Every once in a while there are those periods where my life resembles an episode of Lucy or the Lucy Show. Last week for instance: my ancient washing machine died. While I awaited the visit of the repairman (who gave me the diagnosis) i knocked a beer glass off the counter and it broke. I had to vacuum up glass. Then my cheap sunglasses fell and broke. This was all in the space of an hour. At those times I simply go WWWAAAAAAAAAAAH! and channel Lucille Ball.
The transmission on the ancient machine is gone and now, in addition to apartment hunting, I now have to traipse around looking for places to do laundry. Unfortunately, my neigbhourhood is not exactly blessed with laundromats. The nearest is several blocks away, which means lugging heavy bags of laundry on a bus. I also go to my mother's and use her machine. This is not exactly how I intended to spend the month of April but after a very busy work month in march, I had already decided to slow down a bit. I am looking for an apartment and now, I have to find a rock on which to beat my washing.
The long, glum winter was also fraught with domestic disasters: a noisy valve somewhere in the building kept me up at nights in January. My phone service crapped out for three days in February. Now I'm a wandering Laundry Jew.
Of course, I could always look on the BRIGHT side, as everyone insists you do when your life just sucks canal water. The machine didn't blow up and flood the place or start a fire (Sitting amidst a flood of suds- that would have been Lucy!). It's not winter so all that shlepping around won't be in the freezing cold. And I have at least three places I can do laundry. Which is what I'll be doing tonight. Laundromat on a saturday night. That's not Lucy, that's the potential serial killer on Law and Order SVU.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
In honour of Valentine's day...an old favourite. The Male Space time Continuum
You meet a guy, you hit it off, you let him know you like him. Maybe you even say, "I like you". And then he vanishes, never to be seen or heard from again. No phone calls, no emails, or perhaps some embarrassed sounding email about how busy he is and just doesn't have time to date.
Where do these men go? to the Male Space-time Continuum.
What is this place? Where is it? how to they get there? no one really knows except the men who go there and they're not telling.
In the Wizard of Oz, the charm is "There's no place like home." In the old TV commercial, it was "Calgon, take me away." To send a man into the Continuum, you have to tell him you like him, but there are other keys to the kingdom. Sometimes, they simply vanish there after having an orgasm inside you. There is no set pattern.
The Continuum itself is a giant basement with several giant tv screens which show 24 hour sports. Men sit around in their underwear, with served beer and chicken wings served by nude Playboy, Penthouse or Sports illustrated models who are also deaf mute. There are no cell phones, email or communication devices of any kind.
It's not surprising that they don't want to leave. However, they don't always remain indefinitely. It depends on what sends them there. If you tell them you like them, it could be good for a term of a few months, after which they will resurface at their convenience and when they run out of underwear. Telling them you love them or that you want to have a child with them will most certainly result in an indefinite terms and you will have to find someone else or resort to a surrogate or frozen eggs.
The Continuum is not for men only. There are women there, sent by men who, on the first date will Take It Out or who insist on describing their latest exploits on World of Warcraft in detail. Women in the Continuum sit around in their underwear, drinking beer and watching sports without men expressing surprise that they actually know the meaning of Earned Run Average.
The Continuum is also known for its mammoth piles of socks, sent there by clothes dryers worldwide. You may run out of underwear, but in the Continuum, neither men nor women will be sockless.
Where do these men go? to the Male Space-time Continuum.
What is this place? Where is it? how to they get there? no one really knows except the men who go there and they're not telling.
In the Wizard of Oz, the charm is "There's no place like home." In the old TV commercial, it was "Calgon, take me away." To send a man into the Continuum, you have to tell him you like him, but there are other keys to the kingdom. Sometimes, they simply vanish there after having an orgasm inside you. There is no set pattern.
The Continuum itself is a giant basement with several giant tv screens which show 24 hour sports. Men sit around in their underwear, with served beer and chicken wings served by nude Playboy, Penthouse or Sports illustrated models who are also deaf mute. There are no cell phones, email or communication devices of any kind.
It's not surprising that they don't want to leave. However, they don't always remain indefinitely. It depends on what sends them there. If you tell them you like them, it could be good for a term of a few months, after which they will resurface at their convenience and when they run out of underwear. Telling them you love them or that you want to have a child with them will most certainly result in an indefinite terms and you will have to find someone else or resort to a surrogate or frozen eggs.
The Continuum is not for men only. There are women there, sent by men who, on the first date will Take It Out or who insist on describing their latest exploits on World of Warcraft in detail. Women in the Continuum sit around in their underwear, drinking beer and watching sports without men expressing surprise that they actually know the meaning of Earned Run Average.
The Continuum is also known for its mammoth piles of socks, sent there by clothes dryers worldwide. You may run out of underwear, but in the Continuum, neither men nor women will be sockless.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Why love my neighbour?
For the past two weeks, a backhoe has been operating across the street at the Mackay center, where they are obviously doing renovations of some sort. Unfortunately, they are working on the weekends and the backhoe begins at 8 am and continues for most of the day.
I am fortunate, as my bedroom is in the back and I live in a basement. However, not everyone on the street is so blessed. Since the employees of the school are not here on weekends, they aren't woken up by this din and it seems that whoever contracted this work didn't consider the area residents. Perhaps we might not want to hear a backhoe on a weekend morning. They probably don't have to consult the area residents and so they didn't. They likely don't NEED to have the workers there on a weekend, but probably WANT the work done more quickly.
Last summer the smell of tar from their roof wafted into my living room for 2 weeks. They had to get it done by the time the students returned. Understandable. It also didn't make any noise, even if it did stink. However, this is an assault, and truly disgusting. No one complains about the lack of parking or the buses since everyone is aware of the school and its purpose. Unfortunately, they don't seem to have given us the same benefits. I don't care what kind of school they are. They are shitty neighbours, no better than the screaming couple, the lunkheads with bratty kids or the guys who have all night parties. For what it's worth, and I doubt it will do any good, I plan to give these good people a phone call on Monday and inquire as to the status of their renovations.
I am fortunate, as my bedroom is in the back and I live in a basement. However, not everyone on the street is so blessed. Since the employees of the school are not here on weekends, they aren't woken up by this din and it seems that whoever contracted this work didn't consider the area residents. Perhaps we might not want to hear a backhoe on a weekend morning. They probably don't have to consult the area residents and so they didn't. They likely don't NEED to have the workers there on a weekend, but probably WANT the work done more quickly.
Last summer the smell of tar from their roof wafted into my living room for 2 weeks. They had to get it done by the time the students returned. Understandable. It also didn't make any noise, even if it did stink. However, this is an assault, and truly disgusting. No one complains about the lack of parking or the buses since everyone is aware of the school and its purpose. Unfortunately, they don't seem to have given us the same benefits. I don't care what kind of school they are. They are shitty neighbours, no better than the screaming couple, the lunkheads with bratty kids or the guys who have all night parties. For what it's worth, and I doubt it will do any good, I plan to give these good people a phone call on Monday and inquire as to the status of their renovations.
Friday, December 17, 2010
For the love of (My) money
Last week, I received a donation request from an employment agency. It is affiliated with a cultural community and I used their services for about a year and a half. I attended employment workshops, courses and seminars and used their website to find jobs. I had more than sufficient experience and qualifications, but during that year and a half, the jobs I found were:
1) writing a help file for a man who, with his nephew, had an idea for software and was hoping to develop and promote it. However, he was lacking in some essential social graces: personal and communications skills. For example, the ability to inform and provide instructions with complete, comprehensible sentences. I suspected he had ADD. When he didn't like my work and I suggested that I could revise it, he became rude and insulting and attempted to get out of paying me. It didn't work. He paid me and I informed the agency of his rude, abusive behaviour.
2) A part time secretarial job at a family run car dealership. I was hired at the interview and then fired three weeks later. It sucked and I was not very good at it because it required mathematics. I took it because I was desperate, not a good motivating factor. Look what happens when you date out of desperation.
3) A three hour stint updating content for the website of a menswear boutique. It was an 'audition' to see if I would work out. They wanted someone who would work for them for the next 20 years. If that is their goal, they should consider paying more than 10 dollars an hour. But they paid me.
4) A minimum wage job as a receptionist at a health club, which was actually the best job. I liked the people I worked with. Unfortunately, the management was on another plane. They were known for firing people, some who had worked there for years, with no advance warning. I was one of them, alas, terminated after six months.
The agency's website was full of testimonials and photos from beaming clients who had found great jobs and gone on to be productive members of society. For me it was one frustrating, fruforay after another, or employers who seem to be unaware of the existence of the Normes de Travail, or that it is now 2010, not 1910. I did apply for a number of jobs that matched my experience, education and qualifications and went on interview but alas, I was never one of the success stores.
I was only able to find that on my own, by starting my own home business, not long after the health club unceremoniously booted me out on my rear with no advance notice. Since I no longer require their services, this agency assumes I'm in the position to give them my money.
Well I am. I am also in the position of tipping my Gazette carrier, who left me a Christmas card last week. He's relatively new. How do I know this? I only get the paper on weekends. For the past 8 weeks or so, my paper has been left at the door in front of my upstairs neighbour, which means that I have had to get dressed and go up the front stairs to get it- as it has gotten increasingly colder and snowier. I have called customer service nearly every week to request that they remind the carrier of my address. Twice in two months he's managed to remember that my front door is on the side of the building.
Now he wants a tip. I can either give him one and hope that spurs him to remember my address. Or I can say what I would say to the employment agency who brought me some of the most depressing, humiliating and demeaning work experiences and who are now soliciting my donations: BLOW ME.
1) writing a help file for a man who, with his nephew, had an idea for software and was hoping to develop and promote it. However, he was lacking in some essential social graces: personal and communications skills. For example, the ability to inform and provide instructions with complete, comprehensible sentences. I suspected he had ADD. When he didn't like my work and I suggested that I could revise it, he became rude and insulting and attempted to get out of paying me. It didn't work. He paid me and I informed the agency of his rude, abusive behaviour.
2) A part time secretarial job at a family run car dealership. I was hired at the interview and then fired three weeks later. It sucked and I was not very good at it because it required mathematics. I took it because I was desperate, not a good motivating factor. Look what happens when you date out of desperation.
3) A three hour stint updating content for the website of a menswear boutique. It was an 'audition' to see if I would work out. They wanted someone who would work for them for the next 20 years. If that is their goal, they should consider paying more than 10 dollars an hour. But they paid me.
4) A minimum wage job as a receptionist at a health club, which was actually the best job. I liked the people I worked with. Unfortunately, the management was on another plane. They were known for firing people, some who had worked there for years, with no advance warning. I was one of them, alas, terminated after six months.
The agency's website was full of testimonials and photos from beaming clients who had found great jobs and gone on to be productive members of society. For me it was one frustrating, fruforay after another, or employers who seem to be unaware of the existence of the Normes de Travail, or that it is now 2010, not 1910. I did apply for a number of jobs that matched my experience, education and qualifications and went on interview but alas, I was never one of the success stores.
I was only able to find that on my own, by starting my own home business, not long after the health club unceremoniously booted me out on my rear with no advance notice. Since I no longer require their services, this agency assumes I'm in the position to give them my money.
Well I am. I am also in the position of tipping my Gazette carrier, who left me a Christmas card last week. He's relatively new. How do I know this? I only get the paper on weekends. For the past 8 weeks or so, my paper has been left at the door in front of my upstairs neighbour, which means that I have had to get dressed and go up the front stairs to get it- as it has gotten increasingly colder and snowier. I have called customer service nearly every week to request that they remind the carrier of my address. Twice in two months he's managed to remember that my front door is on the side of the building.
Now he wants a tip. I can either give him one and hope that spurs him to remember my address. Or I can say what I would say to the employment agency who brought me some of the most depressing, humiliating and demeaning work experiences and who are now soliciting my donations: BLOW ME.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
thy name is narcissism
I've been reading The Narcissism Epidemic, by Jean Twenge and Keith Campbell. It's not that I hadn't noticed how narcissistic we have become. People are so wrapped up in their cocoons of self absorption that even acknowledging the existence of anyone else is seen as not just infringement, but almost a sign of weakness. Today's narcissistic interlude: Jean Coutu. I don't like going there on Sundays because the cashier who works there is the slowest, dumbest of the lot and inevitably has a long line at her cash. But there I was, because I had forgotten this little fact. When it got to the woman in front of me, she had a raincheck. Fuck. I would die there and my body would be found still clutching my items. The cashier suggested she take the form and go to the cosmetics counter, where they could fill it out and there was no line.
Instead of seeing an opportunity, the young woman saw this as an insult. "I stood in line, it's my right." I said to her, "She's suggesting that you go to cosmetics because there's no line there and you're not buying anything." She said, "Well I stood in line and it's my right." I realized there was no point in explaining this; it would be wasted time which I would not get back on my deathbed. "Whatever," I said. "I'll go to cosmetics." At cosmetics the young cashier was in the aisle involved with a haggle of some sort. There was still a long line at the other cash, although the young woman had left. I said aloud (but not loudly) "Who do I have to fuck to get out of here?" I called out to the cosmetics cashier. 'HELLO!' The cashier seemed to be relieved that I had rescued her from the woman who, I sensed, would not let up. "I am sorry," I said, "But I am overheated, there is a long line and I really do want to pay for my item and go." She smiled and said she understood, but the other woman still hectored her with questions.
It's not entirely the fault of Jean Coutu. It's a combination of bad service combined with an increasingly narcissistic population. I am rarely, if ever, rude to staff, always thank them for their efforts and don't abuse or insult them. I am not a patient soul but I keep it in my own mind and curse inwardly. I don't think "SERVICE" means I need or expect a servant. I am probably in the minority, as I saw with the woman in front of me in line. It's her right to be served after waiting in line; but she's so oblivious to the world around her that she can't even see an opportunity to get out of there faster. entirely unconcerned that there are six people behind her who are overheated, frustrated and eager to get out. However, I took advantage of her cluelessness and got out of a long line.
The advantages of narcissism, as Twenge and Campbell point out, are short lived. You may get the job by conning people and manipulating them: but you can't lie your way around your lack of skills or knowledge. You may get the attention you want, but you'll lose it when people around you weary of having to dote on your ego.
The other moral to this story: Never go to Jean coutu on a Sunday.
Instead of seeing an opportunity, the young woman saw this as an insult. "I stood in line, it's my right." I said to her, "She's suggesting that you go to cosmetics because there's no line there and you're not buying anything." She said, "Well I stood in line and it's my right." I realized there was no point in explaining this; it would be wasted time which I would not get back on my deathbed. "Whatever," I said. "I'll go to cosmetics." At cosmetics the young cashier was in the aisle involved with a haggle of some sort. There was still a long line at the other cash, although the young woman had left. I said aloud (but not loudly) "Who do I have to fuck to get out of here?" I called out to the cosmetics cashier. 'HELLO!' The cashier seemed to be relieved that I had rescued her from the woman who, I sensed, would not let up. "I am sorry," I said, "But I am overheated, there is a long line and I really do want to pay for my item and go." She smiled and said she understood, but the other woman still hectored her with questions.
It's not entirely the fault of Jean Coutu. It's a combination of bad service combined with an increasingly narcissistic population. I am rarely, if ever, rude to staff, always thank them for their efforts and don't abuse or insult them. I am not a patient soul but I keep it in my own mind and curse inwardly. I don't think "SERVICE" means I need or expect a servant. I am probably in the minority, as I saw with the woman in front of me in line. It's her right to be served after waiting in line; but she's so oblivious to the world around her that she can't even see an opportunity to get out of there faster. entirely unconcerned that there are six people behind her who are overheated, frustrated and eager to get out. However, I took advantage of her cluelessness and got out of a long line.
The advantages of narcissism, as Twenge and Campbell point out, are short lived. You may get the job by conning people and manipulating them: but you can't lie your way around your lack of skills or knowledge. You may get the attention you want, but you'll lose it when people around you weary of having to dote on your ego.
The other moral to this story: Never go to Jean coutu on a Sunday.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Phantom restaurant
Another one seems to have bitten the dust. This time, it was a lebanese joint, Massis, on Monkland near Hampton. It opened some time last year and had another outlet in Laval.
I passed by on my way to the hairdresser and stopped in to get a takeout menu. The food looked good, prices were good, the counter man suggested their sandwiches. It's a tricky location. Businesses on that strip don't seem to last long: an african restaurant, a convenience store, a small bakery, a deli.
I feel sorry for whoever sets up shop there. The corner gets plenty of pedestrian traffic, but rents are very high and if you don't make a go of it, you won't last long. Maybe the African joint was a bit too exotic for the local yuppie clientele; and it's not easy to compete with Starbucks, Pizzedelic and some of the other, more established eateries. The convenience store had good stuff, but nothing you couldn't get further down the road for cheaper. I remember an eastern european deli but was disappointed when I went in- they had almost nothing on their shelves. I called it the Cheeseless Cheese shop. It was gone in less than a year.
During the winter, I called the delivery number but it rang and rang and rang. No answer. A couple of months later, I stopped by to get another takeout menu. None available. I wasn't about to order takeout at 5 pm and have it sit on my counter for two hours, so delivery was a better option. However, without a menu, how can I order a delivery? that would mean asking them for the menu over the phone
Rule number one: always have a delivery menu available.
Rule number two: Answer your phone.
I also noticed the hours posted on the front door. The restaurant closed at 8 pm weekdays, 6 pm weekends. People don't generally eat dinner and leave before 8 pm, not in restaurants in Montreal, unless they have very young kids. I am not attracted to the idea of arriving at 7 and having to be out by 8.
My hairdresser is a few blocks west, so I would pass the restaurant on the way there and back. The next time I passed by the place was closed with a sign on the door saying they would be back the next day. I had given up on ever eating their food by then, since I didn't want rush through dinner, had no idea what I could order over the phone (if anyone ever answered) and it was too far to walk and carry home takeout.
The last time I passed by, the place was dark, closed, and the mailbox was full. Obviously no one had been there for a while. A sign in the side window said FERME.
The other outlet in Laval seems to have closed. I had to wonder what these people are thinking. In this economy investing in a restaurant is risky enough, why make it impossible by setting yourself up for failure? People aren't going to eat your food, no matter how yummy it is or how great the location (the Laval outlet was on Labelle Blvd) if you make it impossible for them to buy the stuff.
I passed by on my way to the hairdresser and stopped in to get a takeout menu. The food looked good, prices were good, the counter man suggested their sandwiches. It's a tricky location. Businesses on that strip don't seem to last long: an african restaurant, a convenience store, a small bakery, a deli.
I feel sorry for whoever sets up shop there. The corner gets plenty of pedestrian traffic, but rents are very high and if you don't make a go of it, you won't last long. Maybe the African joint was a bit too exotic for the local yuppie clientele; and it's not easy to compete with Starbucks, Pizzedelic and some of the other, more established eateries. The convenience store had good stuff, but nothing you couldn't get further down the road for cheaper. I remember an eastern european deli but was disappointed when I went in- they had almost nothing on their shelves. I called it the Cheeseless Cheese shop. It was gone in less than a year.
During the winter, I called the delivery number but it rang and rang and rang. No answer. A couple of months later, I stopped by to get another takeout menu. None available. I wasn't about to order takeout at 5 pm and have it sit on my counter for two hours, so delivery was a better option. However, without a menu, how can I order a delivery? that would mean asking them for the menu over the phone
Rule number one: always have a delivery menu available.
Rule number two: Answer your phone.
I also noticed the hours posted on the front door. The restaurant closed at 8 pm weekdays, 6 pm weekends. People don't generally eat dinner and leave before 8 pm, not in restaurants in Montreal, unless they have very young kids. I am not attracted to the idea of arriving at 7 and having to be out by 8.
My hairdresser is a few blocks west, so I would pass the restaurant on the way there and back. The next time I passed by the place was closed with a sign on the door saying they would be back the next day. I had given up on ever eating their food by then, since I didn't want rush through dinner, had no idea what I could order over the phone (if anyone ever answered) and it was too far to walk and carry home takeout.
The last time I passed by, the place was dark, closed, and the mailbox was full. Obviously no one had been there for a while. A sign in the side window said FERME.
The other outlet in Laval seems to have closed. I had to wonder what these people are thinking. In this economy investing in a restaurant is risky enough, why make it impossible by setting yourself up for failure? People aren't going to eat your food, no matter how yummy it is or how great the location (the Laval outlet was on Labelle Blvd) if you make it impossible for them to buy the stuff.
Monday, June 28, 2010
how can this be a democracy if you can't pee on the weekend?
I caught a news story about the G20 protesters, and saw one of them wailing "We were handcuffed in a cell for 20 hours! This is supposed to be a democracy, man!" Uh yeah....because you're OUT now...if it really were the fascist dictatorship you claim it to be, you'd be in jail indefinitely with no trial. Duh. Do they teach any recent history in Ontario schools anymore?
On a nice long sunday bike ride, during one of the few days lately when it hasn't been pouring, I was faced again with the dilemma of where one can pee on a weekend. Once out of lachine, a girl's options are limited. Stewart hall is my favorite spot, but everything closes early on Sundays in the summer or never even opens. Recently, it was announced that huge investments are going to be made to upgrade parks in Montreal but I wonder about the boroughs. You stop at a park, figuring you can use the chalet. Wrong. It's locked. No water fountains either. Where do the kids go to the toilet? I remember the crummy chalet in Houde park where there was almost never any toilet paper. But at least it was open.
Another one of my fave rest stops, a veterans hangout in St Anne de Bellevue near Senneville was closed and the park is being renovated. I have no idea if this was just temporary or if they have moved. It was after 5 when I headed home so I was screwed until Lachine. Stewart Hall was closed. The Dorval Arena had closed. I had stopped there in April and a very nice man who was working a hockey tournament said I could use the facilities. A girl on a bike must rely on the kindness of strangers. Is this a democracy, man, when you have to hold it in on a Sunday?
On a nice long sunday bike ride, during one of the few days lately when it hasn't been pouring, I was faced again with the dilemma of where one can pee on a weekend. Once out of lachine, a girl's options are limited. Stewart hall is my favorite spot, but everything closes early on Sundays in the summer or never even opens. Recently, it was announced that huge investments are going to be made to upgrade parks in Montreal but I wonder about the boroughs. You stop at a park, figuring you can use the chalet. Wrong. It's locked. No water fountains either. Where do the kids go to the toilet? I remember the crummy chalet in Houde park where there was almost never any toilet paper. But at least it was open.
Another one of my fave rest stops, a veterans hangout in St Anne de Bellevue near Senneville was closed and the park is being renovated. I have no idea if this was just temporary or if they have moved. It was after 5 when I headed home so I was screwed until Lachine. Stewart Hall was closed. The Dorval Arena had closed. I had stopped there in April and a very nice man who was working a hockey tournament said I could use the facilities. A girl on a bike must rely on the kindness of strangers. Is this a democracy, man, when you have to hold it in on a Sunday?
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