Botanical Bitch

This past weekend, my mother and I made the two hour trek up the coast of Vancouver Island to visit the tiny fishing village of Port Renfrew. For any reader considering visiting this remote little get-away, let me provide you with a valuable travel tip that will save you both time and money: Don't bother.

The trip, ostensibly, was meant as a short getaway to celebrate my mother's birthday, as well as to visit our good friend Andrei, former co-director of my Doukhobor choir and now manager of the Renfrew Pub. Mom had some whimsical notion in her head of a seaside resort town that would provide a lovely mini holiday and facilitate some bonding time between us. I'm not quite sure why she thought this was going to work, since my mother and I can't be in the presence of one another for longer than half an hour without wanting to rip each others' heads off. Nevertheless, in the interests of feigning some sort of familial normalcy, we packed up the SUV and off we went.

Now, let me not decry Renfrew altogether; the natural wonder and beauty of the surroundings are quintessentially West Coast and majestic. The harbour itself is a picturesque sight to behold, with a long wooden pier, dotted by quaint guest cabins, that juts out into the waters of the Juan de Fuca strait. The cabins are pretty and boast their own little fire pits and enclosed patios. It would have been lovely to stay in one of them, but due to some misinformation and a booking error, Mom and I instead ended up in "the Lodge", a sparse yet serviceable building located up a gravel road from the Renfrew Pub.

 In true Virginia fashion, Mom wasted no time in criticizing the accommodations, the lack of decor - "Couldn't they just put up a picture or two, here?" - and the general mood of the entire place, which we quickly discovered to be a distressing mixture of apathy and affability. When Mom asked, "What time is check out?", the old man at the desk shrugged, looked confused and replied with a grin, "11, I guess?" We were provided with our room number, but had to return to the office to confirm it, since all of the rooms appeared to have two numbers on the door. Even the owners, congenial and welcoming as they were, couldn't be sure if room 105 was actually 105, or if it was 106.

Aside from a brief hike to explore the tidal pools and their strange, nautical inhabitants at Botanical Beach on Sunday afternoon, the majority of our time in Renfrew was spent at the only place to go: the pub. This actually proved to be a fairly life-affirming activity for me, especially on Saturday evening, after Mom (being wholly unaccustomed to day-drinking) had passed out, and the place was brightly lit and packed to the rafters with rugged men of the woods and tipsy fishermen in flannel shirts, drunkenly swaying to the palatable strains of a cover band.

 I walked into the place in my standard "going out" pleather leggings, and with a bit of cleavage showing, and immediately felt like a Kardashian. Free drinks were thrust at me, left and right; when I stepped outside on the porch for a cigarette, three lighters were immediately held up to my face. "Tee hee," I tittered.

Sure, most of these men probably had IQ's comparable to those of the fish they caught for a living, and all of them were cross-eyed with liquor, but I'm not ashamed to admit that being an exotic new prize among primates was more than sufficient to bolster my oft-wilting self confidence. When I decided to leave, one of the kitchen staff, who was somewhat conversant through his beer buzz, chased me out of the pub, and stumbled like a drunken zombie in front my vehicle, blocking my path for three or four minutes in the hope that I would concede to going home with him. Eventually, he tired himself out, staggered away, and I drove off up the road to the Lodge and the sanctity of my bed.

While a jolly seaside, mother-daughter bonding trip was not in the cards this time around, I did nevertheless come away from my night in Renfrew with a few good stories and a shameless feeling of validation.

This is the End, My Only Friend

August has at last arrived, with more golden, searing days looming ahead. Still, the air has already begun to hum the first faint strains of September. It seemed to me that July came screaming in like a headstrong youth, full of dizzy joy and unfulfilled promises. Now, like Dickinson's "certain slant of light", there is a slow heaviness and a change to the season. A slight tinge of introspection can be found in August, a mellowness and a resignation that comes from the knowledge of one's eventual end.

Speaking of the end: I have decided that my sojourn into the world of Tinder, while ofttimes amusing, must come to an abrupt terminus. This is not necessarily because I didn't meet anyone - on the contrary, I have talked with quite a few men, and met one or two people of seeming quality, during my brief stint as a serial swiper. The trouble is that, in 95% of these cases, the individual in question lived on the mainland, or in Seattle, or some location that was equally-troublesome to get to. I've just recently experienced the frustration and eventual heartache that comes from attempting to forge a long-distance relationship. At this point, I simply can't go through with it again.

A further complication and impediment to my recent attempts at dating also proves to be something much harder to shake: Myself. More to the point, it is my own indolence and complete apathy toward the process that prevents me from making any real attempt at it. In any recent situations in which I have made plans with men who actually live in or are visiting our fair island city, I end up cancelling at the last minute, in favor of the perfect solitude of my apartment.

Case in point: Tonight, I was to meet up with what seemed to be a very decent chap for some beverages and a walking tour of Ross Bay Cemetery, (which, as a card-carrying member of the Old Cemeteries Society of Victoria, I would have been pleased to lead). Said individual is currently visiting from London, Ontario on tour with his band. He is completing a PhD in something or other, and at least seemed articulate enough to hold a conversation, as well as legitimately interested in my knowledge of the world-famous Victorian cemetery. So, what was the problem, then? 

I couldn't put my finger on it, but the more I considered the impending evening, the more I began to panic and over-analyze the possible scenarios. Firstly, was it weird to go on a date with someone I didn't know from Adam? What if we hated each other? What if only one of us disliked the other, making for some supremely awkward hug goodbye situation at the end of the evening?  Could this even be considered a date at all? Perhaps it was merely a friendly, historic visit to one of my favourite haunts. But then, was HE thinking it was a date? What was he expecting to come of this, since he didn't live here and was leaving town on Thursday? Did he think we were going to have sex? And like, where?? On top of the Whittington family plot?? And what if he didn't have that expectation, and we both ended up liking each other, and he just took off back to Ontario and I was stuck trying to forge a bond again with someone who was never there??

After fifteen minutes of this, I looked around at my comfortable bed, my bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz and my copy of Jasper Ridley's "The Tudor Age", and felt my anxiety melting away. I picked up my phone and I cancelled on the poor lad, who despondently told me that he would be drinking wine alone in the cemetery, should I change my mind. I didn't write back. Instead, I made a big bowl of pasta, painted my nails, changed the sugar-water mixture in the hummingbird feeder and had a most self-indulgent nap.

I know now that the pursuit of relationships, dates, flings, etc is something that is truly no longer a priority in my life. I used to think these things were all that mattered, or that I was somehow deficient and unworthy since I didn't have someone in my life. I used to feel an enormous jealousy and bitterness as I listened to the girls at work talk about their husbands, about the holidays and home renovations they were undertaking together, about the funny or cute or endearing thing He said last night.

 I used to think that a relationship or a marriage was some sort of grand achievement, a prize that I was too "fucked up" to ever achieve. Something has changed in me, now, something almost as imperceptible as the shift in the light as the summer wears on. For the first time in my adult life, I have begun to ask myself just how great of an achievement a relationship actually is. In fact, when I ponder this question in greater detail, I realize that  "having a boyfriend"  or "getting married" is as mediocre, pathetic and perfectly ordinary a life goal as they come. Anyone can do those things. Why not do something that no one else can? Why not aim for something loftier than a pinterest wedding board and arguing over the position of the toilet seat?

I think I'm finally figuring out that I can go on a date, or hook up with a man, whenever I want. But most of the time, if I really consider it, I realize that I don't want to at all.

Taming of the Schumer (MOVIE SPOILER)

 "This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper."

                                                                                               - T.S. Eliot

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In what I assume will be a welcome departure from one of my usual posts, where I expound upon my icky feelings and emotions and the general shittiness of my life, I've decided to write a little review about the film "Trainwreck", which I took in last weekend. I had high hopes for the Amy Schumer vehicle, which seems to have at last made her a household name. I've been an ardent fan of Schumer's for years. I don't want to say, "I loved her before anyone knew who she was!", but it's pretty much true. My facebook friends can attest that I have inundated them with clips from her Comedy Central show, "Inside Amy Schumer", since its premiere.

I have always found Amy to be so delightfully-relatable, so candid, brave and honest. I saw so much of myself in her comedy, with its many references to body image issues, dysfunctional family dynamics, romantic disasters, drinking binges and aversion to traditional constructs of marriage and child-rearing.

Witness, if you will, her "One Night Stand" skit, in which a giggling woman with tussled hair leaves a man's apartment of a Saturday morning. A split screen shows how each of their respective days play out: Hers, involving meeting her friends for brunch and gushing over her new beau, sending him a flirty text message, then opening a joint bank account for the two of them and checking out possible wedding venues. He, in the meantime, whiles away the day nursing his hangover and playing video games, and tells his friend, over beer, that he "didn't get up to much" the night before. He also takes a prolonged nap and has a good wank session to the image of a busty Italian mother on the side of a pasta sauce container. When she calls him, asking what they are doing that evening, he doesn't even know who she is.

Schumer's comedy is thoughtful and obviously born of past foibles, heartaches and regrets. Self-effacing, gutsy and instantly endearing, she's been one of my favourite comediennes since I first became aware of her on the stand-up circuit.Thus, last weekend, with a heart full of hope and a purse full of beer, I entered the darkened theatre and hunkered down for what I hoped was going to be a satisfying dose of Schumerian sass.

For the most part, I was not let down. Amy served up her usual shock-value based hilarity, somehow managing to make a life of functional alcoholism and meaningless, unprotected sexual encounters look pretty damn glamorous in the process. The reason, of course, was that, just like in her TV series and stand up routines, she (and her character) completely owned their questionable life choices, giving not one single fuck about what anyone else thought. As I happily popped the hissing tab on my can of Stella Artois while deftly ignoring the admonishing glare of a fellow movie patron in my row, I thought, "Yeah. Giving no fucks, indeed".

Since "Trainwreck" is, of course, a story about romance, it stood to reason that Amy's leading man,  a sports physician named Aaron Conners (played by Bill Hader), would be introduced fairly early on in the film. As expected, Amy and Aaron are opposites in almost every way, yet somehow manage to form a pretty solid bond. He is conservative, he loves sports, his favourite song is "Uptown Girl".  He even asserts that he "doesn't mind" the fact that Amy's slept with a lot of men, or that she smokes weed and drinks excessively.

At one point, Aaron takes Amy to a Knicks game, where they sit courtside, and she observes the pregame cheerleading routine with obvious discomfort and disdain. To mask her insecurity over half-clad women prancing around in front of her boyfriend, she makes snide comments and heckles the cheerleaders with, "You're going to lose us the right to vote!" Aaron suggests that maybe she doesn't like cheerleaders because they are "positive, and bring people together". Barf, Aaron.

Eventually and inevitably, things go off the rails for the unlikely pair. At about 77% of the way through the movie, (the approximate time at which this is supposed to occur), we come to the Low Point, at which Amy's family isn't talking to her and Aaron, who finally reveals that he does indeed have a problem with her lifestyle, has walked out. While we are shown a montage of both of the characters struggling through depression and loss to get on with their lives, it is, curiously, only Amy's character who decides to make some huge life changes in an effort to win Aaron back.

We see her flying about her apartment, collecting every half-drank bottle of alcohol ((I highly doubt her character would have left that much untouched)), as well as her formidable bong, and handing it all to a homeless man who hangs about outside her building. While the changes the character is making are probably healthy ones, the underlying message that disturbed me was that positive life changes should only be made to impress or win back the affection of someone who doesn't like you for who you are.

The final disappointment comes at the end of the film, when Amy dons the skimpy costume that she decried as sexist not an hour before, and performs her own peppy, 15 minute cheerleading routine alongside the Knicks cheerleaders, for an astounded and impressed Aaron. Of course, he immediately takes her back. And with this final scene, my worst fears were confirmed. The message here was glaringly-obvious: Change everything about yourself, your lifestyle and your beliefs, to suit someone who isn't going to make a single change to compromise with you, or else you'll end up an old spinster. Thus, "Trainwreck", although at times completely hilarious, proves to be nothing more than a modern-day "Taming of the Shrew". How disappointing a message to independent females everywhere, especially coming from a comedienne of such unapologetic veritas as Schumer.

a/s/l?

 Periodically, I look around my dim, witchy apartment, full of history tomes, antiques and Victorian mourning art, and I think, "I should probably go out and interact with other humans, before I myself am an antique. Hell, maybe I should try going on a DATE. I used to go on those." Trouble is, it's mighty hard for a gal like me to meet eligible bachelors in the real world.

The sleepy town in which I live is partially to blame. There are very few events that appeal to me in this town, other than the occasional party or show, and the scene in which I move is woefully-small and decidedly picked-over. Another issue is probably my job, where the only interaction I have with single men involves handing containers of cremated remains to teary-eyed widowers who, although occasionally attractive, would probably not appreciate the funeral home receptionist slipping her number into a deceased wife's urn. So what's a single, mid-thirties goth gal to do? Why, turn to the miracle of modern technology, of course.

Over the years, I have had a reasonable degree of success in the arena of online dating. Back in 2001, for example, I met a guy named Mike over the internet. This was well before the days of Plenty of Fish, but in the heyday of a television show called "Blind Date". The premise was simple: two romantic hopefuls were paired up and followed around for a day by TV cameras, then made infinitely more entertaining through the post-production addition of asinine cartoons and "thought bubbles" indicating what the hapless singles might possibly be thinking about their interaction. Check this link for some retro "Blind Date" goodness:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8pS6K9Dkdw&list=PLA0BAB4214EA0DC86


In addition to the show's painful hilarity, it also offered, by way of its website, a chance to meet up with and go on your own awkward blind dates with people in your area! (The reader will remember, of course, that in these pre 9/11 days, this was something innovative, indeed). And thus, after perusing "Blind Date"'s website for eligible hunks, I met Mike.

Bonded by our mutual love of karaoke, marijuana and professional wrestling, we decided to meet in person. I was immediately physically repulsed by him. We went to Milestone's, drank Bellinis and talked about Chris Jericho and the Hardy Boys. Although I never once touched him, Mike and I ended up developing a very close friendship that lasted for several years.  He took me to all manner of shows and events, and even bought me a tiara which, for some mystifying yet secretly-gratifying reason, I wore whenever I came over to his house. Eventually, he figured out that I wasn't ever going to sleep with him, at which point, he cut me off entirely and subsequently married a husky girl with a mustache, by whom I'm told he sired two unfortuate-looking children.  Thanks, "Blind Date"!

Another online fairytale romance occurred for me exactly ten years later, as I trolled the fetid waters of Plenty of Fish. In early 2011, while checking out the site, I came across a handsome, 6'3" government worker named Clinton. We arranged an initial, innocuous meeting at a coffee shop. Although he did not offer to pay for my latte, I liked him. He was definitely intelligent enough, and possessed of a biting, sarcastic sense of humor that I found intriguing. I assume he didn't think I was a moron or something.

 Once assured that we could tolerate one another, we arranged a second date, this time at a pub. We both became so inebriated that, although I went home with him in a cab, we ended up merely passing out on his bed. In the morning, since I felt obligated and grateful that he picked up the tab, I succumbed to the indignity of awkward, hungover first-time sex, in the stark, unforgiving morning light that poured in through his bedroom window. I did at least get a conciliatory Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it, which I chewed ponderously while we sat in the parking lot of the restaurant.

Surprisingly, Clint wanted to see me again! And thus, our courtship began. And what a courtship! He was SO GREAT! And we had SO MUCH IN COMMON!... Except that he loved reggae, and I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than listen to Bob Marley tell me to "no cry"... Well, and except that I was a smoker, a fact that dismayed and repulsed him... Oh. And for the fact that he was an avid golfer and surfer, and my main hobbies included shopping and couch surfing... Thinking back on it now, I think Clint and I always kind of hated each other. The two crucial points on which we DID connect, though, were a) we both loved to drink, and b) we both REALLY REALLY wanted to be in love with someone.

Clint was older than me (38 to my 31), and thus, operated largely in a world of married couples with toddlers and mortgages. He wanted more than anything to be one of those couples, and I always got the feeling that any girl on his arm would do, so long as she could fit into the mold and facilitate that reality for him. The few parties that he took me to were depressing, macabre affairs. I didn't even know that people like that really existed, until I attended events at which I was expected to sit primly in a party dress with the rest of the Stepford Wives, cautiously sipping Pinot Grigio and talking about Gymboree and tea lights, while the men retreated to the "man cave" in the basement, to crush beers and play Rock Band. Invariably, and to Clint's dismay, I'd end up down there with the dudes, belting "Livin' On a Prayer" at top volume, Lucky beer in hand, before retreating to the patio to smoke cigarettes with the one cool friend among the ranks of Basic Bros and realtors.

Yep, it was pretty grand, being in love. Sure, we fought constantly, and I refused to go on his stupid Wild Rose cleanse. He'd tell me that I wasn't "wife material", and I'd snap back that he was an egocentric idiot to whom I would never consider getting hitched in the first place. Slowly but surely, I came to see him less as a sarcastic intellect and more of a complete and total bastard. After six months of this bliss, we both looked at each other one day and said, "Meh". I left and we never spoke again. Word around the internet is that he did eventually find his Stepford Wife and they rode off together into the sunset on a golf cart, while the mellow strains of The Wailers carried on the June air.

2015 is upon us, and the future is now. Enter: Tinder, a dating ap for your smart phone. In many ways, this incarnation of online dating is the most ingenious yet. You can basically avoid trudging through all the meaningless "I like this, I do that, I hope for this and dream about that" nonsense, and just cut straight to the fun of judging people based solely on a single photograph. Choose your picture wisely, lovelorn iPhone owner! A poorly-executed selfie in less-than-ideal lighting can mean the difference between being approved of or being cast aside with the swift, merciless swipe of a thumb. 

But never fear if you are less-than-sublime in the looks department. The most gratifying feature of Tinder, as I've discovered so far, is the empowering feeling of quietly and ruthlessly judging others for yourself. A photo pops up, you examine it for two seconds, make a snap, unfounded judgement and, with the haughty detachment of a Roman emperor dooming a gladiator to his bloody demise, you swipe left. A delicious, giant red sign that reads "NOPE" stamps itself over the reject's photo, and whoosh! He or she is banished from your sight. Poof, begone. #deadtome.

I've been using this ap for a couple of days, mostly at the behest of my bestie, who has had some recent good fortune with it. While minding his own business one day, he was suddenly "liked" by one of the mythical creatures I call "The Unicorns". These apparitions are most easily identified by their aloof, cool beauty, stick-thin thighs, perky, pierced nipples, and their prolific Instagram profiles. They are also most certainly listed as being about 27 years old, about 5'8" and fully open to shooting "nudes" on Modelmayhem.com. Anyway, GVS found himself a unicorn and has been having what he describes as many a "blissful" weekend, often culminating in some sort of outdoor sexual escapade.  With this ringing endorsement, I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about.

So far, the only pleasure I've derived from the use of Tinder is the enjoyment of rejecting people without bothering to spend any time determining who they actually are. But hey, hope springs eternal. Mr Right Now could be only a swipe away. And at the very least, I might get a Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it.

Planet of the Apes

 Perhaps because the past few days at work have been exceptionally quiet - "dead", even - a lot of strange little quibbles and quarrels seem to be happening, mostly regarding whose responsibility it is to do A, B or C. Most of this maelstrom has been occurring around me, while I sit stoically at the front desk, in the eye of the storm, placidly sipping a cup of tea. I remind myself on days such as this, a combination of mind-numbing boredom and annoying nattering, that I am constantly collecting prime fodder for my TV pilot.

I'm not sure why, but I seem to be feeling better in the past few days. I am relieved that I seem to have managed to weather this latest dysthemic, chemical brain storm without completely plummeting into a pit and losing the ability to function, as has been the case several times in the past. It may be because I am older, now, and have been through this cycle so many times that I am able to objectively observe this episode and predict, with the accuracy of a meteorological forecast, its manifestations and processes. It seems that now, I can mindfully sit with the unpleasant sensations caused by my overactive brain, instead of engaging with them and thus, launching into a full panic.

The past week has also seen me finally able to begin to let go of my latest disastrous attempt at a relationship. Now, I'm not claiming to be completely rid of the ghosts of it - They still hang about in the corners of my mind like dusty old cobwebs. There are things about this person, and our interaction, that I still miss greatly: when I hear certain songs, or want to share certain stories with him, or text him during the day just to say hi, etc. The many long, late-night hours that we spent talking seemed at the time to imply some sense of true camaraderie and emotional connection.

 However, as I recover from my latest disappointment, I also come to the realization that I take everything far too seriously when it comes to dating. I see "emotional connections" and "romance" only because I want to see them, and the majority of disappointments that I feel are caused by my own unrealistic expectations. As my ex boyfriend-turned-best-friend-in-the-whole-world, GVS, often reminds me, men will engage in any sort of dialogue, or adopt any type of flowery rhetoric, in order to get it in. A lot of what I have perceived in the past as "romance" has been nothing more than calculated, goal-oriented dialogue that I have not been able to properly decipher from behind the extreme rose tint of the glasses that I don when I consider the intricacies of human interaction.

 I don't even feel angry about this fact, anymore. I realize that, for the most part, the need to penetrate vaginas is such a strong, primordial urge in heterosexual men that they themselves don't even realize the lengths to which they will go, or the ridiculous yarns and fables they will spin, simply to achieve that precious moment of penetration. I used to think, bitterly, "But he said he LOVED me! We were planning a trip! We talked all the time about going to [insert exotic destination here]! He used to call me his little [insert nauseating name here]. He LIED TO ME!"  I know now that, in 99% of situations, things like this weren't said with the explicit intention to deceive. It's really just that, in the incredibly basic and predictable wiring of the male brain lies a surprisingly-agile mechanism that immediately assesses and responds to the style of conversation that is most likely to lead to the final, coveted prize.

Now that I know this, the whole thing is laughable. I have basically expected far too much from creatures incapable of providing it. You can't very well hand a monkey a copy of "Twelfth Night", then get upset when he fails to recognize the subtle nuances of the dialogue, and instead merely flings some shit in your direction.

The Days That Are No More (repost with edit)

 I had initially deleted this post, because I wasn't thrilled with the quality of the writing and found the subject matter totally pathetic. I didn't think anyone would notice, but good old David, my only fan, did. In the absence of something else to say, and with the intention of keeping up with this practice, I resubmit it. Besides, who really gives a shit if the writing sucks? This whole thing is supposed to be for me, anyway.

   *   *   *   *

' Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!'

                                        - Tennyson, from "Tears, Idle Tears" (excerpt from "The Princess")

 The above quote is from my favourite Tennyson poem. I think about this excerpt a lot and it often rattles around in my mind. I seem to be perpetually-haunted by "the good old days". 

I don't really understand half of what is going on with me these days, but I can say for certain that most of it is not good. As my readership ((all two of you)) are well aware, unfounded and inexplicable gloominess is nothing new for me. Most of the time, I can wear it with pride, like a tattered yet noble old coat, covered in faded patches that once were bright. It is only rarely that I actually become frightened by my emotions. In the past two weeks or so, this seems to be the case. More and more, I've been feeling that there is little in the way of relief from the sadness I feel, aside from the blessed escape that is sleep and my vivid dreams. Not only that, I feel so terribly lonely, so isolated, that I don't even know who I am anymore.

Let it not be assumed that I do not have friends and family around me. My isolation is of my own volition. People still invite me to do things, from time to time, but I rarely follow up. Sometimes, I will make plans and just not show up at all. By doing this, and by making little effort to arrange any activities, my isolation only feeds into itself, a snake biting its own tail.  I know that I need to get out of the house in order to break the cycle, and I attempt to make plans and set small goals with the intention of finding some sense of purpose.. but I always feel so exhausted by the end of the day, from having to "put on the hat and do the dance", as my friend Kevin likes to call it. My occupation is inherently-social in nature. I answer phone calls all day in a chipper-yet-calming voice, I take messages with the gentle acquiescence of a secretarial robot, I type obituary notices and print death certificates like one possessed. Then I go home and just collapse.

A long time ago, I had a fantastic social life. In the halcyon years of 2006-08, I was seemingly never without something to do. I think back on those years now as an endless ticker tape parade of theme parties, BBQ's, camping trips, beach days. Think of it: Me. At the beach. IN A SWIM SUIT. I went to the gym all the time, in those days. I used to joke that I was "in training to party", to look fantastic at every event.  I even sheepishly admit that, in order to look my best in the sun in the summer of 2007, I tanned in a tanning bed to achieve a golden glow. 

My social circle in those years was broad and consisted of a collection of about five different couples. We were all young, beautiful, fearless. We arrived at parties and bars, fashionably late, in ironic, aggressive fashion that we pieced together from our Saturday afternoon trips to thrift stores. I myself was the unofficial party photographer of the group. Inspired by the decadent, hipster fashion exposes of The Cobrasnake, I would roll up to parties in my neon Nike Dunks, capturing with perfect poignancy the many moments of hilarity, of glittering indulgence, of youth.

 My boyfriend at the time, Morgan, a gangly, bespectacled lad with a wry sense of humor and a penchant for parties, would take over the stereo, and everyone would dance far into the night. We were the couple everyone wanted at their parties, the couple whose house everyone always wanted to visit. We were fun. We were hilarious. We were young and perfect. Nothing was ever wrong, in those days. We simply didn't believe in sadness.

When I think back to those days, to the Stef I was, I don't recognize myself anymore.

Urning a Living

Most folks who know me in the 'real world' already know that I work at a funeral home. It is indeed a shame that the dictates of personal privacy and general good taste prevent me from relaying the details of daily events, there - in just over two years, I have amassed a collection of personal tales from work, ranging in themes from the bizarre to the hilarious to the heartbreaking to the darkest of dark. I keep all of these little gems close to me, hoping that perhaps one day, I'll be able to publish a book. I often joke that I am writing my own t.v. pilot about the place - but honestly, I think it would make for some compelling watching.

One of the more common questions I get, when I mention where I work, is something along the lines of, "Do you put the makeup on the dead people??" No, of course I don't. You don't just waltz back there, MAC brushes in hand. "Putting the makeup on the dead people" is just one of the many steps in the process of preparation or embalming, the execution of which requires many years of schooling and certification.

 I am an administrator at the funeral home. Thus, I deal very little with the dead, aside from perhaps helping to move someone surreptitiously from one room to another without anyone in the building seeing, the process of which always seems like a classic English farce to me, with one door opening, while another closes, etc. Usually though, the majority of my day is spent  buried in paperwork, and fielding myriad phone calls, inquiries and general absurdities from the living relatives of the deceased, who consistently prove themselves to be far more frightening and difficult than the folks having a nice long sleep in the cooler.

A comment that I detest hearing from the uninformed regarding my job is, "Oh, a funeral home. That must be so nice and quiet." See above. Yes, dead people are quiet. Living people are not. The office has six phone lines, all of which can be lit up at any point in the day with constant calls from the public with inquiries ranging from service times to general advice to prearranging their own final dispositions; a staff of about twenty people in the building at any given moment and a slough of internal calls coming in all day from our three other affiliate locations on the island, to say nothing of random people who walk in off the street.

I believe the thing that's kept me around the joint for as long as I have - many interpersonal and professional difficulties not withstanding - is the polarity of the place. For someone like me, prone to feeling immensely and profoundly about a lot of things, an environment such as the one in which I work really provides a certain outlet to explore the gamut of human emotions. On any given day, I may witness a full emotional breakdown from a family after  viewing their deceased loved one, only to walk into the directors' office immediately thereafter and find myself in stitches, laughing at a coworker's antics. 

Although it sounds selfish to say this, I must also admit that being around the grief of others all day is in many ways a great relief for someone like myself. In my work world, tears are an everyday occurence, weeping and wailing are expected and encouraged as part of the process of coming to terms with loss. As a sufferer of chronic depression, being around the bereaved provides me with comfort, too. It provides me with the surety that we all suffer some times, and that every day, people are dealing with excruciating heartbreaks and losses.

Recently, I returned the cremated remains of a woman to her elderly father. Usually, I don't perform this function, but if other staff members are busy, or if I just want to, I can do so. In this case, the man in question and I had a definite rapport. I had dealt with him several times over the phone and in person, and my heart ached for his loss.

Secretly, returning cremated remains to families is my favourite part of the job, probably because it is the most raw. There is something unbelievably sacred about the process of handing a small container to someone, that represents what is left of the mortal remains of their husband, wife, parent, child, etc. There are often tears, but I take a special pleasure and privilege in participating in this final rite, and in providing some sense of closure and comfort to our families. 

When I returned this particular urn to the man, he suddenly threw his arms around me and hugged me tightly, as if he could somehow hug his daughter one last time through me. And I hugged him back, even more tightly, and felt a strange energy and warmth exchanged between us, something that I carried with me for the rest of my day. 

Whenever I doubt the existence of love, I simply get up and go to work.