*Real* opportunity cost

My last entry was less of a whine about my current positions in life, and more of a comparative analogy to recent events that inspired me to step back and reconsider the feeling of vulnerability I know so many of us have.

I was not whining, I was feeling rather reassured.

Quite a few people I know these days, of all ages and locations, are faced with career, marriage and citizenship choices. They all know what they want: happiness, reasonable freedom and above all fulfillment. This translates loosely into: success. I am not talking about the American dream. As far as I can tell, the American dream has been appropriated by the media and it's less of a dream and more of a military mandate as of late, so I will just talk about something more new-agey. I am talking about how hard it is, once we know what we want, to develop the best way to get there. We feel as though, if we mess something major up along the way, the destination just won't quite be all we'd imagined if we find it at all. That scares the hell out of most of us, which is why we developed mottos like: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. We remind ourselves, that we have to enjoy the journey. We do *have* to enjoy the journey when we can, but I'm saying it's very OK to be scared sometimes.

I found myself walking along Rue St. Catherine, the shopping district, taking another unplanned day off work due to visitors from out of town. I was thinking of my opportunity cost. I felt I should have been working, or at least learning how to make video clips on my computer or something. Justifying my day off by thinking of it as an investment in my long term future proved effective, though. These were no run-of-the-mill visitors; these were potential in-laws. I plan to like my potential in-laws and have them like *me* dammit!! Since my plan seems to be working, I allowed myself to feel productive, and therefore, happy.

As we walked along in this bustling busy wave of shoppers, I noticed an unhappy little girl crossing the street with the pack of people we'd joined. She was on the heels of her mother, a cold looking woman in a business suit, and I felt sad for her. She looked as though her mother was very angry. The little girl was wringing her hands and her bottom lip trembled. The woman was so angry she didn't even look back to see if the little girl was ok.

My god, I thought, how can anyone be irresponsible enough to allow a child to walk through a crowd like this without holding her hand. The girl was in a slow run, keeping up with this woman. I was very concerned so I hurried my pace to keep up with them. At this point, I really looked at the dirty t-shirt the little girl was wearing, how her curls hadn't been brushed, that her sneakers were muddy and thought this prim and spotless mother and muddy sneaker-wearing daughter match was an unlikely pair. I fought through the crowd to get closer to the girl and asked her, "Are you lost?"

She nodded and took my hand. It almost broke my heart. It *did* upset my stomach.

I told her she was OK and I was going to help her. We walked nearer to the buildings and I became fearful that she would get lost in the crowd again. Someone had already lost her! She looked so vulnerable in this crowd, I wouldn't be able to bear knowing it happened to her again. I felt it was very important to tell her exactly what the game plan was for getting her back to her parents. We would go to a store and ask to use their phone, so we could call the police and tell them that she has lost her daddy. The police would call her daddy and tell him not to worry, they would get Sonia to him as soon as possible.

But, I wasn't thinking clearly. My boyfriend was with me and I had forgotten he had a cell phone. We could have called right there. In any case, he took care of the police report while I entertained this little girl. She was a darling 8 years old with a quivering lip that almost made me cry. Instead, I joked around with her, asked her questions about her dad, what she did that day and all the while I was thinking: I am still a stranger to her. I wanted nothing more than for her to know she was absolutely safe. This was more than I could ask.

We were instructed to bring her to a specific street corner where we would meet the police. It was a long 10 minutes of waiting once we got there, but this little girl was so brave. She had tears in her eyes, and looked as though if she started she wouldn't stop. Sonia held them back. I told her it was OK to feel scared, that it could happen to anyone, that her dad surely had already spoken with the police and that in a few minutes they would come. I think I talked too much, but it stopped her from crying.

The officer parked across the street and we waved him down. I introduced Sonia, and said in a light silly voice, "She's lost her daddy." The officer answered saying, "Well Sonia, we just *found* your daddy!" He thanked us, too, and I felt like gushing a "you're welcome." But, I feared if I started *I* might not stop. Besides, there was no one really to thank here, we all just did what was necessary.

At that age, kids often still have the impression that policemen are altruists, that their job is to help people...and I could see the relief in her face. Finally she felt completely safe. Midway through the crosswalk, she turned and yelled, "Thank you." My heart broke for the second time that day. I didn't want to let her go, I was still worried for her.

In the same way I have felt a major soft spot with doctors who have helped me or my family in a time of need, I loved this little girl immediately.

The event has taken me a while to get over. I was so relieved that *I* was the one to find her. It is scary enough having children walking with you on a busy street, knowing the frightening variety of people there...especially in that part of town, but thinking that she was ALONE just makes me ill. Now, I am not giving myself credit as the only person who would have helped her. There were so many other people around and they saw her, too. It just scared me that I was the first one to step in. The point, though, is that I did. I will never see her again, I will never meet her father...but for all three of us, it turned out OK.

It's OK to be scared, we just can't lose hope.

Redirecting the puddle perverts

Thanks to the cute little pink button of a counter I have at the bottom of this page, I not only see what sites referred people to my journal, but I can also see what words people searched for in Google and Yahoo that ultimately brought them here. I am noticing a pattern and in a 'potty humour' way, I find it entertaining.

By expressing my distaste for public urination in previous posts, I have inadvertently attracted people who like it. Now I don't mean to rain on your parade if that's how you got here...but I really think I should make it clear that although I have used the words: "girl, pissing, pee and little" they weren't all in the same sentence! Nor will I ever use those words in the same sentence, so I'll have to leave you unfulfilled.

How is it that even though high school is long over, I still attract all the wrong guys?

What's good for the goose...

Sometimes I think I am too intuitive for my own good. Sometimes I'm not.

I am a very reasonable person except when I allow myself the privilege of the occassional irrational episode in the same way that I allow myself to polish off an entire bag of Miss Vickie's jalapeno chips. I gorge myself and then feel terrible afterward.

On the way home from the airport, having just dropped off my visiting sisters, my boyfriend insisted I drive the car. I really despise driving in Quebec because the drivers really are as bad as you may have heard. In addition to not using signal lights, driving far too fast and passing you on solid lines the department of highways gives us far too much credit as Quebecois drivers. On roads that would be fit for two lanes in any other province or state, there are three. The Decarie Interchange is so badly designed, in fact, that urban planning students are often sent to study it. This, explains the professor, is how you are not to do things.

So that is what I was faced with while I quietly tended to my emotional hangover. By the time I reached the Ville-Marie Tunnel, I was not at all prepared to deal with it. It is a long curving three-lane tunnel with bright lights on the ceiling and upper walls, leaning brick on either side and I swear it goes on for 1km. After about 20 seconds, I started to go cross-eyed. My palms began to sweat and all I could think about was how easily, should my hands slip, could I ricochet off the adjacent wall and cause a major accident. Dont think about it! Just drive! I got myself so nervous obsessing over the bad design of the hazardous tunnel that it occurred to me, since an accident was inevitable, that maybe I should just get it overwith. Maybe I should just drive into the wall so I could stop being scared of it accidentally happening. This is also why I am frightened of heights. Once I get close to an edge, falling seems probable.
I am really glad I am not crazy. I could be dangerous.

In any case, I got us safely through the other end of the tunnel and arrived at home in need of a tall cold drink.

That night I met up with some of my best friends who traveled as far as England for this get together. My boyfriend expressed his disappointment in that we wouldn't be having any time alone together for a while yet. C'est la vie! The next installment of visitors had arrived and I intended to enjoy them. After far too many drinks on my balcony we decided to go to a popular seedy club in the gay village to dance the night away. Well, that was the intention anyway...but I already had a strange feeling about one of the girl's he'd invited over. She is an aspiring model I'd had issues with before. I know that he's gone for drinks with her alone, that he thinks she's hot, that he thinks she's funny. I'd met her before and immediately was relieved that she wasn't nearly as cute as I'd imagined. I thought that I would be comfortable around them...but something felt off.

As soon as we arrived, we met our first challenge. The club didn't allow people in with open-toed shoes; claiming it was too dangerous. Fortunately, faking the British accent she'd learned so well after living in London for 2 years, charmed the doorman enough to let her in "just this once." Once inside, my boyfriend who claimed to have missed me so much all week, began dancing with the model. Now, the club plays cheesy R&B and Sean Paul dancehall so the dancing that was going on involved humping each others asses and a lot of touching. I tried to ignore it. That sort of thing usually doesn't bother me at all. I am not a jealous person. I am secure in my relationship. I am reasonable. I was going crazy.

For about 45 minutes the dancing went on. For about 45 minutes I allowed myself an episode of irrationality.

At that point, I didn't want to talk to either of them. I felt shafted. I felt demoted. I was not my boyfriend's right hand man. He thought I was being unreasonable and became quite frustrated with me. I wanted to agree with him, but the figurative bag of chips wasn't yet empty.

When she tried to talk to me, she had intelligent things to say like, "Can you believe how cheap the drinks are!?" and "Are you having fun!?" To avoid saying anything I might regret, I opted to be monosyllabic and turn away. Finally I realized it might just be best for me to go to another floor of the club and concentrate of having a good time with my traveling friends. So I did, and she followed.

I was in full eye-rolling and growling/hissing mode. I felt like I was 16. It was almost as rejuvenating as it was frustrating. I just couldn't figure out why it was bothering me so much, though.

The night went on, we all went home and there was a little tension in the air. My boyfriend felt stifled and judged, I felt shafted and misunderstood.

It wasn't until I was talking to a friend of this butt-humping model that it was revealed to me that her intention was to inspire a threesome. She confided in this friend that she didn't think I was "into her."

Damn right I wasn't into her. Doesn't she know threesome inciting etiquette!? You are supposed approach the woman first. You have to make the woman feel special before you hump her boyfriend's ass. Not that I would have wanted to do that with her but at least there wouldn't have been all the weird tension.

In any case, that little revelation really helped us clear the air. I was right; I wasn't being unreasonable. She was trying to get into my boyfriend's pants. I just didn't realize she wanted to get into mine, too.

Slowly, but surely

Yes, I'm still around. The reason why I haven't written anything to prove it, is that there are a lot of other people around, too. My two sisters, both almost 15 years my senior just flew to Montreal to escape their small hometowns for a week. It would have been ideal if only they didn't nag and prod each other like they've been doing for the last 35 years.

We had a fun-filled week despite the sibling rivalry. When they first arrived, they were both on their best behaviour so we spent a bit of time enjoying the Montreal street festivals and sampling foods that simply aren't available in Nova Scotia's bologne country. We had Pho and souvlaki, Montreal smoked meat, vindaloo and naan, cocktails, microbrewed everything and Brazilan breakfast. It was delightful...but left me bloated and craving some grilled cheese sandwiches...or something equally bland.

It was so fun to have a houseful of people I love, but my live-in love was absent. I guess he was trying to give me space; some alone time with my sisters. Little did he realize that they were here to shed all responsibility and party down. He missed out on quite a bit, and I missed him.

Yesterday, in the heart of rush hour, we drove them to the airport. He did so begrudgingly because he wanted to go swimming with his friend instead, but I insisted he make a little sacrifice and show our guests some Maritime hospitality on their way home at least. Hospitality means being totally willing to inconvenience yourself and make light of it for the sake of your visitors. I became frustrated with him for not realizing this. Apparently in the suburbs of Ottawa where he was raised, this type of hospitality is not required when it comes to rush hour traffic.

Once we dropped them off, we drove to a mall in the area to enjoy the air conditioning and wait out the rest of the rush. He decided that I really need to learn how to drive to the airport. I do. I need to practice, but I had a raging emotional hangover from the recent departure of my beloved family, and I just wasn't in the mood...

(account of mild emotional breakdown to follow...)

Spreading bad vibes, one inconsiderate act at a time

So, I am drying my hair in my 'salle de bain', I look out my window and see a stylishly dressed 25-year-old pissing outside. Recently, the technique of suggesting an alternative location to piss has been quite effective in getting them to go elsewhere. The drunks, surprisingly, are polite and apologetic for the most part. Dealing with stylishly dressed 25-year-olds is an entirely different matter. I called out of my little window: "There is a washroom at the cafe around the corner!" He looked around and located me, zipped and approached my window asking, "What?!" I repeated myself and he responded in the way only someone who recently emerged from adolescence could, "Well I wasn't AT the cafe, was I!?"

Well, he had me there. He certainly wasn't. He no longer had to pee either, so I acknowledged that there isn't much else I could do. He kept standing there, though, so I felt inclined to say something.

"It's illegal," I said.
"So call the police," he answered. Then he hurried from the park.

The problem with reporting public pissers is that they leave when they get the job done. Well, except for the drunks. But they are already "gone" in their own special way.

After this little interaction, I started brainstorming again. I reminded myself of my plan to take photos of these pissers. I reminded myself of my plan to arm myself with a "super soaker" filled with vinegar. I reminded myself of a poster campaign that could plant a seed a paranoia in the minds The Urinators. It would suggest that a violent man often hides in those same bushes and had been known to attack unsuspecting Urinators when the have their pants down. Or, perhaps I could just spread some disgusting concoction all over the grass, something not even Urinators would walk on. Then I reminded myself that this is a losing battle. No matter how hard I try to dissuade these men, they'll always be full of piss.

The feeling that was left with me was absolute frustration. I was actually shaking. I wanted to follow him and take his picture and find out where he lives, and piss on his doorstep. I did make a mental note of his face. I like to think we'll cross paths again. When we do, I am hoping he'll make a pass at me, at which point I will mention that I have already seen him with his pants down, and I wasn't very impressed.