Lucky Numbers
I don't remember many years. By that I mean the age I was when things went either swimmingly or shittily. 10, was nice. 10 meant only 6 more years until I turned 16. Which meant that I could drive. Which meant ultimate freedom. A motorized engine that could make the Great Escape. By the time I reached 16, however, I was grounded for something I'd done, like breathing the wrong way, so driving school was put off for a few months. 21 was how old I was when I married Stupid, the first husband. 21 was also the age I was when Chicken and I laid eyes on each other. Now a steady 17 year love affair. 33 was the year I learned how to truly love another person. That was my best year.
37 stank.
It was up there as one of the all time most wretched years in any memory. Between my job, which had begun to suck sweaty balls, and the state of my romantic life, which made the reeking ball sucking sort of attractive in comparison, I'd hit a silt-free rock bottom. Hard. And then broke both my legs. I'd experienced this kind of blue fleetingly in the past, but only as a drive-by visitor, never as a resident requiring an immigration card.
On one of the last days of being 37, I walked into work. Business as usual at the Cheer's Equivalent, if you count slogging through weird vibes as usual. Friends/co-workers were shooting me looks that were a combination of pity, horror and fear. I was asked by one person/coward at work if my boss had contacted me earlier that day. Apparently he needed to talk to me about something. Something this person/coward "didn't know" anything about.
Sometimes something is really nothing.
Sometimes something is you no longer have a job.
I was holding the key to door number two.
This time it's not because I write a blog.
It was the second certainty in life that was the culprit.
The Certainties of Life
Death + Taxes.
If you've ever examined a standard Ontario sales receipt, you'll notice, just above the grand total, there is an 8-10% line for provincial sales tax (PST). This means that the actual retail price for a pint and curry, say, is subject to provincial sales tax first. The curry portion is subject to 8% because it's food, stuff we need to maintain life, but may lead to clogged arteries, which will need Drano-ing. For the pint, taxation is at 10% because it's booze - the insurance premium for when our indulgent livers go on dialysis. This tax is collected by all establishments that offer goods and sometimes services. What the government does with it is up to the government that I didn't elect, but that, I suppose, is besides the point. The point is: retailers collect PST, and then a proper governmental arm reaches out and catapults it home. To Ottawa. Around sprucing up time at Rideau Hall.
I just found out that the once right honourable Adrienne Clarkson had once doubled spending on her residence. Apparently $10 million wasn't enough. Having been the Queen's Canadian proxy, I guess there are a couple of things that rub off. Like needing to go for stroll through one's own private gardens, while considering which gown to wear to the ball later.
Partial Tally of Accrued Gardening Costs During Adrienne Clarkson's Years of Representing Her Majesty, the Queen of England:
Rose bushes: $43,449
Other trees and shrubs: $63,000
Installation of beech trees: $32,665
Dirt: $9,318
Of course, if she wanted to enjoy/endure the 4 seasons aspect of our Canadian climate in the comfort of her backyard, the $1,299 in taxpayer's money spent on one pair of snowshoes is justified, I guess.
Sometimes people forget to file their PST on time because, well, maybe something shiny distracted them. Or, when they do remember to file, the government might not always believe the numbers reported. The thing about any government is: If it doesn't think it's getting what it's due, it's got no problem coming to do a crosscheck. Jack Palance style.
Based on a randomly selected fiscal year, and according to the government-sent agent, the Cheer's Equivalent was off by $10,000. De rigeur among the tax collecting sect is a decision to apply whatever discovered miscalculation to all the years it's been in operation. In this case, it was 3. $30,000 to be paid in full immediately. I imagined Oxford cloth covered mid-level management with staplers pounding rhythmically on my boss's tarsals and metatarsals.
They had to cut corners. This I understand. Having me show up to a shift without telling me in advance that they couldn't afford to keep me, and not finding out until I called, is shitty. Having the rest of the staff know before I knew anything about chopping blocks is something entirely rotten. My old boss got a reproving earful. I was offered 2 weeks notice over the phone. I refused, insulted. I quietly collected my belongings, and immediately left another thankless job.
Freshly 38 years old, just after Labour Day, I found myself labour-less, and with love's labour lost.
Fatty and I severed the final tie.
So when I say I was really depressed, it probably goes without saying.
The Comrade's Bank Account for Week One, September 2006
+ 17 year old cat
- Job
+ Diver's Certification
- Boyfriend
I booked a meeting with my bank manager to raise my level of esteem.
I was advised to diversify my portfolio.
Changes had begun to get harder as I was getting older. The bigger I got, the greater the fear of falling. But, this wasn't like me. I'd never been afraid to make changes before.
Fuck it,
She said, while pounding pixel pavement.
A girl's got to eat.
And so does her cat.
[... who just nudged me]
As far as restaurants went, there was only one place I was courting. With a list of 20 flowing draught taps and 200 varieties of bottled beers, the Beer Palace sat highest upon Mount Employer. It beckoned me with fanfare.
Ew.
Mount(ing) (the) employer.
Gross.
Before the interview started, I was asked by Grizzelda, the ghastly day bartender, which draught I would like while I waited for the manager.
The Comrade: What do you mean What beer do I want? Oh, yeah, I get it; I order a beer and then I don't get hired because I ordered a beer! Nice try, lady.
Grizzelda: No. Here at the Beer Palace, we drink beer.
I nearly burst into tears.
The radio dial tuned away static to receive: Country roads take me home... to a plaaaace... I belong.
After a 45 minute interview which included personal philosophy, suggested non-fiction, and wonderful girl giggling, I was asked if there were any further questions I had. One was pressing: When will you be making your final decisions to hire?
Interviewer: I've already decided. I love you. You're hired.
The Comrade: Atta girl.
I'm old enough to be her favourite babysitter.
For nearly 2 months I've been working at the Beer Palace. That's not its real name, but it is a vault for legions of fine ales and lagers. I say, who better to represent a line of goods then one who imbibes in it daily? I am torn in a lopsided two, a 60/40 split, as to being absolutely in love with the place (mostly because of the inhabitants), and hating the place (corporate policies and the endless array of side duties the jailers/management demand of us before granting us leave). It is corporate, though they don't think it is. The best thing about corporate is its ability to hire wonderful, if not broken, staff. They're attracted to the promise of empire building, and that their individual contribution will be felt. That their lives will somehow have meaning through being part of this engine. The worst thing is their cult-like behaviour.
There is no criticism of the corporation or its figureheads, no matter how ridiculous or wrong either is. If someone does say something negative or suggests a radical solution, that person is first ostracized, then penalized (bad section, extra side duties, reduced shifts), and then, if not corrected - eliminated.
For the rest, the ones who comply, there are team building exercises and inhouse competitions, with prizes. There are pop quizzes, meetings, focus groups and tastings galore. Though we're routinely asked our opinion, again, they aren't looking for criticism of policy, protocol or product. All they seem to be looking for is validation, and worse, adoration. I've noticed that those who thrive in corporate environments also have a greater susceptibly to brainwashing. Yes, I'm parched! Thank you for the kool-aid!
I'll probably last 6 months before I manage to get my insubordinate ass fired... again.
The second thing I needed to do was manage my depression. For over 6 weeks I hadn't worn a stitch of make-up. For this, there were 2 reasons.
Reason #1 for hurting the cosmetics industry for a few weeks: I didn't know when I would erupt into tears, leaving me wrecked and Alice Cooper-esque. My ducts were on a feather trigger. Culprits included, but were not limited to: disappointing human behaviour; the full reality of my new circumstances; kindness or generosity.
Reason #2: I wanted how I looked on the outside to reflect how I felt on the inside. Bare, empty, abandoned. Eventually, thankfully, once those feelings passed, putting make-up back on seemed weird and inappropriate. But, I like being a girl, so a little mascara made a grazing. That night was a Friday, and I don't remember the last time I was macked on as much. Make-up or not, I did feel rather radiant that day.
I went to the health food store to get some amino acids to help my brain neurons fire properly. I know I read this somewhere while researching all-natural depression combatants. Helen, the ever helpful herbalist, scrunched up the left side of her face, eyeballed me sideways and asked, with a not so hushed, thick, Chinese accent: I think? It's a hormone problem! How old are you?!
Sometimes a question can sound like a violent interrogation. Especially when there are other people in the store.
I quietly told her.
Helen the Herbalist: See?! What if there's nothing wrong with you?! Your body's changed a lot! What if it's just your hormones not being balanced?!
With ringing ears, I hadn't considered that.
Helen the Herbalist: You are peri-menopausal!
Great. No kid in sight, and now the medical community has come up with an anteceded term for shrivelled egg baskets.
Helen gave me this. When she tried it, it was like taking G.
Helen the Herbalist: I had thoughts I've never had before! It scared my husband!
It doesn't do that to me, but it does make me lighter on my feet. The soft-shoe routine I've been working on is but a whisper these days.
Oh, and then I discovered the pot.
[cue angel choir, disco balls and feather-blowing machine]
The next time I find a line that asks for a description of hobbies, I will say weekend Wake and Bakes.
... but that is an entirely different post.
Of all the nice things I had added since turning 38, the best new thing I've done is started volunteering. I'm not working the front lines at Second Harvest, the food bank where all rich socialites want to give back to society. I overhear fantasies in my sister's circle of wankers who want to be the steam-glistened angel at the hub of homeless. The central figure who doles out a single ladleful of soup from her house-brought silver tureen into the bowls of dirty faced children. The need to give intensifies on Christmas. No, no, no. Not on Christmas Day. Everyone's resting and enjoying their dumpster-destined presents on Christmas Day. I meant to say Christmas Eve, like around 2:00pm, while everyone else is still working. Hello?! I'd like some recognition for my efforts here! You're welcome! Really, what they really want is for the bum that they ignore everyday to say: Thank you, lady. Thank you for your kindness and generosity.
No, I don't volunteer there.
Two days a week, I assist Fatty's mom in an inner-city kindergarten
Where I sing songs titled How long have we been friends?
Learned 19 new names
Get covered in snot and acrylic paint
Where tiny hands unreservedly run up and down my bare, crossed knees
Where shy little smiles momentarily turn earnest as I hear the words: I love you
Where 12 children routinely rush me to have them read them a story
Where a child once wished out loud that I was her mother.
When I leave this class I need a tube of Elmer's glue to put my heart back together.
I don't remember being so happy.
They are the joy of my week.
What if?
I worked at a restaurant years ago just to meet my favourite sandbox friend
Who ended up as my lover.
But
What if?
I fell harder in love with his family
Especially
The mother?
[she and I are secretly heartbroken that the whole thing didn't work out, mostly because we wanted each other as family]
But,
What if
The whole point of the relationship with the sandbox friend
Was so I could work alongside his mother
And thus getting that much closer to what I'm supposed to be doing while I'm here on Earth.
I was so depressed just a couple of months ago. I was so desperate. I didn't know who I was anymore. I didn't recognize myself. All it was was being stuck in a bad feedback loop. Since I wasn't busy enough, I was left to nurse that bad brain. I coddled it. I bounced it on my knee. I read it bedtime stories each night before tucking it in. And when it grew up, oh, they grow up so fast, it became a monster.
The whole thing turned around when I stopped lamenting exactly what others weren't doing for me, and instead looked at what I could do for others. Cliché and true.
New Co-Worker Jordan (who I can imagine perfectly at the age of 4): Are you on crack?
This question was asked after bellowing his name in a Polish accent no less than 25 times during dinner service, and intermittently body-checking others into walls or walk-in fridges. Oh, God, I've missed working with others.
The Comrade: No buddy. I'm just so happy that I've finally found my people.
New Co-Worker Jordan: Your people are kindergarten kids?
Most people find this sad.
I think 38 might just be the year I truly learn to love myself.
Hmph.
I smell a new favourite year.
Or is that the pot?
37 stank.
It was up there as one of the all time most wretched years in any memory. Between my job, which had begun to suck sweaty balls, and the state of my romantic life, which made the reeking ball sucking sort of attractive in comparison, I'd hit a silt-free rock bottom. Hard. And then broke both my legs. I'd experienced this kind of blue fleetingly in the past, but only as a drive-by visitor, never as a resident requiring an immigration card.
On one of the last days of being 37, I walked into work. Business as usual at the Cheer's Equivalent, if you count slogging through weird vibes as usual. Friends/co-workers were shooting me looks that were a combination of pity, horror and fear. I was asked by one person/coward at work if my boss had contacted me earlier that day. Apparently he needed to talk to me about something. Something this person/coward "didn't know" anything about.
Sometimes something is really nothing.
Sometimes something is you no longer have a job.
I was holding the key to door number two.
This time it's not because I write a blog.
It was the second certainty in life that was the culprit.
The Certainties of Life
Death + Taxes.
If you've ever examined a standard Ontario sales receipt, you'll notice, just above the grand total, there is an 8-10% line for provincial sales tax (PST). This means that the actual retail price for a pint and curry, say, is subject to provincial sales tax first. The curry portion is subject to 8% because it's food, stuff we need to maintain life, but may lead to clogged arteries, which will need Drano-ing. For the pint, taxation is at 10% because it's booze - the insurance premium for when our indulgent livers go on dialysis. This tax is collected by all establishments that offer goods and sometimes services. What the government does with it is up to the government that I didn't elect, but that, I suppose, is besides the point. The point is: retailers collect PST, and then a proper governmental arm reaches out and catapults it home. To Ottawa. Around sprucing up time at Rideau Hall.
I just found out that the once right honourable Adrienne Clarkson had once doubled spending on her residence. Apparently $10 million wasn't enough. Having been the Queen's Canadian proxy, I guess there are a couple of things that rub off. Like needing to go for stroll through one's own private gardens, while considering which gown to wear to the ball later.
Partial Tally of Accrued Gardening Costs During Adrienne Clarkson's Years of Representing Her Majesty, the Queen of England:
Rose bushes: $43,449
Other trees and shrubs: $63,000
Installation of beech trees: $32,665
Dirt: $9,318
Of course, if she wanted to enjoy/endure the 4 seasons aspect of our Canadian climate in the comfort of her backyard, the $1,299 in taxpayer's money spent on one pair of snowshoes is justified, I guess.
Sometimes people forget to file their PST on time because, well, maybe something shiny distracted them. Or, when they do remember to file, the government might not always believe the numbers reported. The thing about any government is: If it doesn't think it's getting what it's due, it's got no problem coming to do a crosscheck. Jack Palance style.
Based on a randomly selected fiscal year, and according to the government-sent agent, the Cheer's Equivalent was off by $10,000. De rigeur among the tax collecting sect is a decision to apply whatever discovered miscalculation to all the years it's been in operation. In this case, it was 3. $30,000 to be paid in full immediately. I imagined Oxford cloth covered mid-level management with staplers pounding rhythmically on my boss's tarsals and metatarsals.
They had to cut corners. This I understand. Having me show up to a shift without telling me in advance that they couldn't afford to keep me, and not finding out until I called, is shitty. Having the rest of the staff know before I knew anything about chopping blocks is something entirely rotten. My old boss got a reproving earful. I was offered 2 weeks notice over the phone. I refused, insulted. I quietly collected my belongings, and immediately left another thankless job.
Freshly 38 years old, just after Labour Day, I found myself labour-less, and with love's labour lost.
Fatty and I severed the final tie.
So when I say I was really depressed, it probably goes without saying.
The Comrade's Bank Account for Week One, September 2006
+ 17 year old cat
- Job
+ Diver's Certification
- Boyfriend
I booked a meeting with my bank manager to raise my level of esteem.
I was advised to diversify my portfolio.
Changes had begun to get harder as I was getting older. The bigger I got, the greater the fear of falling. But, this wasn't like me. I'd never been afraid to make changes before.
Fuck it,
She said, while pounding pixel pavement.
A girl's got to eat.
And so does her cat.
[... who just nudged me]
As far as restaurants went, there was only one place I was courting. With a list of 20 flowing draught taps and 200 varieties of bottled beers, the Beer Palace sat highest upon Mount Employer. It beckoned me with fanfare.
Ew.
Mount(ing) (the) employer.
Gross.
Before the interview started, I was asked by Grizzelda, the ghastly day bartender, which draught I would like while I waited for the manager.
The Comrade: What do you mean What beer do I want? Oh, yeah, I get it; I order a beer and then I don't get hired because I ordered a beer! Nice try, lady.
Grizzelda: No. Here at the Beer Palace, we drink beer.
I nearly burst into tears.
The radio dial tuned away static to receive: Country roads take me home... to a plaaaace... I belong.
After a 45 minute interview which included personal philosophy, suggested non-fiction, and wonderful girl giggling, I was asked if there were any further questions I had. One was pressing: When will you be making your final decisions to hire?
Interviewer: I've already decided. I love you. You're hired.
The Comrade: Atta girl.
I'm old enough to be her favourite babysitter.
For nearly 2 months I've been working at the Beer Palace. That's not its real name, but it is a vault for legions of fine ales and lagers. I say, who better to represent a line of goods then one who imbibes in it daily? I am torn in a lopsided two, a 60/40 split, as to being absolutely in love with the place (mostly because of the inhabitants), and hating the place (corporate policies and the endless array of side duties the jailers/management demand of us before granting us leave). It is corporate, though they don't think it is. The best thing about corporate is its ability to hire wonderful, if not broken, staff. They're attracted to the promise of empire building, and that their individual contribution will be felt. That their lives will somehow have meaning through being part of this engine. The worst thing is their cult-like behaviour.
There is no criticism of the corporation or its figureheads, no matter how ridiculous or wrong either is. If someone does say something negative or suggests a radical solution, that person is first ostracized, then penalized (bad section, extra side duties, reduced shifts), and then, if not corrected - eliminated.
For the rest, the ones who comply, there are team building exercises and inhouse competitions, with prizes. There are pop quizzes, meetings, focus groups and tastings galore. Though we're routinely asked our opinion, again, they aren't looking for criticism of policy, protocol or product. All they seem to be looking for is validation, and worse, adoration. I've noticed that those who thrive in corporate environments also have a greater susceptibly to brainwashing. Yes, I'm parched! Thank you for the kool-aid!
I'll probably last 6 months before I manage to get my insubordinate ass fired... again.
The second thing I needed to do was manage my depression. For over 6 weeks I hadn't worn a stitch of make-up. For this, there were 2 reasons.
Reason #1 for hurting the cosmetics industry for a few weeks: I didn't know when I would erupt into tears, leaving me wrecked and Alice Cooper-esque. My ducts were on a feather trigger. Culprits included, but were not limited to: disappointing human behaviour; the full reality of my new circumstances; kindness or generosity.
Reason #2: I wanted how I looked on the outside to reflect how I felt on the inside. Bare, empty, abandoned. Eventually, thankfully, once those feelings passed, putting make-up back on seemed weird and inappropriate. But, I like being a girl, so a little mascara made a grazing. That night was a Friday, and I don't remember the last time I was macked on as much. Make-up or not, I did feel rather radiant that day.
I went to the health food store to get some amino acids to help my brain neurons fire properly. I know I read this somewhere while researching all-natural depression combatants. Helen, the ever helpful herbalist, scrunched up the left side of her face, eyeballed me sideways and asked, with a not so hushed, thick, Chinese accent: I think? It's a hormone problem! How old are you?!
Sometimes a question can sound like a violent interrogation. Especially when there are other people in the store.
I quietly told her.
Helen the Herbalist: See?! What if there's nothing wrong with you?! Your body's changed a lot! What if it's just your hormones not being balanced?!
With ringing ears, I hadn't considered that.
Helen the Herbalist: You are peri-menopausal!
Great. No kid in sight, and now the medical community has come up with an anteceded term for shrivelled egg baskets.
Helen gave me this. When she tried it, it was like taking G.
Helen the Herbalist: I had thoughts I've never had before! It scared my husband!
It doesn't do that to me, but it does make me lighter on my feet. The soft-shoe routine I've been working on is but a whisper these days.
Oh, and then I discovered the pot.
[cue angel choir, disco balls and feather-blowing machine]
The next time I find a line that asks for a description of hobbies, I will say weekend Wake and Bakes.
... but that is an entirely different post.
Of all the nice things I had added since turning 38, the best new thing I've done is started volunteering. I'm not working the front lines at Second Harvest, the food bank where all rich socialites want to give back to society. I overhear fantasies in my sister's circle of wankers who want to be the steam-glistened angel at the hub of homeless. The central figure who doles out a single ladleful of soup from her house-brought silver tureen into the bowls of dirty faced children. The need to give intensifies on Christmas. No, no, no. Not on Christmas Day. Everyone's resting and enjoying their dumpster-destined presents on Christmas Day. I meant to say Christmas Eve, like around 2:00pm, while everyone else is still working. Hello?! I'd like some recognition for my efforts here! You're welcome! Really, what they really want is for the bum that they ignore everyday to say: Thank you, lady. Thank you for your kindness and generosity.
No, I don't volunteer there.
Two days a week, I assist Fatty's mom in an inner-city kindergarten
Where I sing songs titled How long have we been friends?
Learned 19 new names
Get covered in snot and acrylic paint
Where tiny hands unreservedly run up and down my bare, crossed knees
Where shy little smiles momentarily turn earnest as I hear the words: I love you
Where 12 children routinely rush me to have them read them a story
Where a child once wished out loud that I was her mother.
When I leave this class I need a tube of Elmer's glue to put my heart back together.
I don't remember being so happy.
They are the joy of my week.
What if?
I worked at a restaurant years ago just to meet my favourite sandbox friend
Who ended up as my lover.
But
What if?
I fell harder in love with his family
Especially
The mother?
[she and I are secretly heartbroken that the whole thing didn't work out, mostly because we wanted each other as family]
But,
What if
The whole point of the relationship with the sandbox friend
Was so I could work alongside his mother
And thus getting that much closer to what I'm supposed to be doing while I'm here on Earth.
I was so depressed just a couple of months ago. I was so desperate. I didn't know who I was anymore. I didn't recognize myself. All it was was being stuck in a bad feedback loop. Since I wasn't busy enough, I was left to nurse that bad brain. I coddled it. I bounced it on my knee. I read it bedtime stories each night before tucking it in. And when it grew up, oh, they grow up so fast, it became a monster.
The whole thing turned around when I stopped lamenting exactly what others weren't doing for me, and instead looked at what I could do for others. Cliché and true.
New Co-Worker Jordan (who I can imagine perfectly at the age of 4): Are you on crack?
This question was asked after bellowing his name in a Polish accent no less than 25 times during dinner service, and intermittently body-checking others into walls or walk-in fridges. Oh, God, I've missed working with others.
The Comrade: No buddy. I'm just so happy that I've finally found my people.
New Co-Worker Jordan: Your people are kindergarten kids?
Most people find this sad.
I think 38 might just be the year I truly learn to love myself.
Hmph.
I smell a new favourite year.
Or is that the pot?
posted by Comrade Chicken at
8:23 p.m.
|
1 comments
