...

2012-01-05T14:16:00.001-05:00

I work at 6 tonight, which means I should be ready to leave at 5:20. Which means I'll be racing out my house at 5:27, swearing under my breath as I hear what sounds like the elevator stopping at every floor before mine and even passing it. Returning to me in what will seem to be 20 minutes later only for me to finally reach ground floor, or as we say in Quebec, rez de chaussee, to have to repeat the ordeal as I've probably forgotten either my metro pass, phone, float or shirt (uniform, as I of course didn't leave naked). The thoughts as I run through the Palais de Congres to reach my metro, with heels smacking resounding clickities, the way heels do in large echo-y halls, drawing the looks of, well-everyone, will be: Why the hell do I not plan to leave earlier? The answer I'll replay in my head is: This job is not worth a 45 minute commute.

I HATE COMMUTING. I have a deep-seated issue with the idea that I have to take from my precious time the journey it takes to get somewhere I don't want to be. I chose jobs specifically for how close they were to my home. Hell, I was self-employed, working from my house to eliminate that whole concept. Well, when I decided to make Montreal my start-over place, I just took the first job I applied to. This job at first was nothing to me, a starting point to build from, to distract from, to give me some sense of productivity in my broken mess that I was.

October passed with mixed emotions marking a year spent as a Montrealais, as well as a year spent with Benedicts (my job). Other than Terri's Grill, the restaurant I started working at when I was 15 in Veteran, 9 months is the longest time I'd invest into anything not of my own. Benedict's however,became an anchor and community. I tried hard to resist that. I tried hard to not make relationships, to not care, to not respect the people which make up it's world. I could make easily double the wage in tips working a few steps from me, in the Old Port. Hell, I could work in the restaurant below my building, the only commute being the obnoxious elevator ride down-I would never have to go outside. Knowing this, I lie to myself about my French not being good enough, or I tell myself I'll just make it through another season, or start school first, or, or, or...The actuality is, they are family. They are my friends, they are my village of Veteran which knew me and loved me and watched me grow up and helped me and hurt me even, but were always there for me. I'll keep insisting that leaving at 5:20 is sufficient time to get there, I'll keep running foolishly to my metro to still arrive late with a mouthful of sorries and excuses that the metro broke down, as no job is worth a 45 min commute.

2012-01-04T21:18:00.004-05:00

I put an offer on a house today. I looked at three and chose the one on university street, a one bedroom apartment in a divided 1875 mansion. My ceilings would be 13 feet high and I'd be next door to campus. Funny, I take more time choosing a pasta sauce. I know what I want when it comes to property, I know what to look for and it's likely the only area in my life I can confidently say that.

I love houses. I love owning them, I love fixing them, I love loving them. I grew up in a 1900 farm-house come dump, the same farmhouse my father grew up in. I loved that dump. I even loved the late 1970's reno which stripped it of its charm, leaving in its place green shag and loud wall-papers of burnt reds and yellows. It was in that house I invented beds with heat vents and became comforted with the sound of stormy winds whistling through unsealed windows. It was there I learned the all-purpose uses of foam insulations,(It truly is "great stuff")O the nights I spent picking at those poorly-foamed in windows,reading the stars and waiting for sleep to come, and then the days followed being yelled at for doing it. ...I have no idea where I am going with this.

This sale is heavy weighted for me. It means much more than a financial investment or a home. This is me pushing myself again. Standing, and making things move...in my life...for me. I bought houses when no one said I could, and when no one said I should. I humiliated myself in front of bankers and realtors, men humored by my smallness and youngness and girlness, some angered at thinking they were wasting their time, and then angered again when they realized I couldn't be manipulated to their advantage, towards their listings. It was such a vulnerable place for me. A place of need, a place of me needing others to help me get something I wanted. I hate needing people. I hate being inadequate on my own, of having to surrender myself to another, not knowing where my place ends and theirs begins, not being able to pay back a service, being indebted to another. It's a huge flaw of mine and part of my fucked-up-ness. This is me facing that again, pushing for something not knowing if I can get, asking the help of others, bankers and realtors, to help me and work for me not knowing if their work will be rewarded. The only certainty is the certainty that nothing will come if I don't ask, if I don't set my mind, my stubbornness to something, exhausting every possibility. This is me forcing a change, desiring something and chasing after. This is me testing myself, seeing if I am strong again-seeing if I am me again.

2011-10-26T19:17:00.004-04:00

Pumpkin spiced latte, dimly lit corner, and looking sexy in new tan heeled boots guilt-bought by mom during her recent visit. Laptop, check. Water, check. Little cakes, check. Everything in place for me to deal with the mountain of neglected reading, (some of my readings are posted online, hence the laptop). I'm so distracted. And the swirly feeling in my head and shakiness of my hands are telling me that my decaf is not exactly decaf (that's going to be an awesome add to the cocktail of cold medicines I'll be taking tonight).

There is a couple adjacent to me staring each other down. A good-looking couple, the man, his arms crossed, also seemingly distracted when he's not looking through his companion. The woman has started to talk and gesture, breaking their silence. The man's disinterest remains unchanged. His eyes however, begin to roam.

*sigh* Congested sinuses are not making the prospect of diving into the dissection of Freud's Oedipal Complex by differing feminists any less daunting. I am taking three classes this semester. Three classes which could not be more affecting to me. My Philosophy course, Intro to Feminist Theory, and two Religious Studies courses: Jesus of Nazareth and Bible and Western Culture. Each class leaves me emotionally, spiritually and intellectually beaten down.

I suppose I don't have the time or focus to detail why that is, one day perhaps I will but for now I guess I must read.

2011-10-23T22:13:00.004-04:00

In lofty pools darkness lays
the unsuspecting feign
hearts of silence its essence soft
Loud shards of glass they prey
Mother's dead, father's hurt, brother lies while sister turns
hollow are the walls that seal them all away

Quiet is the night when lonely is the terror
fire lights the phantom up
its secret in its halo
who is here to unlock this death
this path they call straight and narrow
when all that's seen is
truth hiding behind a veil

Armies fight a family war
moralities upright vengeance
screaming adults with prayers that mar
turning back meant only for cowards
no one can beat this
this battle in the fringes
as a handful of patriots stand
looking only for their salvation

2011-10-05T01:00:00.005-04:00

I live in perpetual self hatred over the things that spew from this mouth of mine. My brain, my actions are in disconnect. Self control: non-existent. Forever shuddering over past words, memories of things said and done and written. No take-backs. Can't run fast enough, can't run far enough. Recent past, the whispers shout back at me. Just so fricken tired of being misunderstood.

2011-09-29T02:54:00.003-04:00

I suppose being uninspired at 3am with only 6 hours remaining before needing to leave for class is not the best time to recommit to blogging. sigh. I googled "how to become more interesting"-I google everything. One of the ways of becoming more interesting was to blog at least one sentence a night. Does that mean I am now three times more interesting than I was 3 minutes ago? woohoo! You're also supposed to take a picture a day and post it to flicker. That sounds too ambitious for me, so I guess I just peaked.

10 Things I've done in the 3 months of my blogger silence:

1. Applied and got accepted into Mcgill.
2. Became a rock climber for a month.
3. Walked past my place of work-I've been there a year and never once walked past it, there's an incredible Szechuan place one block down.
4. Bought groceries (that's monumental, it's been I don't know how long since I had food in my fridge).
5. Ate an oyster raw.
6. Accepted an invitation to eat dinner in the dark served by blind people.
7. Experienced a moment where my professor referred to her 3 year old son as an it so as not to imprison (it/him) through gender classification.
8. Read my first Kierkegaard piece-rendering me speechless.
9. Booked an eye appointment in french, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
10.Watched John Oliver live. Some girls love rock stars, some love geeky British political comedians.

2011-06-27T02:49:00.010-04:00

I've been told to relax. Several times, by differing people in differing circumstances, but said in the same way. Yet, I don't know how. I've seen too much and not even a pocket amount of what the actual reality is in this world. I just don't know how. How does one relax when so many people suffer and hurt and starve and die in this world. How does one shut their eyes and purse over and over to the pain which is living in the streets outside their door in one of the richest countries in the world, let alone to ones war torn and famished. I've learned to walk by pretending to not see, to wear an appearance of too busy to hear. It's overwhelming. I used to look to a higher power to trust that my sadness and prayers were being heard that faith would deliver the tools needed for the marginalized and impoverished to soar victorious over their addictions, and circumstances. I used to offer a listening ear, and arms to embrace the un-embraceable, I used to give my time to look into eyes and try to share pain and let them know that they were at least not alone in their journey.

Now I do so little. Now I've become cynical and hard and uncaring and unbelieving. There is no solace with my self-put blinders, no calm in my busy-ness to the mission of Paige, no joviality or even peace in the forced absence of thought of others less fortunate than myself. And therefor I cannot relax. I don't know how to not blow things out of apparent proportion, (according to those telling me), I don't know how to not feel that the responsibility of this world weighs in on me or the guilt which comes with my lack of doing, or lack of acknowledgement.

It's a trickle down effect in the world of Paige: world issues and things of justice and human rights. They silently weigh and build and effect and stress even when I'm trying so hard to not be concerned. They hide in every crevice and shadow and whisper to me at the most inappropriate times. I become a wet blanket in times of fun and carefree, I'm the cliche rain on the cliche parade. I'm sorry to those that this has affected. I know that it's unhealthy in theory, I suppose that there are under-lining issues and this is perhaps a mask to something else, even Jesus himself said there would always be the poor as he defended Mary breaking her jar of priceless oil over his feet. Or perhaps, just maybe, I should be affected and moved, and even allow myself to let others to be made uncomfortable too. But, I really don't know; and therefor, I can't yet relax.

2011-06-07T23:30:00.017-04:00

I just want to lie limp for a little bit. An exhausted shell of a balloon, flabby and stretched too much from too much air forced into it. Oh God, I was that tight inflexible balloon unable to stretch more, unable to hold all that was being forced into me. I crashed down crazy-like and am just now finally "getting it" understanding what the hell just happened. How was I able to break, and not just break, but shatter like the glass I had only just touched at work the other day. The most flexible have breaking points; the most seasoned athlete suffers from over-use injuries. That glass at work, all I did was touch it and it exploded everywhere, embedding tiny shards of glass all over me and the restaurant. But how many times was that glass heated and iced before it came to that point where just a touch decimated it. Pressure's a crazy bitch.

I broke; I shattered. I committed hara-kiri publicly disemboweling myself for an end. There was no logic in the choices made, just as there is no rhyme or reason to the balloons hurl-y decent. But I am done with punishing myself. I am done with trying to raise the dead; I am done with explications and painting pictures in the rain with sidewalk chalk. I am done, and I am just going to lie limp for a little bit.

2011-05-17T23:04:00.004-04:00

It's regret that I feel. that I can't get over. It's my panic. this heavy breathing, my weak arms. my desperation. my loss of will. I don't want to move. i don't seem able to move. Every breath is too much work. Every thought hurts-it propels me to another memory. The paintings in my mind, the portraits, the photos, the stories, the laughter that probably never was is all i hear. The happiness remembered is a perfect childhood impossible to be had, full of swings and butterflies and pretty dresses and smiling happy mothers and supporting husbands. Little girls playing happy together with fluffy kittens, enough for everyone, cake that doesn't make you fat or sick from eating too much. my regret, my not so distant past colouring itself beautiful through (its) rose-coloured lenses. it's what haunts me, freezes me, it's the nails pinning me down to this city, to this empty apartment, this empty routine.

I wake, but don't even know why. I go to class only to be annoyed and pissed by everyone around me. I'm a tennis ball and the tiniest word spoken out of place sends me reeling. I have hate and indifference. things I spose you shouldn't make public. This isn't a happy post, but, well, I guess I'm not really happy.

I wish I could say all these things I feel and have nothing come back to regret. to not care whose hurt, whose shocked, my frustration is a stuttering 3 year old unable to communicate simply. my eye's been twitching for several weeks now, a consolation that at least my body is sympathetic to the stress this sadness has caused. No reason to feel so sad, no reason to be unmoved. There's never really a reason.

2011-03-31T17:13:00.007-04:00

I met the Lebanese version of myself. She talked way too fast, shared way too much private information, and was endearing. I chuckle. She was a humming bird. Jumping from subject to subject, lowering her voice when saying things she knew were politically incorrect with eyes darting everywhere. I don't think she breathed let alone paused between the vast array of subject matter covered-relevant only to herself of course. And she was terrified to commit to renting my parking spot. Her nervousness was so obvious, the terror of making a decision was evident as her eyes even watered at the idea of choosing something so simple. She apologized profusely for not being able to decide and explained with too much detail how and why she's like that. Her attire-stylish, with what I am sure was toothpaste dribbled on the front of her quality-made coat. :)

I can't express the...glee? (Can I say glee? It's such a silly word for such a silly thing), but really glee in the encounter. Since meeting her, she has already texted me saying she's changed her mind and decided to take the space, and I'm certain the anxiety she's having over it is going to keep her up all night and she will end by calling or texting me tomorrow to over-apologize for changing her mind yet again. And yet with her, it's ok. She's a good person considering the needs of others over herself, to the point of ridiculousness.

My friend Alexandra once blogged, questioning how the world perceived her. It thoroughly intrigued me and has stuck in my head for years. I hadn't considered that people would actually see me differently than what I thought I had portrayed, that my intentions or personality could be misunderstood-(I've always kind-of walked with my head in the clouds, hence not making those considerations). Since then, I have been over-aware of the impression others leave and try to determine if my impression is comparable. Often the people I don't like, k let me re-phrase, can't stand, are usually people I've decided I must come across the same as. And that usually just ends up crippling me even more as I'm terrified to annoy someone to the extent that those people annoy me.

Meeting my Lebanese version has been water to my parched ego. I liked her. She was a tornado of words, juggling a world of things and expectations, so deeply involved in herself and her crazy world she forgets that no one else is in her head with her. That certain words or actions or segues must not be left out as those around her will just be lost. But not angrily lost or annoyed lost, but intrigued lost at this funny creature who talks way too fast, who thinks way too much and who should perhaps try yoga.

2011-03-24T23:15:00.005-04:00

My perspective has been dizzingly near-sighted. A child with it's nose pressed to the T.V. exhausting it's sight. Staring close, seeing only the minuscule details that the grand picture is lost on the tiny viewer.

Who would have thought my French classes could evoke such revolutionary realizations and awakenings. Niveau 4 with it's "changement de professeurs" so too the style and the approach to the delivery of grammatical structure and vocabulary. I went from dragging my feet through wrist-slitting childish games used to aid in the memorization of useless scripted dialogue one would never use to mind-hurling philosophical discussions of hopes and dreams and how Arabic music makes us feel. This school is schizophrenic with it's teachers and methods. I feel not much different than my 14 year old self and the time I spent the summer visiting my aunt and her bi-polar mental condition.

I really wish teachers didn't insist on trying to make learning fun. I hate these games, these wastes of my time. And then bring in the teacher whose trying to make learning fun AND meaningful. ugh. These last few classes I've been feeling I somehow tripped into career and life-counseling 101. I don't have answers for most of the questions asked, let alone in finding a way to say it in French. Questions pertaining to who we are, who we'd like to be, and things needed to get there. These questions resign me and I usually end up chuckling to myself as I play out in my head the classes response to how I'd really like to answer them. Anyways... I don't even know what provoked this "epiphany" of perspective, but it hit me strongly during class. I am so focused on the tiny details of my life that I'm going nowhere. I have no big picture. And it's only making time go by with no new results in my life. Perhaps I've been waiting for circumstances to direct and change my path. It's sort of what dragged me through 2010. I left the choices to be made by what was happening around me, I was just the ping-pong ball being swatted at by a billion of those little rackets. Now I just feel beat up-and lost in a dark corner under somebodies couch. Most likely to be drooled on by that somebodies cat. ;)

2011-03-19T14:40:00.004-04:00

There's a hole in our life which only poutine from a mall kiosk served on greased-soaked cardboard plates can fill. Or so I told myself as I chose to forget the all-ready prepared salad I had waiting for me at home in my fridge. It wasn't the first time I dined like this on a Monday in the sous-sol of a shopping centre on a twirly swivel chair which apparently requires a stronger core than I seemed to possess. (Insert moment to ponder the irony of the strong core needed to feed on hot dogs and poutine-those who some-what know me, know of my some-what weird obsession with pointing out true examples of irony and mentally shoving it in Alanis' face as apparently she didn't...like rain on your wedding day? Sorry Alanis, that's just bad luck).

The moment was a perfect clichéd stranger-at-bar-whisky-drowning-his-sorrows moment. It came complete with the aforementioned bar-stools and a compassionate ear behind the counter mopping the bar of it's ketchup and mustard left from previous clients. I love those moments when I'm perfectly alone. When it's just me. When my choices affect nobody else. There's a calm that settles and I relax. I was relaxed and open to what-ever came my way, and it lead to a most curious getting-to-know-the-Chinese-lady who served me my poutine and coffee. Even the coffee moment had a "Cheers-y-ness" in it (the "where everyone knows your name"), as I was delivered a perfect, "tired eh?" after accepting the coffee offered. I could have been in some sort of a Western movie, only my bartender was a 30-something Chinese woman specializing in fountain pop. We talked in glass-half-empty adages, covered the weather, the economy, and the difficulty for the Montraélais, with the forever growing high taxes and fees on everything and how even the poutine and hot dog industry's not recession-proof these days. I learned the fundamental differences between the Chinese in Vancouver and the Chinese in Montreal. I shared a bit of my life, she shared me hers with photos of her family. It was a pleasant moment.

I have so few of those moments as I care way the hell too much of what everyone wants and thinks of me. I can be sitting in the metro-train worried that I should have given my seat to someone else, or that I'm blocking someone on the sidewalk from getting around me. And these are just strangers, let alone my concern for the well-being of acquaintances, friends and family (in all actuality, my family gets pretty shafted on that level). My whole life has been an apology for taking the space perhaps better suited for somebody else. I apologize when stepped on, and for having to finish my thoughts in long-winded sentences. I think it's also why I talk so fricken fast, to avoid the person I'm speaking toos' discomfort of having to listen to me.

I'm forever trying to be one step ahead, gauging the ease and dis-ease of the person I'm with, that I'm never actually present in a situation. The amount of unseen and unnecessary pressure I put on myself is I'm sure equal to Wall Street trading and what makes me break down at the most awkward and odd moments-like unassuming french oral exams. I don't know why I'm like this, well, I have a few ideas, but by 33 I should really have put most of this behind me by now, but I am, and it's probably the reason strangers tell me to relax, or that I should try yoga. Yoga I have tried, relaxing and breathing deeply I have tried, but really nothing has on what dining alone, pressure free, in a food court has-msg, cholesterol and all. And on that note I think I'd better head for a run.

2011-03-13T03:05:00.000-04:00

I've received some unexpected encouragement with my writing which is really appreciated and pushing me to continue to make public my sorry, pathetic, and like-watching-paint-dry life. (I'm impressed that I'm finding such enjoyment in the act). It inspired me to write my latest entry which continued to garnish even more incredible encouragement. So thank-you everyone for taking an interest and your comments are all so appreciated.

Through-out my school years writing was this thing that seemed to hover and lurk around me. I felt labelled as "one who must write" early on by my community and teachers. The expectations I felt for achievement grew on me each year as I continually did especially well at written and creative projects. My work would often be entered in contests accomplishing a win of some sort, and when one is from a community of only 300 people, it's A) not a difficult thing to out beat competition and B) the tiniest of accomplishments not only get noticed but printed in the paper and celebrated by everyone, which has both positive and negative affects. Our town was so desperate to have its yellow-y pages of the Veteran Eagle filled that it didn't take much more than not missing a single day of school to get your name and picture printed on the front of it's page. That was definitely not an accomplishment of mine however-a perfect attendance, I rarely made a week with out not missing a day. I digress.

Whether these school-year achievements of mine (should one call them achievements) are an actual reality or just a miscued perception made by myself (and of course my mom), I seem to recall being in that paper lots, winning awards upon awards, year after year. (As a side note, I do however take very little credit as any successes I may have had are solely due to the highly competitive nature fostered in me by my dear father, (through the constant and necessary proving of my betterment over the "boy-child"), and my extremely doting and talented mom who was invested 110%behind all my endeavors-oh and we might as well toss in a desperate need for some sort of vehicle of escapism from crazy domestic dysfunction...some had drugs, some cut themselves, I had science fairs and poetry contests to win).

The thing about doing well in school when you're young is that it's, well, 100% not cool, and you risk getting beat up and shoved in lockers-Ok I don't think that ever happens outside of Saved by The Bell. I never did have to get intimate with any lockers or beat up, I was forced instead into a delicate juggle of feigning un-interest in the things which actually did interest me, pushing an attitude when there really wasn't one to be pushed, and of forever being disconnected from and hating the act of doing the things which I actually did well at. I programmed myself to hate writing, something I'm now realizing caused much confusion to me, it blocked me from expressing myself in a way I was actually able to express well in. It created a dichotomy of which I'm just now starting to be able to fuse together.

I've struggled with this silly struggle since child hood, the labeling of myself as a writer. Something I did well at-or so I've been told, and yet hated hated hated doing. For many adult years I pushed myself to try and do this thing I hated because I felt it was what I should do since I was kind of not bad at it and everyone told me I should-I usually do everything I'm told. It was like a chore, taking the garbage out, no enjoyment and only anger when having to do it. But this last year has been changing that. When I was beyond effed up, and amidst hair pulling craziness, writing emerged as my best friend, it was all that I could do to bring clarity to my upside down shaken world. It sorted my jumbled head, and laid out my heart in black and white when reason abandoned me and was nowhere to be found. I began to write alot this year, in a private blog I kept I allowed my pen to bleed for me and cry for me, to express for me. I wrote because I wanted to, because I needed to, and because I actually enjoyed to.

2011-03-10T23:28:00.004-05:00

I'm finding it amazing at how little changes from my day to day. I wake, school, work, sleep. My only gauge of consciousness through these turning months is the passing "niveau(s)" of my French class. Maintenant, je suis en niveau quatre. I'm stuck, and with the exception of moving forward with this language, I have done nothing else to show the passage of time. It's almost as if I'm preventing it from being seen. I say this because here I sit on the floor in my apartment I have still not furnished from November, looking at the same clothes, and the same (lack of) bedding strewn throughout my untouched studio. On a side note, I did finally get a shower curtain-and a few dishes. Sigh. Aside from my growing dark roots (retouched every 6 weeks), the tightness in my pants largely due to the self-medication of dairy and chocolate during my morning coffee break ritual, and I suppose the subtle appearance of fine lines, there really is nothing else to differentiate yesterday from today and last month from this month. And yet I've got this stubborness which is fusing my feet to the ground keeping me from changing a thing. I don't have a bed. I still sleep on a borrowed air mattress, and there's really no explanation for that. My clothes are showing signs of wear appropriate only for 1994. Thinking that my skirt was hiding the hole in my stockings, my boss most recently stated that he wasn't employing squeegee kids at his premise. *haha*

I don't know what to do. It's an imploding downward spiral. I hesitate to push through this change I created in my life. Staying in limbo is more safe, the smallest decision: a tiny household purchase, a new season outfit, it all shouts out a committment directed on another path, a path opposite than where it was initially directed. It shows time passing with nothing in me changing and my yesterdays getting more further and further away, a worn photograph album with faded faces and forgotten names.

I can't do it-move forward that is. I seem unable to pull myself from whatever's keeping me stuck. My past, guilt, shame, my billion unanswered questions and frustrations and anger. The baby steps I do manage to make seem more like ones of those treading in mud and not really moving forward but actually just creating more mud sinking me deeper, (and then stealing my rubber boot). *another sigh* I don't think I'm as depressed as I sound, it's probably meer laziness, but what ever it is, I'm still here, sitting on the floor in my old Port Montreal studio with the burned out lightbulbs still unchanged from the previous tenant. However, my roots are growing, my pants tight and I am able to conjugate french verbes in 5 different tenses.

2011-02-14T17:53:00.005-05:00

I'm so very tired of my daily life. Heres the gyst of my morning (I only have the morning, I got bored)

7:00 wake-up utterly exhausted,press snooze at 5min intervals until 7:15-7:30

7:30 remove self from bed in the least delicate of ways, panic sets in at the realization of having pressed snooze too many times,

7:31 stumble around aimlessly, decide to put water to boil for thermos, I got a thermos to take tea or coffee in as I was spending my possible future childrens' inheritance on bad cafeteria coffee. I actually as of late have only been taking hot water with me as I've been too unispired to actually grab a tea bag. Ya, I drink hot water.

7:33 shower-tell self I can save time by not shaving legs, decide to not shave legs,but end up shaving legs at last moment, swear under breath when I cut myself because of shaving sans cream in a hurry

7:45 tear the entirety of my closet out and stare blankly at it's contents strewn throughout my little home/room, wonder for a brief moment if my neighbor can see me parading around naked through my curtains, put everything on, take everything off AT LEAST once as the only thing I'm more tired of than my day is my overused wardrobe *sigh*

7:55 blow dry hair, make-up, put on boots, coat, scarf and mits, parfume myself,search frantically for keys and metro pass and race to the elevator calculating the minutes I'm going to be late and rehearsing in French my excuse for being late. One can really only use the old I-helped-an-old-man-cross-the street once..No really it happened and it made me like 20 minites late...he was really old...and really slow.

8:10 a make-sure search for phone before entering elevator,swear under breath when realized it's not with me. race back into apartement and search frantically under all the recently thrown everywhere clothes until phone is found...surprisingly almost always in the bathroom.

8:13 with phone, awkard elevator moment with several people not knowing where to look, check phone for time every 10 seconds,

8:14 try not to fall or run into anyone as I race to metro accross icy street,literally stampeded by thousands exiting said metro, say non merci to all french journals shoved in face and squeeze through those little bars with all my bags flinging round.

...ya, I'm feeling done with this entry for now.

2010-11-28T17:00:00.001-05:00

I don’t recognize myself anymore. The Paige before…I don’t know how the hell she did the things that she did. I am unable to make the simplest of decisions. I don’t have a shower curtain because I can’t commit to one I like. I flood my bathroom each morning, I’ve returned 2 and have lost hours searching bathroom stores for something so simple and necessary. I’m stressed over the smallest things. And people are noticing. I was told by a stranger that "yoga would do me good...to loosen me up a bit..." she wasn't referring to my flexibility.

I’m concerned: I’m broken; I’m outdated. I’m a typewriter missing pieces. Even if we can find salvaged pieces, is it really worth fixing? It’s a typewriter. Made obsolete by the computer, it’s not old or cool enough to be considered retro, and far from being a valued antique. Ya, I’m feelin' a little typewriterish lately, or a BetaMax, remember Beta? *chuckle*, insert moment of Hofer family pride here, The Hofers bought the VHS when so many others didn’t. Too bad soo sad Dafoe Family. (hehe)

Before last year…everything's vague. My life in Kamloops. Every now and then I’ll flashback or have waves of moments roll over me. It really is like waves, and the reaction of emotions are so strongly different, they collide, smash together, spray everything and then rush away carrying with them all little traces of footprints.

I wonder when this despicable feeling sorry for myself will end? It’s crippling. It grabs on you and pulls you down. You don’t even realize it has a hold on you until you find yourself fighting to climb back up and you realize then just how far you've slipped down.

2010-11-12T12:04:00.004-05:00

I'm hungry. I'm Waiting for my friend to find me. I'm sitting on a trendy armless chair with circles in it's pattern in the Palais de Congres. It's a connecting place. Metro Place D'Armes is before me, and an escalator going up connecting to the Hall Vigor behind me. I'm only meters from my Apartment. We are going to eat Duck in Chinatown. I love Duck. They make me happy when alive and they taste so good when they're, well, not so alive. I know a terrible terrible terrible thing to say for a person who once was vegan.

to marathon or not to marathon, that is the question

2010-11-08T03:22:00.019-05:00

So there's this guy who has been trying to get me to run a marathon for cancer. A marathon-42 kms and something that's been on my bucket list for several years. Forgive me for using that term, bucket list, I personally hate it since Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman made it pop culture vernacular and I have sworn to do whatever it takes to evade it from ever crossing my lips. It's not so much that it's a term made popular by a mediocre movie only good for passing time while in-flight when the only other option is Sex in the City 2; but that it's a term popular most notably among our North American Baby Boomers. It's one of those terms I feel you must be 50 plus to use and when used you say it with a twinkle in the eye because you feel you just said something especially witty. But you didn't say something especially witty. You just watched a movie-and not even a good movie. You can't even pass it off as your own creative term, the world has seen this movie-hell it's got Jack Nicholson in it.

Admittedly I have a particular angst and even vengeance towards the term, and have made my own personal conclusions that people who choose to use it are unoriginal, uncreative, and lack intelligence. Sorry for being blunt, I have no intentions of critically offending any bucket-list-term-users. In all honesty, the real reason is one person whose personality clashes with mine used it, and I can't get the image of that person and his twinkling baby-booming eye out of my head, ruining the term and it's users for life.

Anyways, I digress, back to marathon running for cancer. I was at work, I am a part-time waitress working only a few days a week. I had just finished and was talking with the other waitress, she was explaining to me how sore she was after having gone for a run for the first time in a long time. She figured it was 10K. A customer at a table behind us was apparently listening and asked her where she had ran. She proudly detailed her route to him and he countered with an, "oh that's only 7 K, I've run that same route". Haha! I thought that a particularly jerky thing to interject being an uninvited, eavesdropping stranger.

Despite our new-found listener, we continued talking the subject, I mentioned I always wanted to run a marathon, and for a while was disciplined to run at least 3 times a week, my run long run getting to 20km. Our (lonely) fellow-running-eavesdropper piped up again, this time ripping open his coat like superman to reveal one of those badly designed, poorly fitted, team shirts with something like "run for cancer" written and said with an unconstrained exuberance of how I should join their team to run for cancer in Rome, in March.

That excited me, the whole situation seemed somewhat "predestined", (shall I be so bold as to use such a christianese word borrowed from a time in my life when I once over-spiritualized everything?) I talked more with our high-on-endorphins super-hero-running-man and after gleaning a few more details from him, I gave him my email address and was determined that by March I'd be in Rome running 42km of some of the worlds most historic cobblestone. (Maybe by then, my conscience will have matured and I will feel compelled to return the pieces of marble belonging to various ancient ruins I had auspiciously stolen in 2007-most pieces unfortunately belonging to Greece).

Even with all the signs that this is the opportunity I've been looking for-I'm free, in an almost cliche 'eat-pray-love' sort of way; there are people who speak English on the administrative level (a rarity with this city); it's a GREAT way to meet friends-something I don't have within a 100km radius; and it's raising money and awareness for cancer-my dearest and oldest friend just lost her new husband and father of her new baby to Cancer, it was tragic beyond words and tears and I was too far removed, unable to be of any support for her, this is extremely timely and relevant to me, an opportunity to LIVE STRONG for her and her family on the other side of the country. There's really too many pluses and reasons to list, but I've still been struggling with whether or not I am able to do it, and it has nothing to do with the distance.

That guy, who I presume would end up being my mentor has been emailing me regularly, not letting me back down-it's making me almost somewhat suspicious that I'm perhaps involved in some sort of multi-level-charitable-organizational-marketing thing-is that even possible? I think I have to raise over $6000.00, which does seem daunting, especially since I don't know anyone in this city to pander to. I'll have to be creative and professional about the fund-raising tactics, penny and bottle drives probably won't cut it. Then of course there's the time investment. I need to invest time to train as well as time to fund-raise. I begin full-time French courses tomorrow and work 3-4 nights a week, and although I may not know many people here, I do have one relationship I value and this would be tough to juggle it all.

It's been about 4 days since I started to write my thoughts down about this opportunity. I was really torn and my head was having a hard time wrapping itself around the idea of being a part of an organization which raises funds and awareness for cancer through running marathons in different areas of the world. Ive spent far too many years in a world where fat pastors and Gods greedy "anointed" ask for remuneration for "God's" work while said work involves flying around the world being a Jesus superstar, regurgitating scripted preaches with lights low and music mooded right for the thousands of paying seekers of truth to get emotional goosebumps. (note: I don't believe this applies to all pastors and ministers, I have so many dear friends truly being lead with a heart of gold broken for the broken willing to lay their lives down for people they consider lost, however, I have also seen men and worked alongside men, whose hearts are lead by ambition and through charisma and rhetoric climb the ladder of peoples trust and make themselves national and international names spreading their agenda of worship-me belief system. oops..too harsh? I think not. But I guess that's for another entry).

So digressing again, I have decided to start at least with the introduction meeting, it's tonight just down the street from me. It really isn't every day one gets the opportunity of having a team of endorphin-filled, friendly english speakers backing you in a city of millions, encouraging you, not letting you quit before crossing that important something from your list of things to do before kicking the bucket. Or as Jack Nicholson famously termed-The Bucket List.

2010-11-05T22:06:00.005-04:00

My moods are a fat kid on a springy trampoline souped up on 7-11 candy and slurpees. I don't know if I blame hormones, circumstances, or mental instability. 2 days ago I was giddy-giddy. I had excitement and happiness bubbling inside me. You could not bring me down. I wore a smile that stretched ear to ear. I'd realize I was smiling in places no one else smiled, like the bus and metro, and that would just make me laugh thinking how out of place my happiness was, which would only make me more out of place, a person smiling to herself is one thing, but a person laughing to herself, well that's just crazy. Montreal people don't smile, they look at you, they study you, but they don't smile. That day I worked, I was having a blast with myself, my tables loved me, I had people wanting to be my friend, I had people buying everything I suggested, from drinks to appys to desserts. My tip percentage was over 25.

The day previous I couldn't have been any lower. I had just moved into my new apartment in Old Montreal. It's beautiful really. A studio, so small, but the location can't be beat. I have stainless steel appliances, granite counters, a curvy shower curtain rod, and instead of a wall, I have windows.

But I was scared. I was discouraged. Even-though I was paying $300/month less than what it normally rents, I was still paying $600 more than my previous room-mate situation. Because it was a lease transfer, I had to deal with the fact that the previous tenant was allergic to cleaning and the Pepto-Bismal-coloured spill splashed all over the kitchen floor initially thought to be yogurt refused to be wiped up. (Only after hours of chiseling away at it with my only knife has my floor returned to the beige (now somewhat scratched) ceramic tile it is meant to be-still can't figure out how something so pink could be so ridiculously hard to remove).

I was having a temper tantrum. My cabinets and wood floors are cherry-wood coloured, vs the more chic and preferred espresso-(I would have also taken white. Those that know me know my love for insane-asylum all-over white colour schemes). My stainless-steel appliances are mis-matched-a Frigidaire fridge and stove, but GE microwave and dishwasher; my kitchen faucet-boring; my light fixture missing it's cover; closet space-non-existent. My wall of windows, instead of looking out into Montreal's gorgeous skyline from the 17th floor, I look into a disheveled court-yard of 2-year-old construction paraphernalia and neighboring 17th floor apartments and offices.

I sound like a spoiled rotten brat, and perhaps I am, but here's my justification: I gave my life, every thought, every dollar into my houses. I own houses. I own nice things-in BC. I lost my 20's to hard work and shoulder breaking responsibility better matched for a 40 year old. I owned businesses, I made a fool of myself in-front of bankers and realtors not taking no for an answer. I moon-lighted as a waitress, I worked 7 days a week for years straight. Pushing forward my husbands dream of being a real-estate mogul, and rich. My part of the deal, my share in this was the buying power. I had no buying power outside of the houses, no freedom for a specialty coffee, or new shoes. But I was able to make somewhat convincing arguments on my apron-front fire-clay sink, my industrial kitchen faucet, my vintage light fixtures purchased from flea markets. And now here I am in my executive studio apartment only 2 years old on the 17th floor above the Hilton in the Old Port of Old Montreal, powerless again. I have no control over this unexciting floor plan, the cheap expensive-looking appliances, the cabinet colour which was out-dated at-least 7 years ago. I can't even sand down and repair the hardwood floor which seems to have been raped with scratches.

The worst of it all is that this stuff upsets me, that I'm bothered by such pettiness, that people live in the streets warmed by cardboard and I'm frustrated with the rust at the bottom of my fridge and dishwasher because the previous tenant didn't look after them, that my general "feelings" of happiness can be moved based on the style of my kitchen faucet.

I have so many reasons and excuses for why these superficial things bring me down. I blame my childhood home, a mere shack of 2 bedrooms for a family of 6, falling down and in constant disarray. I reason with my childhood, my adolescence and my young adulthood worth of summers lost due to the building of a house which would never see completion. My houses, my home, my style, I fought for my freedom to express through them. It took years to get to the place where I was willing to risk the consequences of spending my money, to exert my preferences, my opinion, to ask for what I wanted and to not quickly take it back with a mouthful of sorries to quiet a controlling and easily angered husband. Something so silly was so important. Something so silly represents everything though of who I am, and how I spent my life, the battles fought and lost and the few that were won. There's a sadness now as I stare at my naked windows, sitting on a borrowed air mattress-my only furniture, realizing that 6 provinces away in a storage room in a home I spent 5 years tearing out every nail every last piece of plaster and old electrical wire sits a decades worth of my things, dishes, furniture, curtains, my contribution to a marriage broken, to a partnership severed. To hopes, to dreams, to goals incomplete.

That day that I was happy, I don't know if I chose to be happy, or if my brain just decided to see things differently. But I was happy because I felt in control again. I felt the world was once again in my hands and the options endless. That circumstances and partners, and bosses no longer had control of me, that I was making the choices, and the choices were endless. I was free. I may have lost so much, half of me may have died even, but there was half of me living and that half part of me which was dead I was no longer going to let drag me down.

2010-11-05T21:20:00.003-04:00

Sitting in a Starbucks all by myself. Completely unsatisfied. Miserable even-perhaps. I am a wining crybaby. I am a certain friends mother when we moved her and she didn't know where she wanted the computer desk. We moved it to the Kitchen corner, "no not there, because of blah blah blah..." so we moved it to the living room, "no not there, because of blah blah blah...," so we moved it downstairs...same thing, we moved that stupid desk to every possible place it could fit, and she was never satisfied. She only knew where she didn't want it, she had no solutions to offer, only complaints, she was unhappy with every option, she was unpleasable. I am that woman lately. An eye keen to every problem, to every small nic in the paint. I can point out every problem in every situation. That is not who I am.

I am exaggerating-I hope. I'm too proud to admit that sort of weakness in me. It's one of my most hated characteristic in an individual-that which I just described. I am creative, happy, adventurous, I take extreme pride in my out-of-the-box problem solving skills. I am completely non-conventional and only see possibilities. So what happened? Why would I dare compare myself to the lady barking out no's to the people kind enough to move her desk from wall to corner to room from room? That I do not know. All I know is that here I sit, lack luster. Blah. I drank my coffee too fast and my gingerbread cookie which was chosen after an inappropriately long time, should have instead been the chocolate espresso brownie I had initially planned on ordering.

2010-10-23T20:16:00.001-04:00

It has been my struggle with honesty that has defined me and trapped me. My too-eager-willingness to reveal all, using mere strangers, casual friendships and acquaintances as soundboards; lacking self-respect I throw my pearls to swine letting the deepest of my heart's revelations be trampled along with my dignity. The lack of honesty is my other extreme. I lie to myself-always. I lie to those I love-too often. My not wanting to hurt another, in sparing another ones feelings, I cover my true feelings. I build a bridge of saran wrap over a chasm of hurt not expressed. On the surface it's all good, on the surface the tips of my lips are lifting upwards, one looking closer can see the cynicism in my eyes, the frown lines, the stain of tear lines edged into my cheeks. My hurt is deep.

I don't know why I feel in this moment the need to cling to my hurt. I want to be justified to the world with this hurt. I want acknowledgment that I was fucked over, that life was unfair to me. I want a safe arm around me letting me cry sorry for myself. Why? That I don't get. I never wanted anyone to see me weak before. I needed before to prove my strength, my independence, my unending endurance to let my ass be kicked and still always land on my feet. As a child I had one of those blow-up bozo the clown punching dolls, I was that clown. I was the knock-down puppet for ones amusement, punched repeatedly in the face but always smiling. Now I'm pissed off. 15-20 years of Christianity and grown-ups telling me to turn the other cheek, telling me to ward off bitterness-I am pissed off. I want to hang on to this hurt, this pain, to not get up, to wallow and cry. To let the world see that it killed me, that my sweet spirit couldn't get back up after this last blow.

hmmmm...too honest again?

8 Years

2009-11-15T15:15:00.015-05:00

It's been 2.5 years and she is still unable to express in her own words the 8 years lost that she can never get back.

Intervention-Arcade Fire

The king's taken back the throne.
The useless seed is sown
When they say they're cutting off the phone
I'll tell 'em you're not home

No place to hide
You were fighting as a soldier on their side
You're still a soldier in your mind
Though nothing's on the line

You say it's money that we need
As if we're only mouths to feed
I know no matter what you say
There are some debts you'll never pay

Working for the church
While your family dies
You take what they give you
And you keep it inside
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

I can taste the fear
Gonna lift me up and take me out of here
Don't wanna fight, don't wanna die
Just wanna hear you cry

Who's gonna throw the very first stone?
Oh! Who's gonna reset the bone?
Walking with your head in a sling
Wanna hear the soldier sing

Working for the Church
While my family dies
Your little baby sister's
Gonna lose her mind
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

I can taste your fear
It's gonna lift you up and take you out of here
And the bone shall never heal
I care not if you kneel

We can't find you now
But they're gonna get their money back somehow
And when you finally disappear
We'll just say that you were never here

Been working for the church
While your life falls apart
Singing hallelujah with the fear in your heart
Every spark of friendship and love
Will die without a home
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"
Hear the soldier groan, "We'll go at it alone"

Her Lost Independence

2009-11-12T18:03:00.015-05:00

4 days. She has 4 days of each week to conquer the world, to learn new things, to enrich her life and the lives of those around her. She has all of everything that Montreal has to offer to see the formerly mentioned achieved. And yet, *sigh*, she knows no one to do any of those things with. Her crutch, her husband, works hours completely opposite of hers, leaving for work as she wakes, his weekend is her working days. It is so much of what she has wanted for so many years: time unhindered by any outside force. Being able to be alone. And to be able to be alone guilt-free, not having the feeling that someone dear to her is needing her time and thoughts, no one or thing being neglected due to such a selfish longing, as desiring complete alone-ness.

And complete alone-ness she has. Having always prided herself on her stark independence, her need to do everything in life without the aid of others, her ability to fill her life with duties and life's-demands to keep everyone on the sidelines looking in, she is surprised at how quickly her foundation crumbled the moment the one person invited in this life of hers was momentarily removed. She never realized how much she depended on this one person until he was no longer there. How many times she had inadvertently blamed him, even resented him, he was her scape-goat for all the dreams that she had not yet accomplished. She knows those theories are askew. She just needed someone or something to blame. She herself can't take the fall for her "lack-of". She is strong and independent. With her desire of complete alone-ness now in hand, her truth is realized, she is not that strong independent girl that she once was-who once awed her little community with all her talents and achievements. She is now half of who she and her husband are together, and without the other half, she finds it difficult, intimidating even, to simply just walk alone in this new city of hers.

She is thankful for this lonely time in her life. It is what she has deeply desired for many years, her chance to prove to herself that she is still that strong and independent girl with all the potential she had in her 1st 20 years. The startling realization of just how much of this "prized" independence she has lost has caused her to stumble a little. But she is regaining bits and bits of who she was through the tiny baby steps of simply walking out of her condo alone, of each run through the streets and parks of Montreal. Perhaps it will next be a movie, or a book in a coffee shop. But until she has conquered leaving her house with confidence and purpose, she will have to be ok for not having yet conquered the world. After-all, it really is only 4 days.

A Little Melancholy and Infinite Sadness

2009-10-28T18:50:00.010-04:00

A friend pointed out how long it's been since her last update, and she was surprised. Her days have been full with time rushing past her. Finding the time and discipline to write on a daily basis seems impossible, and as her schedule becomes busier, she finds it difficult remembering why it was so important for her to attempt the daily practice. She re-reads what she past wrote and is embarrassed and tempted to shut out all evidence that she ever even tried to write. Holding herself to higher standards than the possessed ability, it is discouraging for her to see the reality of the level she is at. It's been a life-long issue with her, covering most details of her life. A form of perfectionism, but not exactly perfectionism. It's frozen her from attempting many things. The hatred of seeing something created or performed by herself when what she created or performed is not the best. It's an evil disease. Mixed with a very undisciplined life, she has plateaued and has not achieved many new things. The fact that she continues to write, displayed for her world to see is a testament of some growth. A more mature view that only time and practice and dedication to the art is what makes a person great is becoming more a part of her thinking than the former expectation that it should just magically "happen".

She's always admired people who could learn in the open. When she danced, she is certain no one knew the torture she endured with each practice, each performance. The freedom of being able to express in dance and shut the world out is like no other thing, but she had early in life sabotaged herself from ever allowing herself to commit to becoming a good dancer. Having decided that since she was less "skilled" or had less "technique" than her contemporaries, her philosophy in such instances was always that it is better to fail from not trying than to try only to discover mediocrity.

There was nothing more hated to her than mediocrity. A far reaching pendulum of extremes, settling for average in anything was worse for her than failing miserably. She would prefer a "D" in assignments over a B. Even an A- was ego bruising, as it showed that she tried hard and yet still did not come out at the very top.

She's in her 30's now, and this mind set is finally dissipating. She's now allowing a more true reflection of herself to stare back at her. She is not only more forgiving to this, but also embraces it.

...and she continues to write.

Poor Shrinking Brain

2009-10-01T19:59:00.012-04:00

Mentally exhausted, she discovered today her poor 31-year-old brain, which has always served her quite proud in the past, is no spring chicken. It was one of those "mirror gazing" days, one where one pulls, pokes and thoroughly investigates themselves to discover just how far they have let themselves slide. An over-done scene in movies, it's the one right before the hero or heroine fervently wish they were their younger self-or someone else, only to fall asleep to find upon waking that not only was there some fantastical storm, but also that their wish came true. Of course we all know the storyline after that, narrated with an over abundance and not really funny slap-stick humor and mediocre acting, the star of the show quickly learns their needed life-changing lesson and tries desperately to revert back to their plain and old self with their new-found morals and happy-to-be-me feelings in tote.

In her situation; however, there was no wrinkle counting, flab jiggling, or cellulite hating, just a strong realization during her first language lesson that her brain hurt. As if she sprained or overextended it. It wasn't ready for the mental calisthenics she decided to just throw it into. Poor shriveling brain, it didn't even know what was coming. During those 2 measly hours, it became an overstuffed backpack with an owner insistent on cramming 5 more items that physically the laws could not allow fit. Excess information bulging, tearing at the seams of her ears and pressuring her eyes, she's certain an inevitable tear is slowly letting loose each new piece of "parler francais" information that she paid to learn, like a tiny hole in a bean bag chair-only you don't realize that there is a hole until you sit in it and plunk flat on the ground with bean-bag stuffing shooting haphazardly away from you in all directions.

A new compassion for ADHD sufferers becomes her-she understands now. She's sure she nodded at the right times, maybe even repeated the appropriate things back, but the whole experience is nothing but a haze. She has notes with no remembrances of how they got there. She does recall a few occasions towards the end of her one-on-one tutor-age where she caught herself just staring blankly at the guy, realizing that an answer was due and she was clueless that he was even speaking. Her poor brain would then scramble to figure out what he had just spoken to her-which was to her brain a sprint after an already uphill marathon. It was pure exhaustion.

So she's not sure if today was a success or not. Phil told her that when learning a language you are supposed to to try and forget everything you learn, to relax and when you need it, it will all come back...if that's the case then she's sooo ahead in this game as she doesn't even have to TRY to forget, it's forgotten whether she wants it to be or not!

The Whys to Montreal

2009-09-30T00:46:00.016-04:00

The last few months, the word "unhinged" has frequently been used (by herself) when describing her life. Her life has been anything but cookie-cutter, and the pieces to this puzzle have not been fitting together. It's like someone dumped 2 or 3 puzzles into a box and the creator of this puzzle (seemingly a 3 year old) is determined to make the pieces fit even though one piece is part of a red ball of wool being played with by a cute fluffy kitten, and the other a piece of an hot air balloon. She is hoping that none of the pieces have been lost, broken, drooled and chewed on-as is the fate of most puzzles pieces at the hand of an ambitious toddler.

One of her challenges with living in Montreal is remembering the whys. There are so many strong arguments opposing this move, the loudest sometimes being her pride-dampening 10-hour-long graveyard shifts waitressing at a near-by diner; as well as, the responsibilities of a life just upped and left almost a year ago, with email after email brimming with another unexpected expense-the latest being the carport of her once loved home falling down and in bad need of an expensive and most-likely ugly quick fix.

The logic of the move to Montreal may not be sound to those looking in, (especially to her doting mom). She herself admits she too has struggled most strongly, and has been enticed many times to simply return to the life well known to her in beautiful (and warm) British Columbia. Many times she has convinced herself that the mistakes she made in the past, be-it with relationships or business, would not be remade, and she'd return a stronger and smarter and more business-savvy girl. But then her WHY'S are recalled-sometimes they come simply and easily like a well-worn and loved memory or other times more poignant by a husband with a slightly stronger grasp and remembrance of how things really were. No matter how they are recalled, but that they are recalled, is what's important. And so here are the current WHYS of why she stays in Montreal as well as a few future goals she is hoping to have achieved from this city:

1. TO GO FROM CANADA TO ARGENTINA ON A MOTOR-BIKE NEXT AUGUST.
note: living in Montreal really is not helping with this goal, it actually brings more hurdles than if she were to stay in BC, the biggest one being the Quebec motorcycle license laws. BUT that goal puts a time limit on their life for the next 10 months making it unreasonable to do many of the other things she would deem more productive with her time, like a business venture or school, or relocating to another more exotic place-say being neighbors to much missed friends in the Cayman Islands.

2. LEARN FRENCH
hopefully self-explanatory

3. PAY DOWN DEBT LOAD
note: entry level job positions may not be the most efficient for this, but, it is more efficient than say, living in the South of France with no job. You'd also be rather surprised at how generous the inebriated McGill student can be with their student loan money and tipping.

4. PURCHASE A CONDO IN THEIR BUILDING
note: they've never owned a condo before, and it may not be the best investment when it comes to real estate, but there are no lawns to be maintained, carports to be backed into and damaged, hot-water tanks or furnaces to be replaced, sidewalks to shovel...and the location of the building is superb, the condo's brand new and beautiful, and they would of course be paying less than rent and it is still an asset.

5. PURSUE SECONDARY EDUCATION
note: one of Canada's best schools is in Montreal and the Quebec reward fellow Quebecers by giving them lower tuition at their universities, how to be an official Quebecer? One must have a lease agreement, or medicare at least 1 year before beginning courses.

So there, the small list which helps her remember that there is some wisdom and responsible reasoning for staying in this great city. Now as to the HOW she got to be in Montreal in the first place, well that is a much longer and a much more confusing list.

Diner Dash

2009-09-25T21:55:00.012-04:00

With her love affair with the Toshiba waning, and Phil at work, she decided on the most novel of ideas: to go for a walk. She had realized while sitting alone on her couch that she hadn’t really done anything that day to remotely scrape together a blog entry. Her morning routine not actually beginning until noon, coupled with her fear of the next day: a “work” day (she really only has 3 of those a week, but those 3 days are, in her defense, evil days which have her beginning her job at 7pm and not returning her home until after 5am, all the while serving drunken university students milkshakes, poutine and scalding hot soup…oh, and throw a few patriotic French-Speaking Quebecois into the mix with sole life-missions to make the life of the non-French-speaking waitress extremely difficult) leaves her with an evening free to reflect on all the things she didn‘t do.

Work days are feared days. And she has every right to be incapacitated by the very thought of them. The strongest of you would resort to the comfort of the curled and rocking fetal position; driven to it by the smallest reminisce of the chaos called her job, of the billion people flooding in and out of those diner doors for the abundance of cheap and quickly prepared pizzas and pitas and poutines-and NEVER getting kicked out for being too intoxicated to stand. (Oh, and for the more discerning of gastronomic tastes, try the Souvlaki or our Rib Steak, might we recommend our house red? (It's our only red) It is full-bodied with an oaky taste-oh wait, that might just be the taste of the cardboard seeping through).

It’s not only the confusion endured for each hour as she leaps over communication obstacles such as the French language with her patrons, or the Greek, and Hindi accents in the English of her bosses and co-workers, (she does wonder what her French will sound like if it’s getting it’s foundation from this motley crew of 1st generation Canadians), but also the screaming pain her legs and arms and body retire in.

As she spends the first day or so recovering from her 3 days of what can only be explained as Karma paying her back for how badly she treated her brother, and at least a couple of days leading up to those 3 foreboding ones preparing both mentally and physically for it’s next round of battering, it is a marvel that, that on the eve of her work day, she would find the bravado to face Friday night Montreal and the slow mob of funneled pedestrians through what seems to be an endless maze of scaffolding stuffed along Rue St Catherine. The "maze of scaffolding" she can't help but think as being a deliberate gesture of irony from the city of what it's seemingly not, if measured by foot-pace that is: a rat race.

She nor Phil have been able to figure out the oddity of the Montrealer's walking pace. For being "technically" Canada's largest city, a business, cosmopolitan and cultural landmark in North America, it's an absurdity that the average Montrealer appears to have no place to go. Dressed in well-fitting designer suits, puffing on their cigars, they show this fact to each other as they stroll at a snails pace up and down one of it's biggest thoroughfares. It's an anomaly. The whole experience of trying to get from point A to point B-especially if one is needing to get somewhere via that street makes running into oncoming traffic an attractive solution. This Friday night was proved to be no different, so she returned home.

With the Help of Technicolour

2009-09-24T18:12:00.006-04:00

The T.V. proved to be just what she needed-a light distraction (well "light" being a VERY relative term). A distraction: a box to bury her "To-Do" list in. A To-Do list, which among it's proponents has not 1, but now coming up to 2 years worth of taxes (not including necessary bookkeeping work), address changes from 2, no, make that 3 moves ago (BUT in her defense, those 3 moves were all in the last 9 months-God bless Canada Post and it's $45 forward-mail-form ($59 with taxes)). Also on that list is the everyday "don't-even-bother-crossing-off's"; the items which seem to make their appearance to the list each day but never do get done: make the bed, clean the house, take the garbage out, buy groceries, find a French Tutor...finding the French Tutor thing should have been crossed off perhaps weeks ago, as communication, especially in the service industry as a waitress is deemed in today's world somewhat important. The task however proved to be much more difficult than ever anticipated. Already she and Phil have went through 2, one having been a little bit of an emotional washboard lacking professionalism and possibly even business ethics. The latter suspicion due to her selling a compilation of photocopied textbooks and computer-burned French Language Program C.D.'s to her students. The other Tutor, charming over the phone and elegant in email, a self-proclaimed world traveler and successful international film director charged only$15/hour for his breakthrough language method. The facts just did not seem to line up. People that exciting and that successful are not usually left selling their time on Kijiji for half the going market price, and besides, he lived too far away.

So to the T.V. she went. Helping her mission to block out all past and future duties is the most wonderous invention we'll call the "swivel rod". Anchored between the concrete pillar separating her "bedroom" from her "living room", and fastened to the back of the flat screen Toshiba, it allowed her to fade from reality even when she didn't want to leave the comfort of her bed-which by the way is still unmade.

Not used to having a T.V., her immunity to the "wiles" of this devilish contraption, were non-existent. She pressed the tiny "ON" button with all guards down. This thing, this "box", this wondrous and new world where life came and went in 1 hour intervals locked away the foreboding and impending duties silently nagging the core of her every fibre. Life was so happy in T.V. land. Especially as an English speaker in Montreal receiving only the basic cable included with her condo. With channels being as equally limited as her language, her T.V. world consists of YTV and TLC. Who can be unhappy with Spongebob Square Pants blowing bubbles in Bikini Bottom and Stacy and Clint changing the world one bad dresser at a time. Taxes may not be getting done, but she at least knows what not to wear if she were to do them. And if, as her luck may have it, were to get a visit from Revenue Canada for her un-submitted taxes, perhaps they will see her in her stylish business-casual suit, and graciously waive all penalties. So really, by NOT doing her taxes, which in reality only serves as a distraction from her T.V. watching, she in the long run is solving all her problems-as long as she can find the right pointy toed shoes for her suit (apparently pointy toes elongate the leg, giving the APPEARANCE of height, which for her 5foot 1.5inch frame is exactly what is needed).

agh...why must there always be a title!

2009-09-23T23:48:00.001-04:00

Not a hundred percent sure why putting a few select words together on a screen is so difficult. Something I've warded off for weeks and months...years-decades really. My hats off to all you bloggers, all you who have risked revealing yourself to the masses and the criticisms of people you may or may never meet. My S.I.L. has had a blog for many years. She has been an inspiration to many with their parenting, and an encouragement to women to love their place in their home. I make no such promises. I really don't know what will come of this, hopefully a discipline to just write on a regular basis.