MISSIONARY

Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m blogging about the propagator not the position.

Late Thursday evening, as I was enjoying my privately chauffeured transit ride home (truthfully, there was one other passenger on the bus, but he was tucked away in the back), three young (19-20ish) men encroached on my exclusive ride. They were very well groomed and decked out in suit-n-tie.

Mormons.

Immediately, they engaged in their divide n’ conquer tactic. It’s funny how at ease I was with them commandeering the bus. Surely, I would have been put on edge by this action with any other trio of boys.

As each of the boys pursued a conversation with, the bus driver, the other passenger and myself, I couldn’t help but smile at the play that was unfolding before me.

He politely asked how I was, where I was coming from and where I was going. I openly told him, playing the part that was scripted for me. We made small talk as the bus rolled on. In between our conversational pauses I overhead segments of the other conversations, the same questions were being answered.

At this moment I decided to adlib, I wanted to deviate from the predictable script that lay before me.

“Are you Mormon?” I asked.

He was thrown, but only for a moment. He nodded.

It was my turn to control the direction of this conversation. I became the interviewer.

He was from Utah, one year into his two-year mission, the boy with the bus driver was six months in and the boy at the back was a year in. He learned Spanish for his mission. He’d been to Mexico once, on a family trip, but was not fluent in the language then. He was “called to service” after his first year of University, and he would return upon completion of his mission.

I could hear talk of scripture and God emanating from the back.

I was open to conversation, but I was not open to aggressive proselytism.

I believe that everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion. However, I do not believe the bible (or any other Religious Resource) should be used a weapon against people's differing beliefs.

I am fully aware of my rights - The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights Article 18 states: No one shall be subject to coercion which would impair his freedom to have or to adopt a religion or belief of his choice.

I pulled out my trump card, Elder Schulzka, my distant familial connection, through marriage, to the Mormon religion. The subtext of the Schulzka conversation was to make my new acquaintance aware that I understood his religious beliefs, respected his religious beliefs, but would not be converting to his religious beliefs.

Here’s my motto on religion: Don’t tell me that I’m going to hell, and I won’t tell you that you’ll be reincarnated into a worm.

I shook his hand and wished him good luck on his mission. I realized how impossible being a missionary would be in a metropolis like Toronto. I’m not saying that what he is doing is fruitless, just extremely difficult.

I felt for him, he was a very nice boy.

FEEL LIKE DANCING?

On a night out with the Girls, heading downtown, we were going south for some SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY. We, a DANCING QUEEN, a WILD THING, and a NAUGHTY GIRL, were ready to have some GOOD TIMES, so we called up our INFORMER and asked him, “WHERE’S THE PARTY AT?”

“Head into FUNKYTOWN”, He instructed, “You’re sure to have a WILD NIGHT, IN DA CLUB.”

WE LIKE TO PARTY, so we agreed to CHECK UP ON IT and HUNG UP. We filled the car with GASOLINA and headed off with a roar.

On our short road trip, we took a wrong turn. I’m not sure where we went wrong. Perhaps it waasss a right turn past the LONDON BRIDGES and not a left. We realized that we were in trouble when we passed a graffiti sign, which read: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE.

Suddenly, I DON’T FEEL LIKE DANCING.

We pulled over, unaware of the danger surrounding us, I’m talking about the kind of danger that was GONNA MAKE YOU SWEAT.

The street was teaming with PROMISCUOUS girls. One of these girls approached our car. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! Her DIRRTY, CRAZY bony hands slammed on the window. She told us that she was, THE ROCKAFELLER SKANK, and this was her territory. “I ain’t looking for no more girls, especially a NASTY GIRL like you, so move.”

We were insulted and WE’RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT.

"Oh, IT’S GOING DOWN, ‘cause I am definitely a HOLLABACK GIRL." I got out of the car, mustered up the RED NECK WOMAN in me, shouted, “MOVE THIS,” and took a swing at her. She hit the ground hard, I won.

However, I didn’t see her sidekick come at me from the behind. Fortunately for me, my friends did. As they demonstrated their ass-kicking ability, and ANOTHER ONE BITES THE DUST. Looking around we knew that we would soon be out numbered, so we BUST A MOVE and speed off, RIDIN’ DIRTY, still determined to not let that showdown be our LAST DANCE.

We FINALLY navigated our way towards Funkytown and into the club.

Some might ask if it was worth the trauma, just to express your L.O.V.E. for dancing.

I say, there are times in your life when, GROOVE IS IN THE HEART and YOU HAVE TO FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT (TO PARTY).

FOUR UNCOMPLICATED WORDS

I’ve been sick for the past 10 days, can’t seem to shake this cold-flu-whatever-it-is. I’m weak, I’m delirious and I’m grumpy. So, with the state of my disposition clarified I am now free to make my blogging demand (be grateful… the word is d-e-m-a-n-d, and not demand-plural).

YOU READ, YOU COMMENT!

Otherwise, you are no better than the perverted peeping tom spying on my life behind some rancid dumpster, or that degenerate who steals my underpants at the Laundromat, or the psychopath who covertly takes photos of me downblousing.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. You need serious clinical treatment. How can you live with yourself?

If this is not your intention or you are unfamiliar with my blogging rule, let me repeat it. “You read. You comment,” one very simple rule, four uncomplicated words. I’ll even make it easier for you. You don’t have to comment on every post, perhaps every other post or you could get into the habit of commenting once a week. I also read old posts’ comments, so feel free to comment on my previous publication.

Just think of it like summer camp, like the time you carved “______ (fill in the blank with your name) was here, 1988”, but instead of a knife and the wooden post of a bunk bed, you have a keyboard and the blank space on the comment link.

Don’t forget to leave your name, or your moniker, so I can rescind you from the pervert watch list.

Thanks for reading my delirious ramblings and indulging my high maintenance blogging expectations. As I head to my sick bed I leave you with these nine words, together they make a phrase (gotta love linguistics).

“This is not FREE entertainment, you read, you comment.”

P.S. Massive SHOUT OUTS to those first time readers who were gracious enough to follow the rules, and to my long time readers who faithfully comment. You make a girl want to rant on for your enjoyment.

THE NEXUS

A really wonderful Production Accountant once told me, "Production Accounting is the nexus between the dream and the reality."

Grateful to know I'm not the lone artist in a conservative department. Thanks Greg E.

HER SPECIAL DAY

Today would have been her 63rd birthday, but she did not live long enough to see her 61st. She waved goodbye on May 14th, 2004 and departed to a place where cancer could not cling.

She was my cheerleader, my confidant and my friend. I was fortunate to have known her for the last 10yrs of her life. I love her dearly and miss her greatly.

Happy Birthday Jackie.

GOOD WITH NUMBERS

“You’re good at Sudoku cause you’re Asian.” She says.

“So?”

“Your people invented it, you’re all good with numbers.” She replied.

She was racially stereotyping me because:

A) She has limited experiences with Asians
B) She is overtly racist
C) She’s incredibly ignorant
D) All of the above

I waved her off, not caring to correct her erroneous conclusions about Asians, which I’m positive she gathered from watching “my people” being portrayed in the media (huge bone of contention).

For her information: I’m good at Sudoku, because I like solving logic puzzles, not because I’m good with numbers.

Case in point: This week at work, it took the Payroll Accountant three tries on three separate occasions to get me to understand the mathematics involved in calculating the background performers’ payment. (It's really harder than it sounds. My head was spinning for hours, but I finally got it… Yay me!) Production accounting was supposed to be logical, not mathematical… someone lied to me!

I hate math. In fact, there are numerous high school journal entries pleading to the Numbers God to bless me with the brains to understand math, or at least let me scrape by with a passing grade. It never happened. I hate math.

GROWING OLD...

… but not grown up. On my 32nd birthday I stand unsure of where I should be seated… at the grown-up table or at the kids table. I know at age 32 I am technically a woman, but emotionally I am not ready to commit to full fledged adulthood. I live in this schizophrenic world where I am both woman and girl, at any given moment I will vacillate between both personalities.

I am a girl when I dance and sashay in bare feet, a woman when I mingle and saunter in heels.

In the mornings, my weary bones whispers woman. In the evening, my flannel pajamas screams girl.

A girl when I play, fight and cry. A woman when I work, argue and comfort. Both when I laugh, forgive and write.

I am a girl reminiscing about the past, a woman planning for the future and both living in the present.

Happy Birthday: Girl, Woman… Me.

SMART AND POLITE

I work in a really seedy part of town. In the daylight it appears harmless, but under the cloak of night the creeps come out to play.

Leaving work at 7:45, I knew that I wasn’t going to escape the darkness, but I thought I’d just to keep moving to keep the darkness from getting too close. Brilliantly, I made a safety call to my brother and swiftly walked myself two blocks to a busier, well-lit intersection, where I’d be much safer… or so I thought.

I noticed a young homeless man eyeballing me and eavesdropping on my conversation. Immediately, I switched to Vietnamese (at this moment I am very thankful for knowing another language) informing my brother of this creepy man. At this point, I’m in a real panic to get on the streetcar and abandon this uneasy situation... but that would be too convenient. I continue talking to my brother, this time, telling him exactly where I am, what I’m wearing and the exact route I plan on taking home. If anything were to happen to me at least they would know where to start looking.

Creepy man initiated contact.

Social norm dictates that when a person is on the phone it’s rude to interrupt. Correct? Wrong, apparently this etiquette only exists in my Miss-Manners-World.

“Do you have a token you could give me?”

I took a mental picture: Late twenties, early thirties. Black Runners. Dark Jeans. Trench coat (OH MY GOD… isn’t a trench coat the uniform for flashers, killers and rapists), an over-sized backpack (to carry his arsenal of weapons, of course) and biking gloves (GLOVES… no finger prints… OH SHIT).

“No, I don’t. Sorry.” I did not want to encourage a relationship based on a kind act. I was not feeling kind; I was feeling scared and awkward. Yet, I was still pleasant and polite. I didn’t want to offend him. After all, I did not want to be the headline on the evening news: RUDE GIRL GETS MANGLED AND KILLED.

Streetcar arrives, phone conversation over. Creepy man can’t get on without a token. I am safe… or so I thought.

He’s on.

I sit up front close to lots of people. (Well, four plus the driver… it was late. Sane and safe people get to leave work at a decent hour.) He heads to the back. Now, I’m safe… I was wrong… again.

He returns, without backpack.

“What’s your name?

I stare at him blankly.

Internal voice: Don’t give him your real name. Quick, think of something: Ingrid, Sophie, Jane… anything, just DON’T GIVE HIM YOUR REAL NAME. “Uh… Anna.”

Internal voice: Anna? You Idiot.

“Where are you going?”

Internal voice: Answer him. Keep it general. Be smart, not rude. “North.”

Internal voice: Ha, opposite direction confusion… smart and polite.

“North? Hmm?”

Internal voice: Hmm? Hmm, what? Hmm, you can read my mind and you know I’m lying? Hmm, it doesn’t matter which way I go cause you follow me anyway, and do bad things to me in a dark cornered recess… that kind of Hmm?

“I’m going to Spadina.”

Internal voice: Is he saying that to me because I’m Asian? Does he think this will bring us closer… because he’s headed to towards Chinatown we should be friends? “That’s nice.”

“I should eat this,” He proceeds to pull out a mint from his pocket. “To keep my breath smelling good, for when I kiss the girls.”

Inwardly, I grimace.

Internal voice: OH MY GOD! I don’t like where this conversation is going… Stop this conversation.

But instead, I smiled that polite half-smile that indicates, ‘I'll humor you so you won’t kill me’ and say, “That’s nice of you.”

Internal voice: What’s up with this ‘nice’ business? There’s nothing 'nice' about this whole situation, stop saying 'NICE'.

Uncomfortable silence.

“UUGGHH, Oh shit.”

Internal voice: What, What? I was ‘nice’, no reason for him to go off like this. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! “What’s wrong?”

Internal Voice: What are you doing? Stop talking to him. Move seats. Yell out to the driver. Stop talking to him!

“My backpack, I left it back there!” And with that, he ran to the back of the streetcar and never returned.

I ran off the streetcar, happy to be safe. SAVED BY A FORGOTTEN BACKPACK!

I'M THANKFUL FOR...

…my brother and his fiancé’s wonderful thanksgiving get-together. (Thanks Mike and Andrea) The dinner satisfied my turkey craving and the company was delightful. Reuniting with my brother’s friends, whom I hadn’t seen in a long time, was wonderful. I laughed so hard my face hurt. (Thanks Nancy, Morgan, Kelly, Jen, Cliff and Janet)

…holiday gatherings with my in-laws. This year’s get-together has dramatically changed, with Manny and Vidal’s marriage in July we are now a blended family. The usual six has now become nine. The abundance of food was delicious (Thanks Vida, Vanessa and Dad) and the company was lively. (Thanks Vida, Dad, Vanessa, Bijan, Dan, Cody, Mike and David)

…my mother’s strength. Even through her own turmoil she’s always able to lend an ear, a shoulder, a tissue and a warm embrace.

…my pre-birthday dinner celebration. (Thanks Mom, Dad, Chris, Jen, Mike and Andrea)

…my husband and my life.

FREE HUGS

Hugs. It's the most intimate way to connect with someone platonically. I love getting and giving hugs.

Here is my free hug to all my readers.


There are days when a free hug is all you need to chase the storm clouds away. Come back here if you ever need another hug.

CANADA'S GIVING THANKS

Thanksgiving, Canadian style.
(early October, not late November)

I'm excited for turkey! However, I'm hearing whispers around town that there might not be a turkey this Thanksgiving... THE HORROR! I'm sincerely sad at the possibility of not having a turkey.

I've never been one to abandon the Thanksgiving Day tradition of turkey, but this year I'm at the mercy of others. Two dinners invites and the turkey is not guaranteed.

I have certain turkey cravings and need my cravings satisfied damn it!

My brother and I once announced a craving for turkey one late April evening. Fortunately for us, my parents' freezer was housing the coveted turkey. Unfortunately for us, we were up until 1:30am cooking the coveted turkey. We were finally feasting on the flightless bird at two in the morning. It was, BY FAR, the best turkey I have ever eaten.

PEOPLE PERSON

An open letter to my insolent coworker:

Dear Oppressive Coworker,

Your presence has poisoned my work environment and I can no longer stand idle in the mist of this pollution, muzzled by my politeness. I am writing this letter to you, in a quest to free myself of all your negative energy.

Allow me to begin by saying that I have put forth a valiant effort to tolerate your malice, but how far must I bend before I break?

You have caused me to hate my job with a loathing generally reserved for baby killers and people who kick puppies.

I see the pained expression on you face when you are giving me instructions. I apologize if my inexperience with your division is causing you such discomfort, but YES, you have to deal with training me on something you have been doing for twenty years and, YES, I ask many questions when I’m confused. The questions may seem irrelevant or elementary to you but I need to know the details to do my job more efficiently.

Your demeaning statement, “I don’t need you to understand it, I just need you photocopy it,” has truly revealed how resentful you are of my attempt to acquire knowledge and how fearful you are of being outed as a SIMPLETON. You can attempt to maintain your know-it-all charade, but I see you for what you really are, which is ignorant.

You will not change me. I see this world with eyes of a curious child, in my mind continuing questions of why's and how's. You will not crush me. I will not let you douse my flames of knowledge with your venom of ignorance. I am not the cause of your misery. If you are unhappy, YOUR conduct is the cause. So suck it up, stop treating me like the bitch who is trying to jeopardize your job, and help me learn this crap already!

We are truly different creatures you and I, we do not speak the same language, causing continual misunderstandings. Clearly this is my fault, the next time that I have failed to do something you NEVER ASKED ME TO DO, I will remember to remind you that I flunked out of psychic school.

I will maintain a positive outlook and do whatever it takes to push through this undesirable working condition. I will attempt to endure my time with you a while longer, even if that means staying perfectly quiet all day while chanting to myself “I’ll be out of here soon. I’ll be out of here soon. I’ll be out of here soon.”

We only have two more months and then I can make a clean break from the rat-infested squalor housing your soul. I will smile politely and bid you farewell, secretly hoping that our paths will never cross again.

Sincerely,

Me.

P.S. When you have to ask someone if you are a “people person”, chances are the answer is a blatant NO!