There is another man in my life.
He’s black and arrived at my house at 10pm last night in a torrential rain storm, in the cover of darkness.
He’s very young and has a special place in my heart already, but he makes Darwin insanely jealous.
He weighs 2.5lbs and his likes include cat food, chasing string and sleeping. That is, when he is not holed up under the couch in fear of the Ginger Terror.
Note the disdain from Darwin....
Tonight was one of those glorious early spring nights. The night was still and the chill of the winter air has finally turned into the promising and hopefully manageable cold of early spring. The stars were out in full glorious force and all I wanted to do was sit outside with my feet up on the table, wrapped in a blanket and smell the air. Everything was fresh and crisp in the most pleasant way.
For as long as I can remember, whenever I was outside at night, I would look at the flashing lights of planes and wish that I was on them; not caring where they were going to and where they were coming from, but just wishing that I was going somewhere, anywhere. I would imagine these tiny dots were heading some place far more exciting than where I was, if only for the simple fact that it wasn’t here. I still feel that way, especially on clear nights like tonight.
The music from the stereo was playing faintly in the background and the promise of warmer nights spent outside was finally tangible.
A couple of days ago we noticed a tiny furry creature inhabiting a corner of our kitchen. We decided setting any kind of traps may lead to an unfortunate incident with the other, slightly larger furry critter in our house. Now, it really should come as no surprise that I am kind of a sissy when it comes to killing things; unwanted or not. I think the majority of creatures with fur and tiny ears are kind of cute….
Anyway, lately, Darwin had developed a special fascination with our pot cupboard. It has 2 sliding doors that don’t quite match, and if left ajar enough, are just big enough for a ginger cat to slip through. When I came home from work today he was especially fixated with the cupboard. I didn’t really think a whole lot of it, until I kept hearing him repeatedly attacking the cupboard door trying to get in. Initially, I let him in the cupboard to see if his curiosity would be sated, but the clanging if him on the pots and pans was a bit much. He seemed pretty intent on one corner in particular, but he also thinks another cat lives in our bedroom, right where the mirror is….
All night he was at the cupboard, jumping at it, meowing (more than usual) and staring deep into its depths. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and set out to investigate. I started pulling out pots and then…. There is was…. A tiny brownish grey mouse with little tiny ears and beady eyes.
Holy shit I said. The cat meowed in eager agreement.
Now, it just so happens that I was alone and left to my own devices, the man friend was away at a bachelor party.
Be cool I thought. You can handle this.
I pulled the remainder of the contents of the cupboard out and had the poor little guy cornered, until he turned around and made a break for the kitchen, nearly over my bare feet and then scurried under a clutter of pots.
Holy shit I said again. Only this time, I think I may have added a few more adjectives in there.
I picked up an empty yogurt container (aka ghetto tupperware) and decided to trap the furry offender underneath.
Mission accomplished!
…Now what….
I did the only thing I knew. I called in the big guns. I called Kate.
After much laughter on both of our parts, I donned some sneakers, and some big yellow rubber gloves and managed to trap the poor little guy in the container.
I then took him downstairs and released him with attitude into the street, as directed…… I sure hope he made it to somebody else’s house…….
Needless to say, I came back inside and immediately poured myself a big glass of wine.
So I’ve decided to re purpose this a bit in an attempt to write more and talk about writing more less… The recent addition of a tiny ginger kitten named Darwin has made my life more interesting..or it has at least yielded more stories for me to share. True to any life long love hate affair (see my first day at work in the hospitality industry…) the story of Darwin begins in a less than illustrious way.
I had finally convinced the man friend that getting a cat would be a good idea and so we began the search. After a few weeks of looking at some very adorable critters we were still catless. Then, one night after work I sat down to peruse and there he was.
His tongue was sticking out in his photo. His eyes were entirely black and he looked like pure trouble.
Hasty e-mails resulted in the lady who owned him telling me she had good vibes about me and that he was mine as soon as we could come pick him up.
One problem…. he was located in Aylesford which is about a 2 hour drive from Halifax. No big deal. We struck a deal to borrow a car and we were all business….
Sunday morning rolled around and the forecast was calling for snow so we awoke bright an early after having a late night at work. We piled into the car and set off for our new man.
We found the place, and picked up our new terror from a somewhat crazy but totally friendly crazy cat lady (she had 14 of her own cats! 14!). He was totally willing to go and was cool calm and collected as we put him in his carrier and into the back seat of the car. All smiles, all easy.
Yeah right.
We made it approximately 3minutes before the crying began. The ad for him said he was a chatterbox, but wow. He started crying like we were torturing him or something. He was awfully loud for something so tiny. Ok, so no big deal a little mewing is not so terrible to deal with.
And then… then he shit in the carrier. Now, by this time, the snow had started to fly and it was freezing cold outside, and the fact that he messed himself only caused our tiny new bundle of joy to scream even louder. So here we were, speeding down the road, trying to beat the snowstorm, with the windows rolled down to dissipate the incredibly out of this world foul smell of kitten shit.
We eventually had to pull over at a gas station, try to clean the cat up as best we could and then continue on home to Halifax.
Shirtless (on Chris’s part… the cat needed something to lay on…), and incredibly unsure of our new decision we made it home in one piece, but just barely.
And that was the illustrious start of the ginger cat named Darwin……
Sometimes the world works in weird ways.
Before I re-entered the illustrious world of food and beverage I pretty much had a job to be a high school recruiter for a college in the bag. I think I would have been really good at it, and when I have tough days at work I kick myself for turning it down. Truthfully, the money wasn’t that great and they seemed kind of disorganized in general and I think this year has just been one big lesson in a lot of things.
At any rate, the first function I worked at the hotel was the graduation party for the very same college.
My interviewers were there; the same people I had just called the day before and told that I was no longer interested in their job. They were very amicable and wished me well.
That’s just the way it is.
And so, last weekend there were two Christmas parties going on simultaneously. In one room, a big PR firm, in the other- a trucking company.
I have always joked that if all else failed, I would become a truck driver. I like to drive, don’t mind being in a vehicle for long distances and frankly the idea of me as a trucker is priceless.
I joked to my bartenders that I had a lot of pressure on me that night. Not only was it my first night running the proverbial show kind of solo, but I also had 2 groups of people to impress. My career of choice lay behind one set of doors, and my plan B lay behind the other.
Monday morning I got my acceptance to PR school.
I guess that’s just the way it is.
Every once in awhile you just have one of those nights or days. You know the type, where nothing you touch works out well, or even ends up in a pile of rubble at your feet.
Last night was one of those nights.
The set-up is almost as wondrous as the absolute sideways turn the night took.
At the very posh hotel I work at, there is a suite that people or companies can rent out to entertain their guests. It is essentially set up like a luxury apartment, only hotel style. There is a giant TV, a big sitting room, a dining room, bedroom, bathroom etc. There is also a small bar type area that can be used for a private bartender to dispense drinks to the guests. That is where I come in. Last night was my first kind of experienc with something like that. When I walked into the room to set up I was pretty much in shock at the amount of booze. Dozens of 24s of beer, several 66ers of hard alcohol, coolers, magnums of wine, etc etc. It was pretty much like walking into the liquor store, but it was all free.. well free for the people in attendance.
The night started off slow and lame, not much to write home about really. I thought I was in for a long night of trying to busy myself so as to not look too bored and offput about being there. Then the wheels feel off the cart.
It started really when I stopped being able to keep up with the dishes and the drink requests, I can only move so fast. It escalated when a fine gentleman dropped a full beer on the tile floor behind my bar. It continued to go downhill when I ran out of ice and glasses at the same time… This all happened pretty much simultaneously. Of course, the suite is on the 3rd floor and the elevator works only when it feels like it, so I had to bust ass down the stairs. I procured ice, a mop and glasses and thought everything was under control. This is the point when I dropped an entire rack of glasses on the floor also behind my bar.
Awesome. Back down the stairs for the 3rd time in as many minutes to get the broom. Back up again to clean it up. Make the drinks, laugh at the drunken jokes, plaster a smile, don’t loose your cool.
Eventually they all left and I was left with the mess to clean up. Picture what your apartment looks like after a rager and then think 10 times worse. So I finally got everything under control, it was clean, my cart was piled high. (Side note about the cart, it is nicknamed after a mythical strong man and it is really hilarious to hear people in serious conversation refer to the cart as said mythical strongman…) I set off for the elevator.
I will admit, I was pushing it. Even strong men have a limit to what they can carry and I was pushing on it. I am more of a tetris girl than a janga queen.
I make it to the elevator, and even inside, and down to the main floor where I need to be. On the way out, the front wheel of my strongman cart hit the rut between the elevator and the floor. This caused my slop bucket full of all the dregs and discarded drinks, with a strainer full of straws and lime wedges and other assorted detritus to launch fully against the wall of the elevator and then soak the floor of the elevator entirely.
There were straws stuck to the elevator walls.
The glass candle holders on my cart also decided to make a leap for it and shattered all over the soggy booze and straw soaked carpet and got into the mix in fine style.
I cry laughed at this point. You know, the one where no tears happen but the laughter sounds like sobs rather than happiness.
There was nothing left to do but clean it up and drown my sorrows at the bottom of a pint of beer…..
I think there’s a reason why the cliche of waiters really being out of work actors exists; most waitors are actors, the difference is that some choose to practice both crafts while others remain in denile. I consder myself to be a very reserved person aroung stangers, but due to the nature of my job I need to be the most outgoing person around. I act on a daily basis, I put on a show, and I reap the benefits (and use them to pay my bills…), but I will never receive an Oscar or a Golden Globe.
Sometimes I find it hard to turn this persona on and off. It’s hard to turn it on when I’m having a bad day, or it’s grey and rainy outside and I’m working the 16th tickets only bar in as many days, or I know I have a long night ahead of me. Sometimes I just don’t feel like acting and putting on the show, I find it to be exhausting some nights, but other times I don’t even need to think about it, it just happens. I guess this is just the nature of being human, we all have our good and bad days, sometimes we wake up and just aren’t feeling it sometimes we are. Sometimes I forget to turn “it” off when I leave the bar and find myself getting engaged in conversations that I may not normally be involved in.
For me, part of unwinding after work is to sit and have a drink, whether it’s a beer or 6 with friends or alone, I just need to do something to unwind when I am finished the long work day. I enjoy doing this as much as I enjoy the walk to work with my headphones and a good soundtrack to mentally prepare for the day. There is nothing more clarifying than a pair of big sunglasses, big headphones and some loud music for me to find my zen and ready myself for the day. My ritual of wanting to enjoy a quiet beverage at the end of an evening can be some of the most memorable and uncomfortable moments of my day.
Sitting at a bar is a special kind of thing. It is the only place where I do not feel overly uncomfortable being alone and having a drink. I think many other people find some solace and comfort in sitting at a bar. A good bartender is like a good friend, you should be able to sit in comfortable silence but also have an engaging conversation when the opportunity arises. They should be able to make you laugh and be a compassionate ear when that’s what you need.
Bars also have the tendency to attract those who do not have any one else in their lives, be it because of circumstance or just an inability to interact with other people with any amount of social skills. These are always the folks I seem to find myself next to when I sidle up to the bar….
While I sometimes feel I am destined to be a career server, I am on the ever present hunt for a new job. An exciting new career. Something that’s going to give me meaning in my life; an outlet to change the world… bla bla bla…
Basically, a paycheck. Something to pay the bills. Put food on the table. You get the point.
So I have commenced this illustrious search in an admittedly lackadaisical way.
After my initial attempt at searching out temp gigs, (showing up to the placement agency and them telling me they had no temp jobs… this lead me to drink uncharacteristically early.. even for me….) I decided to give the temping thing another go around.
Basically, I think being a secretary, right now at least, and for me, is kind of like a slightly better gig in the service industry. I don’t think it’s going to fulfill my life and allow me to find my purpose, but I don’t think hustling lobster to tourists is going to do that either. I like the idea of sitting in an air conditioned office right now. I like the idea of wearing something that I want to wear and not a t-shirt with a cheeky slogan plastered suggestively across my chest. I like the idea of 9-5 and weekends off.
I mean… This is idealized, obviously.. I understand that filing and answering the phone is going to make me want to stab my eyes out with the many different types of paper clips my desk will no doubt contain. I’ve watched Office Space, I’m not good at taking a lot of orders from other people… I loathe doing bitch work. But the clincher, is that it’s not the service industry….
I digress.
I sent a few e-mail applications on a sunny Friday afternoon. Monday morning I received an e-mail requesting my presence on the top floor of a large office building downtown. Tuesday afternoon I got a phone call summoning me. They were after me! I figured I should probably get it together and see what this temping stuff was all about.
I woke up, got dressed and put on a pair of high heels and strutted down the street. The elevator door opened on the 12th floor when I realized I forgot to brush my teeth……
Not one to let the details get me down, I bust through the door to meet my future. There seemed to be a lot of British folks in modest sized offices and a really lovely front desk lady who presented me with a stack of paperwork. After, I was ushered into a tiny room with a computer to take a few tests. Turns out, all those years of paper writing have made me an incredibly skilled typer, but I do favour the backspace key. Too bad all those years of writing papers didn’t require much other skills with the old computer… I won’t be teaching any classes on Microsoft office any time soon…..
Anywhoo, next came the all important face to face interview portion of the day. Or I think that’s what happened….. We talked about musical theater and John Travolta movies. My interviewer told me she lies a lot in the run of a day in the context of her job. I learned she has an unhealthy obsession with her poor son (who, as I learned, has a huge affinity for musicals and dancing). It was hands down the weirdest interview ever.
She told me some stories about other folks whose interests she managed to match jobs to. One dude liked economics, but was a writer. He just got hired to crunch numbers and make a lot of dough in the process. One chick took criminology and now works at the cop shop.
All this lady knows about me is that I can talk about musical theater. As far as she’s concerned, it’s my favourite thing in the whole world….
Needless to say… I didn’t quit my day job today…..
I have always had a tenuous relationship with the service industry; literally since day 1.
One beautiful sunny day in the summer of 2000 I started my very first job.
After a small degree of nepotism, I was hired to be a dishwasher in a small seafood restaurant in a small community on the South Shore of Nova Scotia. I was 16 and full of piss and vinegar; eager to take on the world and earn some dollars in the process.
As any 16 year old kid about to enter the work force would do, I celebrated my last weekend of freedom from the clutches of adulthood by living it up. A Friday night party and some under aged drinking and all day Saturday spent outside in the blistering July sunshine at a concert preceded Sunday’s introduction to the rest of my life.
Needless to say, I was not feeling tip top.
I was the colour of boiled lobsters (a colour I only wish I could have known would be so familiar to me then…) and I was running on minimal sleep as I walked through the doors of my destiny.
The kitchen was approximately the size of a tool shed. There was no air-conditioning and no money for a dishwashing machine. I was the dishwasher in every sense.
As I have since learned, most restaurants have an eccentric owner and feature a motley crew of kitchen folk, and this one was no exception. In short, I was terrified.
I got to scrubbing the dishes which included among other things a pot that was large enough to boil a small child in (or in this case, an awful lot of fish chowder). I was literally up to my elbows in baked-on, cream based chowder for the entire day. Around quittin’ time, I started to feel a little extra queasy and became increasingly worried about the status of my health, and increasingly convinced the clock was moving backwards not forwards.
I broke into a cold clammy sweat. Just 15minutes to go until I was finished for the day… Just two more pots to clean. Sweet relief came in the form of the nighttime dishwasher, but I was given one final task: take the garbage out on my way.
By now, it was crystal clear in my mind that my breakfast was about to make a reappearance and I needed to make a hasty escape. I calmly collected my belongings and the bulging bag of garbage and made my way out the kitchen doors. One foot into the dining room and I knew it was all over. I broke into a full on sprint, blowing by puzzled customers who were standing at the front door waiting to be seated. I managed to make it outside, at which point the question of where exactly one should vomit outside of work arose.
Well, it just so happened that part of this restaurant’s appeal (aside from the chowder…) was the fact that it was situated beside a wharf. All I saw was an opportunity, logistics were shaky at best by this point. I barely made it to the side of said wharf before my stomach contents were set free. I was vaguely aware of somebody grabbing my arm to make sure I didn’t end up in the same local as my lunch.
Emptied, exhausted and utterly defeated I was suddenly aware I was being watched by an entire patio full of people who were staring at me in horror and disgust. I can’t blame them. Who wants to eat lunch at a place where the kitchen staff is barfing in front of them after a shift? And so it began……..
