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)
Tuesday, February 8, 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)
mbo vs. the scary stomach-holding-in panties!
It's that time of year again — the time when holiday parties require us to don our festive finest and pose for a myriad of unsolicited pictures. And for those of us who have let ourselves go over the course of our four-year undergraduate degrees, the thought of all these pictures can be terrifying. Thankfully, the baby Jesus himself created a little thing called Spanx.
Some time about four or five years ago, I ventured to try on a pair of knock offs that had recently been released at the lingerie store where I worked. Of course, what I didn't realize is that they do sweet fuck all for skinny girls — the kind of girl I used to be. I'm only a size 9-10 now, nothing close to obese, but I used to be about a 4-5, and at 5'9" that still makes a difference.
I was dismayed with my first attempt at smoothing any and all lines that appeared under my tightest frocks: I slipped into the elastic sausage casing and found no difference in my reflected appearance. Now, some four years and 30 pounds later, I am faced with the prospect of formal wear and digital documentation galore and it seems only logical that I try these miracle-working pantie-impostors yet again.
Being fun-employed at the moment (I wrote my very last final exams only days ago), I don't have any work parties to attend, and since I had to travel back to my native Vancouver for exam-writing and Christmas with the Fam, I unfortunately missed my boyfriend's office do back in Montreal. I suppose his coworkers will just have to go on believing I'm fictional until next year.
Sure, there will be a few informal gatherings and some facebook albums with unflattering expressions of "Holiday Cheer", as well as the ever over-hyped NYE to look forward to, but this year I also have my one and only sibling's wedding to attend mere weeks after stuffing my self with turkey and nog.
I have the dress — it's an emerald green satin affair with a thick black sash around the waist. But satin is not the most forgiving fabric, and it only covers one shoulder to boot. I desperately want to avoid spending money and time shopping for something newer, but I'm also dreading the idea of a professional photographer capturing my newly formed shortbread storage spots.
So my most recent foray into the world of scary-stomach-holding-in panties proved dreadfully disappointing. The department store I chose to peruse had Spanx in stock, but nothing between size small and 3X. I believe this to be a testament to their effectiveness and will continue to scour the city for more rewarding merchandise selections.
In the meantime, I did manage to traumatize myself sufficiently by trying on some similar products by other manufacturers. My initial reaction? I have found something more horrifying than trying on swimsuits. Ill-fitting spandex numbers meant to squish your body fat up, down, left and right, in some attempt at giving you a more flattering silhouette can only be described as nightmarish.
Perhaps I wasn't trying on the right size, maybe I should have accepted the help of the 50-year-old Indian saleswoman working the fitting room, or it could be that better lighting combined with the dress I intend to wear over top of these things would have led me not to retreat to my parents' basement in a puddle of tears. Either way, I'm going to need a serious boost to my self esteem if I plan to brave the hosiery section again soon. That, or I need to sneak a flask of whiskey into the change room with me next time.
(From December 15, 2010)
Some time about four or five years ago, I ventured to try on a pair of knock offs that had recently been released at the lingerie store where I worked. Of course, what I didn't realize is that they do sweet fuck all for skinny girls — the kind of girl I used to be. I'm only a size 9-10 now, nothing close to obese, but I used to be about a 4-5, and at 5'9" that still makes a difference.
I was dismayed with my first attempt at smoothing any and all lines that appeared under my tightest frocks: I slipped into the elastic sausage casing and found no difference in my reflected appearance. Now, some four years and 30 pounds later, I am faced with the prospect of formal wear and digital documentation galore and it seems only logical that I try these miracle-working pantie-impostors yet again.
Being fun-employed at the moment (I wrote my very last final exams only days ago), I don't have any work parties to attend, and since I had to travel back to my native Vancouver for exam-writing and Christmas with the Fam, I unfortunately missed my boyfriend's office do back in Montreal. I suppose his coworkers will just have to go on believing I'm fictional until next year.
Sure, there will be a few informal gatherings and some facebook albums with unflattering expressions of "Holiday Cheer", as well as the ever over-hyped NYE to look forward to, but this year I also have my one and only sibling's wedding to attend mere weeks after stuffing my self with turkey and nog.
I have the dress — it's an emerald green satin affair with a thick black sash around the waist. But satin is not the most forgiving fabric, and it only covers one shoulder to boot. I desperately want to avoid spending money and time shopping for something newer, but I'm also dreading the idea of a professional photographer capturing my newly formed shortbread storage spots.
So my most recent foray into the world of scary-stomach-holding-in panties proved dreadfully disappointing. The department store I chose to peruse had Spanx in stock, but nothing between size small and 3X. I believe this to be a testament to their effectiveness and will continue to scour the city for more rewarding merchandise selections.
In the meantime, I did manage to traumatize myself sufficiently by trying on some similar products by other manufacturers. My initial reaction? I have found something more horrifying than trying on swimsuits. Ill-fitting spandex numbers meant to squish your body fat up, down, left and right, in some attempt at giving you a more flattering silhouette can only be described as nightmarish.
Perhaps I wasn't trying on the right size, maybe I should have accepted the help of the 50-year-old Indian saleswoman working the fitting room, or it could be that better lighting combined with the dress I intend to wear over top of these things would have led me not to retreat to my parents' basement in a puddle of tears. Either way, I'm going to need a serious boost to my self esteem if I plan to brave the hosiery section again soon. That, or I need to sneak a flask of whiskey into the change room with me next time.
(From December 15, 2010)
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