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.
I’m on Day 6 of my sugar/alcohol detox – and other than a brief moment of shortbread cookie weakness – I’ve been going strong.
The problem with this lifestyle change is that it severely stunts your social life. During this last month of warm weather, my friends are understandably preoccupied with patio hopping and boozy nights out. Alas, I have been finding other ways to keep myself preoccupied.
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.)
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.
“When good Americans die, they go to Paris.”
The greatest injustice in my life was not being born a Parisian. I had the opportunity to visit two years ago, and the moment I stepped off the crowded tour bus onto the Champs-Élysées, I was in love.
A few months ago, my favourite trans-atlantic friend messaged me to tell me she got a sweet contract in Paris and would be living there in a swanky flat until the new year. I immediately booked a ticket to visit. Dreams of croissants, cafes, patisseries, red wine, cobblestone streets, cinemas and baguettes got me through my monotonous workdays, as I counted down the days to my trip.
I will preface this by saying that I wasn’t planning on writing this post. It has been one of the hardest and most disappointing weeks of my life, and all my energy has been spent just trying to roll out of bed in the morning and put pants on.
Rather than turning this into a forum to air my grievances, I will tap into the lyrical angst of an artist many of you may (begrudgingly) remember, Limp Bizkit. “Its just one of those days / Where you don’t want to wake up / Everything is fucked / Everybody sucks.” Thank you, Fred Durst. Indeed they do.
While making a mad dash through Toronto’s PATH to a meeting this morning, juggling two overflowing Starbucks cups, my laptop and cellphone, I weaved my way through the morning crowds behind a young suit. A few steps ahead of me, he passed through the oncoming doors, took a quick glance back to gauge the distance between us and promptly let the door slam in my face.
I once went on a Tinder date with a perfect 10: tall, handsome, funny doctor. Everything was going swimmingly until I observed in slow-motion horror as he casually threw a plastic water bottle onto the ground…five feet away from a garbage can.
If you carelessly leave your garbage in public places, flick cigarette butts onto the sidewalk or toss empty bottles out of your car – you are quite simply an asshole. A lazy one at that.