Snow Day. They just pack on another layer of long Johns and buck up.
I wasn't weary when I stepped off the plane last Monday, however, I was excited at the prospect of a "real" winter this year — although I was a tiny bit frightened when the pilot announced that the temperature in Montreal that day was a balmy minus 20. Instead of dreading the days of hat hair and clammy mitten hands, I started dreaming about the awesome winter sports I never had the chance to get good at: in Vancouver, if you want to ski/skate/snowboard/snowshoe you have to fork over your hard earned cash just to access a snowy landscape. Here, all you need is the equipment, Mother Nature provides the rest.
Upon the advisory of my friends I decided to start small and cheap and invested in my very first pair of used ice skates. As a child I avoided figure skates like the plague, firmly remembering tripping over their pointy picks like Bambi's uncoordinated cousin. I would endure the humiliation of lining up in front of the "Men's" counter at the local indoor rink with all the little boys in my class so that I could rent a pair of hockey skates instead of their prickly counterparts. And besides, I always enjoyed the fact that my foot size is smaller in guy world (although it never made sense that men would want any part of them to be represented by a smaller number).
The local used sporting goods store had a limited supply at this point in the year and there were only figure skates in my size, but in the name of new adventures (and their 15-day return policy), I picked up a tidy-looking pair of snow-white figure skates and headed down to the well-frozen canal 15 minutes away from my apartment.
On this particular afternoon it was a nasty negative 19, but the thing about these frigid temperatures is that they don't allow for much in the way of cloud cover — the sun was shining brightly and it gave us the motivation to head out and slide around on the ice. As we marched towards our destination we started to second guess our decision to play outside. It was damn cold and down on the canal we'd be exposed to harsher winds.
By the time we got down to the makeshift rink my nose was running in a way I'm not proud of and I didn't have any tissue in my purse. While the boys stuffed their feet into solidified skates, I stood in the background and remembered something my dad once taught me: there is in fact a way to blow your nose sans Kleenex, but it's not pretty. "Desperate times ..." I thought to myself, and as I lay a finger alongside my nose to block one nasal passage, I blew with all my might. The relief I felt was worth the disgusting act, and since it takes some time to get frozen skates on your feet, no one had witnessed my shameful actions. Now it was my turn to trade in my warm boots for my newish skates and see if I could not make a total ass of myself on.
I managed to get my feet into my skates, and I even remembered how to propel myself forward even though I haven't been on the ice in nearly a decade. I didn't fall down once. That's right, not once. There were a few good wobbles, my butt stayed at butt level and my knees maintained a bruise-free status. Unfortunately, after less than 20 minutes I started to lose feeling in my legs and feet, so I proposed we throw in the proverbial towel and head home for some hot water+whiskey+honey&lemon. But not before breaking into the lobby of a building to warm up some.
The next day temperatures plummeted to negative 27 and I decided that my skating adventure was brave enough for now: I left the house for no more than three minutes at a time and spent the day job hunting under an electric blanket. And by "job hunting" I mean watching Netflix and drinking tea.
(From January 26, 2011)
I knew full well what I was getting myself into when I packed up my car and drove across this great land last summer, but nonetheless, this kind of cold takes some getting used to. While I've spent a few wintery weeks in Saskatoon and Ottawa, it doesn't change the fact that where I come from minus three is reason enough to stay home until conditions improve. This province of Frenchies has developed a thicker skin — I'm not sure if the kids here have even heard of a Snow Day. They just pack on another layer of long Johns and buck up.
I wasn't weary when I stepped off the plane last Monday, however, I was excited at the prospect of a "real" winter this year — although I was a tiny bit frightened when the pilot announced that the temperature in Montreal that day was a balmy minus 20. Instead of dreading the days of hat hair and clammy mitten hands, I started dreaming about the awesome winter sports I never had the chance to get good at: in Vancouver, if you want to ski/skate/snowboard/snowshoe you have to fork over your hard earned cash just to access a snowy landscape. Here, all you need is the equipment, Mother Nature provides the rest.
Upon the advisory of my friends I decided to start small and cheap and invested in my very first pair of used ice skates. As a child I avoided figure skates like the plague, firmly remembering tripping over their pointy picks like Bambi's uncoordinated cousin. I would endure the humiliation of lining up in front of the "Men's" counter at the local indoor rink with all the little boys in my class so that I could rent a pair of hockey skates instead of their prickly counterparts. And besides, I always enjoyed the fact that my foot size is smaller in guy world (although it never made sense that men would want any part of them to be represented by a smaller number).
The local used sporting goods store had a limited supply at this point in the year and there were only figure skates in my size, but in the name of new adventures (and their 15-day return policy), I picked up a tidy-looking pair of snow-white figure skates and headed down to the well-frozen canal 15 minutes away from my apartment.
On this particular afternoon it was a nasty negative 19, but the thing about these frigid temperatures is that they don't allow for much in the way of cloud cover — the sun was shining brightly and it gave us the motivation to head out and slide around on the ice. As we marched towards our destination we started to second guess our decision to play outside. It was damn cold and down on the canal we'd be exposed to harsher winds.
By the time we got down to the makeshift rink my nose was running in a way I'm not proud of and I didn't have any tissue in my purse. While the boys stuffed their feet into solidified skates, I stood in the background and remembered something my dad once taught me: there is in fact a way to blow your nose sans Kleenex, but it's not pretty. "Desperate times ..." I thought to myself, and as I lay a finger alongside my nose to block one nasal passage, I blew with all my might. The relief I felt was worth the disgusting act, and since it takes some time to get frozen skates on your feet, no one had witnessed my shameful actions. Now it was my turn to trade in my warm boots for my newish skates and see if I could not make a total ass of myself on.
I managed to get my feet into my skates, and I even remembered how to propel myself forward even though I haven't been on the ice in nearly a decade. I didn't fall down once. That's right, not once. There were a few good wobbles, my butt stayed at butt level and my knees maintained a bruise-free status. Unfortunately, after less than 20 minutes I started to lose feeling in my legs and feet, so I proposed we throw in the proverbial towel and head home for some hot water+whiskey+honey&lemon. But not before breaking into the lobby of a building to warm up some.
The next day temperatures plummeted to negative 27 and I decided that my skating adventure was brave enough for now: I left the house for no more than three minutes at a time and spent the day job hunting under an electric blanket. And by "job hunting" I mean watching Netflix and drinking tea.
(From January 26, 2011)
mbo vs. holiday party hosting
What better way to catch up with friends while in town than hosting a small get-together? Whip up some snacks, bring out the nog (soy and regular, of course, we're in Vancouver after all), and put on the holiday playlist 'cause 5-10 of your nearest and dearest are coming to town. And by town, I mean my parents' basement where I will be holed up until mid January.
There's not a whole lot of space in this little suite, so I had to be discerning with the invite list, knowing full well that I could end up with as few as two guest — I count as one, right? Still, I hoped for the best and set the start time for my shindig a little on the early side so friends could come straight after work.
My first guest arrived around 5:45 and chatted with me while I continued to cut up pita bread and display cheese and pâté on an old serving platter I found out in the garage. We had some of the food but decided it would be best to pour the first rum and eggnogs of the evening and play a game of Scrabble (also rescued from the aforementioned garage) so that there would still be food left when the others arrived.
Of course, pulling out the board games meant turning our backs on the table of temptations and leaving it vulnerable to a little black and white kitty who also came home for the holidays. I couldn't blame him, truth be told pâté is essentially the grandfather of cat food, and he was probably wondering why I'd gone and put the Fancy Feast out with the humus. As I laid down my next triple word score and Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby" blared out of my MacBook, there was suddenly a lightening-quick licking sound coming from two feet behind me: kitty had made it to his goose liver goal.
Maybe I should have thrown it out. Maybe I should have at least cut the kitty tongue tainted portion off of the little pâté loaf. But instead, I failed as a hostess: I had a good laugh and made my only guest, and subsequently the only vegetarian on the guest list, promise not to tell anyone about my little indiscretion. Perhaps it was my passive aggressive response to my lack of visitors, or maybe just a sign that I'm becoming a bona fide crazy cat lady, unable to discern between right and wrong where feline activities are concerned.
All in all, the evening wasn't a total disaster: the five of us filled the 10' by 8' den perfectly, and we made a valiant effort to eat as many cookies and crackers as we could. The two friends who arrived first headed off toward the SkyTrain in a sleepy and satiated stupor, and my other guest and her boyfriend brought me to a private hipster dance party in the basement common room of a building on Powell Street where we were treated to a live heavy metal show before the dancing and '90s pop music began. Complimentary earplugs were passed around, and being a straggler, I was last to stick my hand into the bag of aural protection. Unfortunately, there was only one plug left and my other ear had to suffer, but it was good fun and I can safely say it will probably be a long time before I hear "MMMBop" following a death metal performance.
(From December 21, 2010)
There's not a whole lot of space in this little suite, so I had to be discerning with the invite list, knowing full well that I could end up with as few as two guest — I count as one, right? Still, I hoped for the best and set the start time for my shindig a little on the early side so friends could come straight after work.
My first guest arrived around 5:45 and chatted with me while I continued to cut up pita bread and display cheese and pâté on an old serving platter I found out in the garage. We had some of the food but decided it would be best to pour the first rum and eggnogs of the evening and play a game of Scrabble (also rescued from the aforementioned garage) so that there would still be food left when the others arrived.
Of course, pulling out the board games meant turning our backs on the table of temptations and leaving it vulnerable to a little black and white kitty who also came home for the holidays. I couldn't blame him, truth be told pâté is essentially the grandfather of cat food, and he was probably wondering why I'd gone and put the Fancy Feast out with the humus. As I laid down my next triple word score and Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby" blared out of my MacBook, there was suddenly a lightening-quick licking sound coming from two feet behind me: kitty had made it to his goose liver goal.
Maybe I should have thrown it out. Maybe I should have at least cut the kitty tongue tainted portion off of the little pâté loaf. But instead, I failed as a hostess: I had a good laugh and made my only guest, and subsequently the only vegetarian on the guest list, promise not to tell anyone about my little indiscretion. Perhaps it was my passive aggressive response to my lack of visitors, or maybe just a sign that I'm becoming a bona fide crazy cat lady, unable to discern between right and wrong where feline activities are concerned.
All in all, the evening wasn't a total disaster: the five of us filled the 10' by 8' den perfectly, and we made a valiant effort to eat as many cookies and crackers as we could. The two friends who arrived first headed off toward the SkyTrain in a sleepy and satiated stupor, and my other guest and her boyfriend brought me to a private hipster dance party in the basement common room of a building on Powell Street where we were treated to a live heavy metal show before the dancing and '90s pop music began. Complimentary earplugs were passed around, and being a straggler, I was last to stick my hand into the bag of aural protection. Unfortunately, there was only one plug left and my other ear had to suffer, but it was good fun and I can safely say it will probably be a long time before I hear "MMMBop" following a death metal performance.
(From December 21, 2010)
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