tales of the orient: the great language debacle

I affixed my bike to the rack, my metal lock stiff in the cold, and tried to quell the butterflies dancing in my empty stomach. As an emotional eater, the fasting required by this particular excursion was proving challenging.

I wove between buildings and through the parking lot, following the little red dot on my navigation app. I trusted that it wouldn’t steer me wrong, in spite of all the times that trust was ultimately misplaced.

resolutions

I’ve never really been one for making New Year’s Resolutions, at least not of my own accord. Sure, I filled in those “My New Year’s Resolutions” worksheets in grade school with things like “I will be on time” or “I will stop procrastinating,” yet here I am, approaching 26, still a minimum of five minutes late for everything and still up till 4am the night before deadlines. Even the easiest of resolutions – “I will acquire as many velour tracksuits as possible,” ie. my goal for 2018 – seem doomed to fail. I’m exiting 2018 with the exact same number of velour tracksuits I had entering it, that is, two. Resolutions always seemed a little silly to me; time is an arbitrary concept with no real meaning outside human definition. If we really wanted to make a change, why wait for a specific day?

But this year, I’m determined to follow through. My 2019 New Year’s Resolution is to finally make peace with my body. 

the time i accidentally went on a date with a 40-year-old

I know what you’re thinking; how does one “accidentally” go on a date with a 40-year-old? Well, children, I’m about to tell you. So grab your popcorn and gather ’round while I spin this sordid tale…

(Side note: It wasn’t actually that sordid, a word which means, as defined by the dictionary, “involving ignoble actions and motives; arousing moral distaste and contempt” or “dirty or squalid,” depending on context; “sordid tale” just has a nice ring to it.)

an open letter to the random old man i passed on the street-corner one morning

Dear random old man I passed on the street-corner one morning,

The morning began like many others: I woke up, ruing the three glasses of wine and four gin and sodas I’d consumed the night before, not to mention the chicken nuggets I’d subsequently drunkenly shame-eaten in my bed. The empty ripped-apart McDonald’s bag lay on the floor, eliciting as much regret as a used condom beside a college girl’s bed the morning after a questionable Tinder date. I pulled myself together best I could and mentally prepared myself for the long day of peddling mediocre vegan food that lay ahead.

an open letter to the human embodiment of a yeast infection

Dear human embodiment of a yeast infection,

Coming home after a long day at work to a party that isn’t yours is rarely ideal, and this particular Friday evening was no exception.  I arrived home from my shift selling mediocre vegan food to find my house filled with strangers.  I’d had enough interacting with strangers for one evening, so I promptly shut myself in my bedroom, ready to enjoy a wild night of folding laundry.

the most awkward date ever

About a year ago, while hanging out with a friend of a friend, I was complaining about how emotionally exhausted I was by online dating and seeking romance in general.  She mentioned how she’d been speaking to a couple guys herself, and that she’d be happy to pass one along to me.  She gave me the guy’s number and let him know someone would be contacting him.  Thus began one of the most confusing experiences of my life.

letters to my younger selves

Sometimes even I need a break from feminist rants and the horrors of the world.  Shocking, I know.  So, in light of this, I thought I’d copy the idea of a much greater blogger than I: Allie of Hyperbole and a Half.  In her 2013 book of the same name, one of the segments consists of her writing letters to her past selves of various ages to question their decisions and to offer advice.  It is hilarious.  Go read it now.

In the same vein, I thought I would also write letters to Past Sam, because Past Sam was pretty dumb and I question her motivations every day.  Not to say that Present Sam isn’t also kind of dumb, but I digress…

in re: “trump won because leftist political correctness inspired terrifying backlash”

In the days since the Earth-shattering victory of sentient Cheeto Donald Trump in this year’s US presidential election, the swirl of, well…things happening has been constant.  Thinkpieces galore, Facebook and IRL friendships crumbling, protests, and the rise of hate crimes against racial minorities.  Overwhelming media and celebrity support made it seem like Hillary was a shoo-in for Prez.  Thus, many of us were left devastated and reeling from the results, leading us to all collectively shout, what the fuck happened?

Really, there’s a million and one reasons why Hillary missed the long overdue title of First Female President.  Sexism, racism, general bigotry, a (misguided, IMO) desire for someone outside the system to enter the system, the DNC shut-out of Bernie Sanders (side note: remember when we had an inkling of hope that Bernie might be our next president? Ah, the follies of early 2016), media that misled us to believe Hillary was going to win regardless so not voting or voting third party wouldn’t doom us to a Trump presidency…the list goes on.  But in the process of trying to untangle this very complicated web, one man places the blame almost solely on one thing: Political Correctness.

one year

Circa 2003, when denim maxi skirts were apparently all the rage.

One year ago today, we suffered the devastating loss of Deb Burr, studio director of The Dance Exchange and second mom to myself and dozens of other girls.

Deb, we think of you and miss you every day. It’s still so weird not to hear your hoots and hollers from backstage as your girls continue to kill it at every performance. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

But, because I know she’d tell us to stop crying about it if she were here, I wanted to share a couple of my personal Deb memories:

• When I was 16, I borrowed someone else’s costume for my solo. It was at least a size too small and was thus incredibly unflattering, but I didn’t notice until I saw pictures of my performance from one of the competitions.  I looked like a stuffed sausage.  Horrified, I went out and bought something else to wear.  I told Deb that I’d gotten a new costume for myself because the original one made me look disgusting, and, immediately putting on her Protective Mom Voice, she demanded, “Who told you that?”  Deb was fully ready to clap whatever bitch called me fat.  Of course, I had called me fat, but I’ll always remember how she was ready to defend my honour at a moment’s notice.
• My final year competing, to Deb’s exasperation, I insisted upon doing a musical theatre solo. The number required me to wear a floor-length feather tail.  Deb (and everyone else) knew that I was (and still am) incredibly clumsy, and she was skeptical that I would get through it unscathed.  Before I went on stage with it for the first time, she said, “Sam, don’t trip on your tail.”  I made it through the whole dance without tripping, and, feeling like the baddest bitch on the block, I hit my ending pose and strutted offstage.  I saw Deb cheering in the wing, ready to give me her customary post-performance hug.  About two steps away from the curtain, disaster struck.  I somehow caught one foot on the other and went tumbling forward, almost face-planting into the wing.  I just barely caught myself on my hands and knees.  I was momentarily horrified by what Deb would say, but I looked up to see her doubled over laughing.  I started laughing too as I crawled out of the wing, and she helped me up, both of us now teary-eyed with laughter.

These two memories demonstrate just a couple of the many wonderful facets of Deb; she was fiercely protective of her girls and her studio, and she was always good for a laugh.  She was tough on us at the studio, but as long as we tried our best in our performances, even if we bombed it, she was always still so proud.  She was passionate about her craft and her kids, and more than anything, she was one of the strongest women I’ve ever had the privilege to know.

Rest in peace, Dancin’ Deb.

a Lady™’s reply to the Toronto Nice Guy™

Dear Toronto Nice Guy™,

I am writing in response to the lovely message you’ve been leaving us Ladies™ around the city, as seen here:

Firstly, I would like to thank you for your obviously very sincere concern.  It’s been so long since such a Classy Gentleman™ has shown any regard or respect for me as a person.  In fact, whenever I pass men on the street, I have become accustomed to being punched in the face, thrown into a nearby garbage can, and spat on.  It’s so comforting to know that there is someone out there, fedora at the ready, who is just waiting to “crush the life out of other men that would do me harm”.

I am so sorry that your proposals for “friendly evening chats” have been rejected by all those nasty women on their way home from a tiring day at work or standing in line at Starbucks, minding their own business.  How dare they not grant you, a random stranger, their time and undivided attention!  As we all know, those women have spent their entire days – nay, entire lives – just dreaming about being chatted up by a Nice Guy™ like you…only to shun the opportunity without a second thought!  Those bitches!

And I, for one, would be ever so grateful if a big, strong man such as you offered to help me, a Fragile Delicate Lady™, carry my two bags of groceries to my car.  Whenever I go to the grocery store, if there are no Men™ around to help me, I have no choice but to put my grocery bags on the ground and kick them across the lot to my car.  My Delicate Lady Hands™ just can’t handle the stress.  This method is unfortunately very inefficient and results in a lot of damaged goods.  I don’t even bother buying apples or bananas anymore.  But with you…I’d be able to have all the easily-bruised fruit I could ever eat!

It’s true; there are far too many men in this world who are, indeed, scum.  And we, with our delicate and naive Lady Brains™, need help protecting ourselves from them.  Thankfully, it’s clear that you are one of the Good Guys™.  One who, for the extremely admirable act of treating Ladies™ like human beings, only asks for one tiny thing in return – sexual and/or romantic validation!  After all, you were Nice™ to us!  You held open the door, didn’t catcall or degrade us (to our faces, anyway), and walked us five steps to our cars!  We OWE you!  As we all know, each act of Niceness™ earns you one coupon for a sexual and/or romantic favour, to be cashed whenever you see fit.  And of course, if the Lady™ refuses to accept your coupon, it absolutely entitles you to a tantrum.  After all, why would you be nice to anyone if you didn’t get anything in return?  What would be the point?  General human respect?  Pfft.

To think that you are losing sleep over women’s personal life choices…oh, how it pains me so!  If only these women could see that you are our true saviour, our true knight in shining armour.  Mark my words, I have seen the light.  Please, Sir Nice Guy™.  I am your damsel in distress, waiting atop my tower of despair, where I was locked by a band of Asshole Other Men™.  Come free me.  I promise, for the noble act of treating me like a human being, I offer you unlimited blowjobs for as long as we both shall live.

My panties are dropping as I type, fuelled by the sheer force of desire emanating from my vagina.

All of my love,

A Lady™

If you’d like to read more on my thoughts about Nice Guys™, please click here!