City slicker

It makes a noise.

There is a distinctly audible click.

It happens when you know, in no uncertain terms, that it’s closed. That there has been a shut off, a shut down; a closing of the proverbial book. And you further know, that any futile effort on your behalf to pry it back open, to jam a foot back in the door, would be viewed as somewhat pathetic. The moment is gone, opportunity lost. Move on, move away. For God’s sake, whatever you do, leave the room.

Two years ago, I found myself sitting in a news editor’s office, interviewing for a position as a city reporter at a community paper. I was pretty sure I didn’t want the job; I had just been offered one as an editor at a magazine I had interned at all through school, but I hadn’t started yet, and being superstitious as I am, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

So let’s go back.

I’m sitting on a swivel chair, which is clothed in faded grey plaid. There is a huge, bright yellow plastic, decorative pencil in a corner of the room. The editor of the paper is sitting on an equally worn-out chair in front of me, one thin leg tucked under the other. Her long hair is loose; she wears a chunky necklace that makes me think of a beach vacation. She is the only person I know to actually look good in a pair of white jeans. She takes a swig from a Naya bottle and screws the cap back on tightly.

‘So,’ she says to me, ‘let’s see what you’ve got.’

Tentatively, I hand over my portfolio, bursting at the seams with clippings on library closures, school board meetings and bake sales. There were a few articles I had written on such weighty matters as softwood lumber, international trade and energy policy, all for the magazine I was due to start working at in a few weeks time. I proudly displayed these on top.

She looked at these first.

‘Hmmm.’ She screws up her mouth, bunching her cranberry lips into a terse, wrinkled, 0. I would have put a semicolon there…sorry…I’m a sucker for grammar.’

The insult. The assault.

We chat. She questions. I answer. I qualify, she quantifies. She tells me about her passion for journalism, for the written word, for the community her paper reports on. We talk about her kids, I listen. The phone rings. We talk about juggling domestic responsibilities with work demands. I decide I like her.

‘So. What are they going to be offering you at the magazine?’ she asks.

I toss out the truthful number.

She sighs.

‘I can’t offer you that. I can’t offer you even close to that.’

We stare at each other.

‘I’m going to tell you something,’ she says. ‘When I was in my late 20s, I had two young kids and my husband had just lost his job. I was making a pretty decent salary in a PR firm. But you know what? An opportunity came up at a little, community paper, as an assistant editor. I would be making $17,000 a year. And I took it. Then I became a single mother, but I still never looked back. And now, here I am. I’m the editor-in-chief here, and I make good money. And I love what I do. But I never would have got here had I stayed in PR, had I not taken that risk, had I not taken a gamble. Had I not followed my heart.’

I thought for a minute. I thought of the amazing staff I knew I would be joining soon. I thought of the spacious office that would be mine in just a few short weeks. I thought of the expense account, of the travel, of the three weeks vacation.

‘I really appreciate the offer. It was so kind of you to meet and discuss….’

Click.

She smiles. Unscrews her water bottle.

‘Hey –you gotta eat. I understand that. We all have our own priorities; we all know what makes us tick.’

‘I know that any young, Journalism grad would be lucky to work here, in fact I think I may know someone who…’

I had the distinct feeling, a knowing, that the decision I made that afternoon was a defining one. I was choosing more than a job; I was choosing a set of priorities, of standards. I felt like I had heard so many stories of young reporters cutting their teeth at community papers who wound up running major dailies years down the road. Young journalists who took a gamble, who followed their hearts, and wound up winning Pulitzers. I felt like I was staring myself straight in the face, and wasn’t sure I liked who I saw.

Skip ahead.

I had dinner a few weeks ago, with some friends from journalism school, one of whom landed that city reporter job, and who is now the editorial coordinator at the paper. I got there first. The rest of the girls filed in, and work-related stories began to fly around the table. The city reporter friend came in last, rushing over to our table in a breathless, apologetic frenzy.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late guys!’ she starts. ‘I was doing an interview with the most amazing man…it’s going to be such a fantastic story. You wouldn’t believe…’

Click.

A thank-you card

My girlfriends and I got to chatting the other night about the men in our lives (or total lack of them) and the impact they have all had on who we ultimately turned out to be. It turned out to be quite an interesting exercise, in fact. Of all the people who make up my world, my family, my friends, my co-workers, the people I volunteer with, the people I go to school with, from the woman who kicks and punches her heart out beside me in my Body Combat class, to the teenage kid in the Couche Tard downstairs who smilingly gives me change for my laundry every week, I think it’s safe to say that collectively, none of these has had such a big say in who I am as have the men I’ve shared my life with at different points along the way.

I’m grateful for these experiences. No, truly, I am. Sure I’ve had my heart broken a few times. I’ve broken a few, as well. But, as a relatively new member to the singles pool, I realize just how many things I’ve learned, and how thankful I am for those life lessons.

And so, here is a brief list of compiled thank-yous. I think it’s safe to say they all had a fairly large stake in who I call myself today.

Thank you for teaching me that I don’t need to be the loudest, flirtiest girl in the room to be noticed.

Thank you for showing me that being part of a relationship doesn’t mean I have to give up any part of who I am.

Thank you for showing me how to use a set of chopsticks properly.

Thank you for teaching me that respect, admiration and love aren’t necessarily bedfellows.

Thank you for teaching me not to take myself too seriously, or no one else will.

Thank you for teaching me that not everything is black or white. In fact, most things are confusing shades of grey.

Thank you for teaching me that absolutely everyone has something to offer.

Thank you for showing me I deserve to be brought flowers, to be walked to my door, to be wished sweet dreams.

Thank you for not saying anything.

Thank you for crying.

Thank you for teaching me that sex should be silly.

Thank you for showing me what matters.

Thank you for showing me that what I always thought matters, really doesn’t.

Thank you for teaching me I can get through.

Thank you for teaching me the best way to get over a hangover.

Thank you for making me feel like everything I had to say was important.

Thank you for the challenges.

Thank you for teaching me what I don’t want.

Thank you for having the courage to walk away.

Thank you for showing me that sometimes, hiding away from everything and everyone is more than ok.

Thank you for showing me how to make a kick-ass sauce for salmon.

Thank you for making me feel I had something to teach you.

Thank you for choosing me, but not needing me.

Thank you for turning everything I thought I knew on its head.

It made me search for new definitions.

I like the ones I found.

I found me.

Culture Clash

"I much prefer the anthropological definition of culture, which, has nothing to do with holding your pinky finger out when you drink a cup of tea."

-Lister Sinclair
1921-2006

A small life

A few things.

Last night, I spent a few hours strolling around the city with my friend and her six-month old baby. We lazed through Ogilvy’s, stopping for tuna cakes and diet cokes, browsed through the exquisite shops and marveled at the equally extravagant price tags. We popped into the flower shop on the basement floor, sticking our noses deep into lustrous arrangements of calla lilies and roses. Oh! Look! my friend shrieked, holding up an adorable plant pot, crafted of rich, creamy ceramic, with the word ‘plant’ tolled across it. ‘Heath, this would look so sweet in your place!’

She was right. I stuck out my hand for the pot, inhaled as I turned it over, and peered down at the price tag. Exhale. Totally affordable, totally adorable, a total must-have. On my way to the cash register, I additionally picked up a little pot of African Violets, the tiny purple buds housed in a glass cup. I paid my bill, content, already envisioning where I would station my new purchases in my apartment.

When I got home, I threw down my purse, ripped open the plaid bag, tossing aside the reams of lime green tissue paper. (I think half the thrill of making a purchase at Ogilvy’s is the decadent wrapping the shopkeepers enclose your purchase item in). I scoured my living room, trying to decide which plant would have the honour of being plopped into my new, prized pot. I made my selection, rearranged a bit of earth, and finally put my plant holder in its final resting place –a little table with hand-painted flowers on it. (Please note that I only have two tables in my entire apartment, so it wasn’t exactly a mind-bending decision).

Content, I stood back to admire my work. I was pleased. But then, ever the self-doubter, I asked myself why in fact I was pleased.

Had it come down to this? Is my life so small, my wants, needs and desires so limited, so confining, so shallow that buying a cute little plant pot, (admittedly one that is sure to garner lots of attention –yes it really IS that fabulous) fills me with a sense of self-satisfaction and accomplishment?

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on my couch to ponder this question a little further. I thought back to a few hours ago, the hustle and bustle of Ste. Catherine’s street, Montrealers and tourists elbowing their way through shops, shouting into cell phones, running red lights. All of these people, all these hundreds of thousands of people on their own versions of plant pot quests. It struck me how individual we are, how individual I am, how disconnected we can be.

Shifting courses.

I had a very quiet day. I went to the gym. I did my groceries. I joined my local library and spent an hour sitting on a rock hard chair, drowning myself in Alice Munro’s The Love of a Good Woman. I made filet of sole with mushrooms and tomatoes. And then I decided to go for an evening walk. It’s a chilly evening, but busy-bee west islanders were out full throttle raking up their leaves as though their lives depended on removing every visible trace that their lawns in fact have trees planted on them.

I walked by one house where four, small children were out in a large yard, raking furiously. A middle-aged, portly man pulled into the driveway of the home, hopped out of his Toyota Prius, slamming the door. He had arrived to pick up his two of the four children.

‘Alright guys, time to pack it in! Sally, Ben, in the car guys! Tomorrow it’s our lawn!

‘Awwwww’…the children cried, in unified, staged protest.

‘What time are you two coming over to our place?’ the man asked, turning to the other two kids. ‘Better be bright and early, we’ve got a lot of leaves!’

‘How about 6?!’ one of the boys suggested. The man’s face turned a distinct shade of grey.

‘Well, six is a little early…could we make it just a little bit later’?

‘Ok….how about ten?’ the boy asked, eager to please.

This is what I love about children. That they have no concept of schedules, of timetables, of itineraries and to-do lists. All the errands, running around, cleaning, shopping and raking that could be accomplished in the four hours between 6 and 10 a.m. is of no consequence to a child. And it made me sad to be able to recognize that this trait is confined largely to childhood.

Switching again.

I decided to suck it up and buy myself a ticket to the kick-off session of this year’s Massey Lectures. I went on Wednesday evening. Having had the experience of doing this alone, I have to say, it’s the only way to go. The sheer opportunity for people watching was well-worth the $21.

There were the women with coarse, long grey hair, pulled into long pony tails with rubber bands, decked out in flowing skirts of vibrant colours, Birkenstocks enclosing feet and toes that have never felt the brush of nail polish or exfoliating cream. There were the men dragged there by their golf-club wives, eager to have something to discuss with their friends over tomorrow’s afternoon tea. There were the university kids, burdened by the quintessential North Face school bags, Nalgene water bottles bouncing off the backs of them.

Then there was the guy I wound up sitting next to. The tech writer who just got back from a four-month hiatus to India where he spent 16 weeks shuttered up in a dark room learning the depth and beauty behind the art of yoga. The guy whose family has a house in Halifax, where he ‘reeeealllllly tries to get to every summer –it’s restorative powers are just so intoxicating.’ The guy who leaves and breathes yoga, but you know is probably a lecherous carnivore with a condo in the Plateau and his own art collection.

I couldn’t, and still can’t decide if the lecture itself was all that interesting. Margaret Somerville, medical ethicist, spoke about ‘The Ethical Imagination’ and how to reconcile a shared sense of ethics within a shifting global dynamic. I spent a good deal of the two hours watching the people around me watching the stage. Crossed legs, folded hands, cocked heads. Stifled yawns, stifled coughs, stifled boredom. Sitting on my other side, was a man and his wife. The wife sat attentive, the sleeves of her pink cashmere sweater shoved up to her elbows, exposing three, solid gold bangle bracelets, a shimmering wedding ring and Tissot watch. She cupped her pointy chin in her hand, leaning forward, misty-eyed.

‘We are now engaged in debates about what we may, must not and must do with the extraordinary powers that no other humans before us have ever possessed.’

The wife shook her head in mock amazement. The man snuck a quick glance at his own wristwatch, quickly covering the evidence by pulling his sweater sleeve far down over his wrist. And this one small act of indulgence all of a sudden made him so completely and entirely human I could have leaned over and kissed his balding head.

Best Bumper Sticker Ever

'If you aren't outraged, you aren't paying attention.'

Shed, Saturday, Single

“Woah! I am SO full.” Sheila pushes the bowl away from her with deliberate force. She leans an elbow on the back of her chair and starts fanning herself with her free, perfectly manicured hand. “That was sooo spicy, and soooo filling. I can’t believe I ate almost HALF of it!” The rest of us look up guiltily from our own, less than half-full plates, enjoying every mouthful and not even contemplating putting down our forks. “It’s going to be a hard workout at the gym for me tomorrow!” she cackles, smug.

I’m sitting in Shed Café, to celebrate a friend’s birthday. A trendy little bistro on St. Laurent, just north of Sherbrooke, I feel entirely underdressed in this place, under scrutiny from discerning, fashion-expert eyes, and am still slightly sore over the $15 it cost me to park my car as trying to find a place to station one’s vehicle in this effing city is next to impossible. Sheila isn’t helping.

Our plates have been cleared (Sheila graciously declined the waiter's offer to pack up the remainder of her meal to bring home) and apparently, it’s time to get down to business.

“So,” Sheila says, three octaves higher than is necessary. “Who is single here?” She points an accusing finger at me. “Are you?”

“Y y y yes,” I stammer, not sure how to account for what has all of a sudden become a major shortcoming in my character.

“Are you?” She barked at the girl sitting next to me.

The poll was conducted, and the results poured in. Six of the girls at the table were without boyfriends.

“Gawd!” Shelia snapped, slamming both hands down on the table, sloshing the water in the glass I’m holding all around. “You see? THIS is what I’m talking about. Here we are, six gorgeous women, single. Single! What IS that?”

By this time, I should note that heads are starting to swivel in our direction. I’m trying to slink indiscernibly down in my seat.

“I mean, I have gone on more set-ups that I can even COUNT and nothing. Nothing! What IS THIS?”

I’ve heard from my friend that Sheila has indeed been in a frantic search for a boyfriend. But, considering the fact that she’s been in medical school for the past five years, I chalked her singlehood up to her manic schedule. Now, I’m mentally revising that perception.

“Did you hear that Jen and Kevin got engaged?” the girl sitting to my left says, innocently, smiling, bright-eyed. “Isn’t that great?”

“Reeeeally?” Sheila asks, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “That’s soooooooooo nice. I can’t believe it. How long have they been engaged? When’s the wedding? What does her dress look like? What does her ring look like? I’m sooooo happy for them. I’m sooooo excited!! So, so, so excited!”

At this point, I’m wondering if there is some sort of a marriage God Sheila feels is keeping tabs on her ability to be happy for the nuptials of other people. Maybe she worries that not showing the proper amount of enthusiasm for someone else’s engagement will be a strike against her, casting her into some sort of spinster purgatory.

I have to say, that Sheila’s obvious insecurity surprises me. She’s a good-looking girl, wicked smart, she’s a doctor of all things and yet, the fact that she is on her own overrides all other aspects of her life.

“So Heeeeather,” she drawls, turning to me. “You live alone. Do you love it? I really like the building you’re in, and wanted to look at it. Do you have a pet?”

This is followed by a series of questions that I assume are part of a checklist she has on the ‘ultimate single girl living alone experience.’ Apparently the fact that I don’t have a cat is a mark against me, that I have a few plants and fluffy white throw blankets are pluses.

The whole thing just made me sad. Sad because I can somewhat relate to her anxiousness about being single, and sad because she’s not able to enjoy something as simple as a friend’s birthday without harping on her lack of a male counterpart.

As the conversation turned to a play-by-play of her last disastrous set-up date, I took the opportunity to tell my friend that I would likely be skipping out after dinner because I wasn’t feeling all that well.

“Oh, sweets,” she says, “don’t worry about it. Feel better. Hey! Why don’t you talk to Sheila! She’s a doctor, after all!”

I look over to where Sheila is now standing, talking to some guy. Her spine looks like it could snap in half at any given moment, she is thrusting her chest out to such a degree. I honestly think if she could have temporarily removed her breasts and physically handed them to the guy for his inspection, she would have.

I turn back to my friend. “It’s ok hon. I’ll be fine. You go and have a good time.”

I walked back to my car, politely declined the offer from the parking attendant to take me out to dinner (It’s 1 a.m., who the hell goes OUT for dinner at 1 a.m.?) and start my drive home. Alone. And I was perfectly fine with that.