First thing’s first: Chicago was AMAZING! I loved it all: from lazy afternoons drinking Prosecco on the back of a boat to stuffing our faces with deep-dish pizza and pulled pork sandwiches to dancing to old Madonna songs until 5 a.m. with our new friends from Omaha, it was the perfect birthday trip.
When I was in Grade 3, my teacher announced a contest which combined the two greatest loves of my life: pizza and reading (it would be several years before wine bumped both down the list to claim top spot). For every 10 books I read, I would be rewarded with a coupon for a personal-pan pizza from Pizza Hut. Life was good.
If you think you’re having a bad week, I invite you to picture this scenario:
You get a phone call at lunch, urging you to come home immediately – there has been a fire. You arrive at the scene to learn that your apartment is in fact, gone. All your belongings, gone. Your pets, gone. Everything, gone.
I’ve been obsessing over Cheryl Strayed’s “Tiny Beautiful Things” for the last few weeks. You may be already familiar with her name because a) you don’t live under a rock like me; or b) you’ve watched “Wild” – featuring America’s favourite potty-mouth DUI darling, Reese Witherspoon – based on Cheryl’s 2012 memoir.
See what I did there?
As a continuation of yesterday’s post, after bequeathing a donut upon an undeserving recipient, I decided to dedicate today’s act to a colleague I actually like.
This colleague is also coincidentally a blogger, hoping to retire on the imminent success of a mini-van majority romance novel she has been crafting. She may actually be more disgruntled with her job at the financial salt mine more than I am, and know that she’s been overwhelmed by the idea that she has “sold out” and become just another cog in the corporate wheel.
I live on the 30th floor; which results in a lot of time spent struggling to get cellphone reception for just one more round of Candy Crush to kill time in the achingly slow building elevators. More often than not, one of the elevators is down, resulting in the remaining two elevators resembling a can of packed disgruntled sardines during the morning rush.
I’ll admit, half of me did this as an act of kindness; the other half as a social experiment.
As mentioned before, I work in the concrete jungle a.k.a. financial district of downtown Toronto. Because Union Station is located right in the heart of it, it is an eclectic mix of obnoxious suits, swarming tourists, frustrated construction workers and the occasional local trying to pass through unscathed.
I’ve started a 30-day no sugar/alcohol challenge (because apparently I’m a masochist), so I am craving allllllllll the foodz right now.
So I wanted nothing more than to give someone the gift of refined sugar and empty calories my deprived pleasure receptors are craving so badly. I don’t know most of my neighbours, just friendly “hellos and goodbyes” and casual banter, but there’s a new couple that moved in just two doors down. (Disclaimer: I am 99.9% sure they’re a couple because they are way too good looking and well dressed to be straight. Seriously, they look like they just stepped out of my Pinterest board.)
It was a wonderfully relaxing weekend and I couldn’t be happier that I visited my family. I spent the days hiking with my mom through Rattlesnake Point (even saw a deer!) and riding my bike through my old familiar stomping grounds. In the evenings, we dragged the TV out into the backyard, wrapped ourselves in blankets and watched old black and white Polish movies (which are hilarious by the way) under the stars.
Greetings from the burbs!
Today’s post will be compressed, as I am currently typing in real-time on my iPhone, from the parking lot of the local Walmart.
Why Walmart, you ask? Well, today’s act of kindness is devoted to my 80-year old slightly senile and mouthy grandmother, whose biggest joy in life is perusing the aisles of everyone’s favourite oversized retail superstore and making snarky comments about the other shoppers’ lacklustre Sunday outfits.