Mo(u)rning coffee

I would sit here at my wooden desk with papers strewn as I am right now, sipping coffee from my grandmother's cup, the hand-potted one with the purple thistle painted on the side. The lamp in the corner glows yellowish, creating a little warmth in my chilly apartment. Outside there is freezing rain, and the light from the window is blue. It arrives as foggy clusters rather than rays. I've finished my toast and am beginning to come to terms with leaving my home this morning, as I do every morning I don't sleep through.

I would write a more complete and insightful entry in my journal. Probably one of the story lines I've mentally drafted while walking to and from the metro station each morning (meeting all the same faces in either direction). Maybe the one that moved me to tears, causing passers-by to think I'd had a really rough day at the office.

It's cloudy at 9:15 a.m. and I am already supposed to be at work, were it a regular day. Having given my notice of resignation weeks ago, I'm anxious for my last day to arrive. I remember praying for a nine-to-five job, and now, I don't want it anymore. No wonder the powers that be ignore my requests sometimes. I imagine them rolling their gargantuan eyes.

In a few moments, I'll publish this post and fix my hair. I'll brush my teeth, and make my way to the doctor's office and then the bank. Then, I'll go to work, thankful for the respite from routine.

And, thank you for the coffee date.

Young pro(con)fessional

It was my first. In Quebec we call them "5 à 7", known to the rest of North America as "Happy Hour". The grand gathering of suits, a young professional association, had an air that was anything but professional.

The invitation I'd accepted from my supervisor was supposed to enable networking and introduce me to likeminded start-ups with similar goals. Hosted in a section of the city I prefer to mock than mingle with, the evening left me foreign in my own land. As the Anglophone minority, the rift was further complicated by my status as an "assistant", which my supervisor mistakenly replaced with the title "intern". My cringe was surely visible to the naked eye, but she, a young professional herself, was blinded by newly acquired status and several glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

The bouchées were mildly appetizing and provided a welcome reprieve from actively averting my eyes from sex-starved twenty- and thirty-somethings. My co-worker and officemate, a charismatic woman in her very early forties, claimed to be starving and so sampled many a bouchée. On the advice of her homeopath, or perhaps it was her naturopath---the two are at odds---who diagnosed her with a gluten allergy, she gracefully selected small crackers from the server's tray, licked off the topping and stashed the wet crackers on an abandoned table. I giggled in delight at her fantastic lack of giving-a-shit.

The only man I engaged at the schmooze-fest was introduced to me as an "up-and-coming business journalist". I realized the pun when his girlfriend rang his cell phone to check on him, and he promptly reassured me that she is "very open-minded". The conversation droned with his business terminology and my feigned interest.

The dinner to follow featured a motley crew of personalities at the table, all belonging to women from my department. All beautiful, all blonde, none as I'd expected. The inexperienced waitress assigned to us opened our wine in a manner that made me fear for her safety. Slipping twice as she sliced the foil, I wondered if it was her first or third time opening for an audience. She strangled the neck of the bottle, twisting as she drilled in the corkscrew, then hauled the cork with a deafening "pop!" like someone's drunk cousin at a wedding.

As the Shiraz women distinguished themselves from the Sauvignon Blanc women, confessions began to roll from red carpet tongues. Gossip and opinions flitted about like the women at the Dior promo booth. Sex dominated, and professionalism never entered the room.

As bottles were drained, the evening came to a close. I kissed-kissed my companions and clicked away in my heels, still feeling like a foreigner in my own city. As it was early enough, I promptly exchanged my satin-sashed pants and strappy shoes for jeans and Converse, and headed to my friend's home for a beer, bearing perfumed gifts from Dior.

My life in costume

It's been at least 90 days since I've picked up something I've dropped, between the hours of nine and five. In my past life, I was accustomed to picking up my own dropped quarters, pens and such. In my new life, this is no longer necessary. My new life came equipped with gentlemen in suits who quicken their pace to retrieve items for me.

I try not to let it go to my head. I know they are only doing their gentlemanly duty, but still, it is fun to let things drop.

The passage into my new life occurred the day I picked up my security pass for the firm that hired me. It came with the realization that I would need to build a new wardrobe, suitable for a highly visible and serious organization. My freelancer ways were to be shelved. No more late rising or long nights. I would exist in this new life between nine and five in skirt suits and heels. I would hum the inspired Dolly Parton song to myself, alone in my large, windowless office---but, I would never bend over again.

Respite

On damp grey mornings, I feel as though the whole world is sleeping, and that I have been granted a respite from my duties---that no one will notice I am daydreaming about spring, and doing little else.

Writer's guil(t)

Believe it or not, my day job is 'wordsmithing'. Or rather, that's the term I like to use when I refer to my budding career in Public Relations.

I write all sorts of documents, for all sorts of organizations - none of which make me question my morals or social responsibility. I assure you.

My mentors, all confident, beautiful professional women, and have instilled in me a new writing-related value.You see, in the days of e-media, the art of writing has stepped aside to:

1) Save time
2) Save space

And, considering that a ridiculous percentage of the population is functionally illiterate, AND we are instructed to write at a Grade 6-level when appealing to the masses, it is the duty of the loyal few to stay true to rules of grammar, spelling and punctuation. Language evolves. Haven't we bastardized it enough?

As a Canadian writer, I have particular pride in preserving Canadian English, and resisting American-style. This is not elitism, but rather a silent plea to be recognized as a distinct nation.

We have no late nites in Canada. Nor do we add color or flavor to our prose. We avoid inappropriate behavior and never gossip about our neighbors. I am not saying this in self-defense.

What am I getting at? I am guilty of breaking these rules in this journal. And, I feel that guilt.

A meeting of Canadian English and American English does not frighten me as much, however, as the thought of the complete disintegration of the base language. I fear for the fate of English in both nations. After all, we don't have the best role models.

To think it has become the international language of trade. What have we done!?

As writers, albeit online, we have a responsibility to carry the torch. I am forced to disagree with the (I can't bring myself to capitalize his 'p') president of the United States, when he says:

"Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children."
- George W. Bush

Teaching our children proper English is everyone's responsibility.Well, except the president's, because he's clearly incapable.

What am I doing?

There is something to be said for 9-to-5 jobs. I mean, I don't have one, but I am fantasizing about one. Having contracts is fine. There is a lot of variety in the writing I'm doing, but sometimes what is expected of me isn't very clear.

Having just completed a contract for an insurance company---preparation of all the documents (and a speech) for an upcoming conference---I've moved on to greyer areas. I'm volunteering my media relations inexpertise to help a friend who has recently opened a dance studio, and I'm working for bread-and-butter with a team to prepare a book honouring a major organisation's anniversary.

Now, knowing exactly what was expected of me would make it a little more fun.

Geek love

I love my job so much that I have an urge to use profanities to express the fact. Am I normal?

Well, it's not really a job. It's good fortune. I'll expand after my meeting.

Old people 101

This project I'm working on recently required the creation of a radio spot to promote a non-profit organization. It only had to be 30 seconds long. I had no idea it was going to take me 10 hours to make it. OK, so it might not have taken sooooo long if my plan hadn't been so ingenious.

I chose to support a project that assists the elderly in Montreal. Basically, they pair up a fogie with a yungin' and, if all goes well, they'll help them shop and get to appointments...and go to picnics...and all that sweet stuff.

Imagine how good you would feel knowing that because you gave 2 hours each week, an older person was able to continue living in their own home? I mean, no one wants to be institutionalized and it really pisses them off that just because they are scared of breaking a hip on the ice, people start treating them like they're crazy.

To promote these people properly, I was going to have to give them a voice. So I wrote a script, armed myself with an audio recorder and realized: I don't know any old people.

Well I do, but Peter and John don't count. Even with their 0/20 vision they undress me with their eyes. In fact, if they slipped on the ice in front of me, I would suspect they just did it to cop-a-feel when I pick them up.

Where could I find old people? I mean, the whole point is that they can't get out of their houses in this crappy weather! Then, then I realized just how resourceful I could be, donned my boots and headed for the food court at the mall.

Now, I don't know if you've ever approached old people with a tape recorder and some papers, but it was generally like approaching an injured bird. They get really flustered as you near them, and wish more than anything that you would just go the hell away.

These people have been harassed by soliciters for nearly as many decades as there's been electricity. If they seemed like injured birds to me surely I was a frothing rabid toy-poodle to them.

To put them at ease once I introduced myself, I assured them I was trying to sell them nothing. And when I heard myself reassuring them, I realized I sounded like a door-to-door religious recruiter. Apparently I did, because the question to follow was inevitably, "Are you one of those Jehovah's Witnesses?"

OK, so I got off to the wrong start...there was still hope. I told them I was promoting a non-profit organization, supported by credible insititutions and can assist older people in need of a little extra help with grocery shopping and other errands...

At this point they would cut me off and tell me how old they were, what diseases they'd suffered, wars they'd fought, the number of children they'd raised and to which Christian sect they are part.

Then, I would remind them that I needed them to read a sentence aloud that I would record for this commercial. The most common answer: "No no no no no. Ohhhhh, no no no no no. Good bye."

I'm sure it would have been easier to convert them to Raelianism, than get them to co-operate.

Some of the people I asked were downright rude, some were mean, some were annoying, some were scared of me, some were really wonderfully sweet...

... but it took me nearly 3 hours to find them.

Old people, my friends, are simply people who've gotten old. I fear not all of us learn to be kind to our neighbors and love unconditionally...some of us just get pissed off.

In any case, I wish I had more time to share the bloopers of the project, the strange things said and just why it is complicated to have diabetes, high cholesterol and a bum knee...

But, with limited time and space I will simply share my successes.

A delightful woman, aged 86, was kind enough to yell into the microphone: "THERE'S GOING TO BE A PARTY!"

And a delightful man, aged 80 with a thick Russian accent, yelled "RHOCK MUZEEK, RHEALLY HLOUD MUZEEK, RHEALLY HLOUD HROCK HMUSIC..."

I didn't *ask* him to say that...but he did.

And it made my day.

So, thank you to the food court crew! May the coffee be fresh and the summer come soon.