On the Quest to be Hired…
Alas, not two weeks ago I was, again, searching for a new job. Today, here I sit, Macbook and cup of Oolong tea at hand. I’ve got a booze manual with more information than you’d find on the MCATs and I’ve got to know pretty much everything in it, front to back, by next Tuesday.
It’s daunting but refreshing. I’ve been drinking for more than a decade, but somehow, I still know relatively nothing about all my poisons. This is my chance to delve into the wonderful, delicious, calming, warm, fuzzy, happy (or depressed - we’ll see how much learning I get done today) world of liquor!
All “hires” will have to write a test of 100 questions. If I get the best mark, I’ll be rewarded somehow. If I get the worst mark, I’ll be cut.
Join me on the quest to get the job and to change my view and knowledge of spirits forever! You just might learn something too along the way ;)
The medium-sized “two-five.”
Here it comes. In less than an hour, the clock will change over once again, this time commemorating the day I was born 25 years ago.
I’m a little uncomfortable about it. Mostly, I’m afraid to wake up tomorrow and have not even the smallest answer to the question “What the hell is going on?!” Although I can’t see why an answer would suddenly and whimsically appear considering I’ve been asking the same thing every day for a quarter of a century.
I’m afraid to wake up tomorrow and get lost again in the flowing crowds and cemented schedules that continues anew every year to brush away the tiny path traced in front of me . I’m afraid that tomorrow morning will turn into the morning of my 26th birthday in one hurried flash, leaving me to read this note one year later with nothing but a higher pile of to-do dreams and a few thousand more dollars in debt tacked onto this doggy-eared punchcard of life. It makes me wonder how many more days I’ve got to smile and trot through to get to one divine moment of knowing at least one definite truth.
When I turned 24, just after I moved to Toronto, my imagination ran carelessly toward an oblivion of success. It still runs, except now toward some insurmountable dream instead, one I can no longer grasp or name. But at least I can still feel it (that’s probably more than most could say.)
I really hope they’re all right; I really hope I’m not as old as I think, that I’ve “still got time.”
It’s been a big year. I’ve made a large step toward legitimate independence. I’ve taken tiny steps toward a sort of career I painfully want (after steadily digressing for several years before that). I bought my first pair of Lulu Lemons. I’ve stayed in a big house by myself overnight without wanting to poop myself. I’ve found support and faith in my father, something I never thought would happen. I finally accepted my mother actually means it when she says she believes in me. I’ve been a redhead, a brunette and a blond—with bangs too! I opened an RRSP. I went to New York City with two of the people I love most in this world. I started Taekwondo. I whitened my teeth with Crest Whitestrips (and couldn’t believe it worked). I’ve lost love, found love then lost it again. I’ve ruined friendships (hopefully not beyond repair) and made some pretty sweet ones.
Maybe 25 doesn’t look so scary.
People suck. But not always.
It’s 8:34 on Thursday morning. I’ve secured a small amount of space near a pilar at Yonge and Bloor—only one more transfer to go after this. I look up at the subway map to quadruple check that Don Mills is fact the last stop on the Sheppard subway line. It is.
The utter despair I feel after having calculated approximately another 30 minutes left of my morning journey must show on my face because as my eyes catch those of a short, slim woman with dirty blond hair, she stops her speedy stride and turns to me. She’s about my age. She looks like one of those girls you wouldn’t want to look at the wrong way for fear of stirring some undeterminable rage within, resulting in a few benign threats and curse words. But her eyes are not only inquisitive; they’re kind too.
She looks at the map from which I’ve just torn my angry glare, then she looks at me.
“Do you need help?”
You don’t hear those words every day.
I say “No.” quickly and she disappears into the undulating blanket of toque-and wintercoat-adorned working class moving across the subway platform.
This is my Toronto.
It’s hit me hard.
The fun in the sun is officially over. It’s time to come back down and get some work done. Much much more to come!
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Three days left till September, but the cool crisp air has already marched in and taken over the warm fuzzy memories of summer 2010. It’ll always be remembered as the season of three unstoppable girls, hot smooth stones of immense shine and game.
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On Wednesday, July 14, I sang at my friend Arlene Paculan’s show at the Trane Studio at Bathurst and Bloor.
My friend Tyler played guitar for me. Good times were had.
