In my opinion, all small animals are pretty cute. In fact I have a soft spot for anything little, and would totally have a raccoon as a pet if it didn’t include cleaning up garbage off the floor every morning. I have always loved cats, I stop and pet every dog I see walking down the street, and recently I have started having conversations with birds; directing them to the best location for stray food.
But my softest spot seems to be for squirrels. I know some people think they look like furry rats, but I just can’t seem to stop smiling when I witness their skittish strung out personalities. They scurry around with nothing else on their mind but food, and I have to say I have a deep respect for that kind of commitment. If I had to plan all my winter meals the summer before I’d be pretty stressed out too.
However, let’s talk about a particular individual.
On the way home from picking up some groceries one afternoon, my boyfriend and I decided to stop at a patio and have a beer. It was a gorgeous sunny day and we sat there for a few hours enjoying our day off. Now let me preface this by saying the patio was at the restaurant where I work, and it was under construction at the time. There were tarps and boxes and random bits of wood lying around – but plenty of space for us to sit in the sun and enjoy a nice refreshing drink.
About two beers in, who should come along? A squirrel! A very friendly and inquisitive squirrel. He played coy with me for a few minutes, running back and forth between a chair and a power sander, then feeling more comfortable he guardedly moved a bit closer.
Next he started playing with some plastic tarp. Oh, how cute! He’s on his hind legs scratching at the plastic! Oh! He’s making cute little noises and rubbing his cheeks! I pointed him out to my boyfriend who was less than interested and told me that squirrels are generally pretty stupid and he would probably try to eat the plastic and choke. I made a note that my boyfriend had just lost points by not being interested in a cute furry little animal, and also for not facilitating my delight in cute furry animals by faking his own.
When I think about it, I guess I should have been more on guard. This wasn’t the first dashing and confident squirrel I had ever met. One morning at University I awoke with a squirrel sitting on my foot with a triumphant glean in his eye, eating the muffin I had saved for breakfast. I couldn’t even get mad at him because he had so brilliantly executed his plan of sneaking up the wall and crawling through the crack in my window. If I really think about it, squirrels are wiley little buggers. They would do anything for food, anything to get their little paws on a piece of something tasty.
OOhhhh! Adorable! He found something and he’s putting it in his mouth! This little guy is soooooooo cute!
Maybe I should check on him, he might be sabotaging me somehow, he might be using his cuteness to get some free beer. I got up and moved a bit closer to him…he stayed. I edged a bit closer…he still sat there. I moved closer to the plastic tarp…hold on, that’s not a plastic tarp, that’s my grocery bag! The dirty little mongrel took off, and what did he have in his greedy little mouth? One of my apples!! He stole and ENTIRE apple from me! I picked up my bad and looked inside. Oh COME ON! The cheese!? He ate my cheese!!!!!
I felt so used. I felt so humiliated. He used his charm and stunning wit to get everything he wanted from me. He played me perfectly.
Moral of the Story: My boyfriend underestimated that guy.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Privacy Not Included
I live very close to the restaurant in which I work. It’s a pleasant and quick jaunt on a warm spring day, and an annoyingly short distance to walk in the winter when you have to bundle up for -20 and a wind chill. On this particular day I was running a little behind schedule, as I couldn’t decide exactly which degradingly short skirt to where with my scandalously revealing top that night, in order to make my usual amount of gratuity’s.
Hurrying along the street I came upon a lovely woman holding pamphlets in her hand and offering me one with a warm smile. You might assume that she picked me out by the floozy outfit I had on at 4pm in the afternoon, but I can assure you that wasn’t the case. She handed me a tacky brochure with the headline reading, “No God? No Problem! We’ve got you covered!” I listened to her for a few minutes; politely nodding my head and looking interested. I accepted the fact that short of jumping into oncoming traffic I wasn’t getting out of this anytime soon.
Then she did something familiar; she took out her clipboard and asked for my name. I couldn’t believe it, it was happening again. How did they find me!? I wouldn’t be surprised if they had me on some kind of Spiritual GPS. Actually, from the way they knew me by name in my hometown I really shouldn’t have been surprised by this encounter.
Yes, I am on the Jehovah Witness Hit List.
In the town where I grew up, there was no short supply of Jehovah Witnesses. Every Saturday they would drive around and introduce themselves to the community, always pleasant, always cordial. There was a particular group that would come to our house, a particular foursome that had warmed to me. Now, I don’t believe it was because I was in need of any particular saving, I believe it was because I had broken the one sacred rule, ripped down the one barrier, erased the ONE line they would have otherwise felt awkward to cross...
I told them my name.
Ahhh!! Every weekend! Asking for me BY NAME! My mom would answer the door and they would say,
“Hello! Is Katie home? We’d love to talk to her today”
My mom would very confusingly call for me and I would spend the next 30 min being polite and saying God and I were doing just fine.
But enough was enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. This was getting out of hand, my Saturday afternoon was spent hiding in the basement wondering when they would show up...they could have at least had the courtesy to show up at the same time each weekend so I could have staged my own death.
Saturday arrived and so did they. Slowly the car pulled up the driveway with the foursome inside...they killed the engine...a tall lady with a weird hat got out and straightened her blazer. I swear I heard the theme song from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing.
Mom: “get on the floor.”
Me: “uuhh...what?”
Mom: “on the floor, now!”
Yes, we did. The two of us lying face down on the kitchen floor breathing as softly as possible because obviously they could hear us from outside the house and 20 feet away. The weird hat lady knocked on the door and waited. She knocked again. And again. Then nothing. We were in the clear! We did it! We outsmarted the messengers of God! It was almost time to celebrate; as soon as we heard the car start we could stand up.
Wait, was she? No, she couldn’t be...she’s opening the door!?
Weird Hat Lady: “Helllooooooo! Anyone home!”
She stepped INSIDE the house....
Weird Hat Lady: “Katie!? Are you home?”
Mom and I exchanged glances of disbelief. Was she really breaking and entering in the name of God? Would we allow that? Would we really stand (lay on the floor and hide) for that!?
The answer is, yes. Yes I will hide, I will grovel on the floor, I will hold my hand over my cat’s mouth so even she can’t give me away. I will spend 30 min face down on the kitchen floor instead of 30 min in awkward politeness with this stranger. I will spend the afternoon walking around on my hands and knees so my head doesn’t cross into their sniper sight line...I will do ANYTHING to get out of talking with her each weekend.
Oh, except actually tell her that I don’t want to talk to her, because that’s just rude.
Moral of the story – take a satellite sciences course so you can figure out how to turn off Spiritual GPS.
Hurrying along the street I came upon a lovely woman holding pamphlets in her hand and offering me one with a warm smile. You might assume that she picked me out by the floozy outfit I had on at 4pm in the afternoon, but I can assure you that wasn’t the case. She handed me a tacky brochure with the headline reading, “No God? No Problem! We’ve got you covered!” I listened to her for a few minutes; politely nodding my head and looking interested. I accepted the fact that short of jumping into oncoming traffic I wasn’t getting out of this anytime soon.
Then she did something familiar; she took out her clipboard and asked for my name. I couldn’t believe it, it was happening again. How did they find me!? I wouldn’t be surprised if they had me on some kind of Spiritual GPS. Actually, from the way they knew me by name in my hometown I really shouldn’t have been surprised by this encounter.
Yes, I am on the Jehovah Witness Hit List.
In the town where I grew up, there was no short supply of Jehovah Witnesses. Every Saturday they would drive around and introduce themselves to the community, always pleasant, always cordial. There was a particular group that would come to our house, a particular foursome that had warmed to me. Now, I don’t believe it was because I was in need of any particular saving, I believe it was because I had broken the one sacred rule, ripped down the one barrier, erased the ONE line they would have otherwise felt awkward to cross...
I told them my name.
Ahhh!! Every weekend! Asking for me BY NAME! My mom would answer the door and they would say,
“Hello! Is Katie home? We’d love to talk to her today”
My mom would very confusingly call for me and I would spend the next 30 min being polite and saying God and I were doing just fine.
But enough was enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. This was getting out of hand, my Saturday afternoon was spent hiding in the basement wondering when they would show up...they could have at least had the courtesy to show up at the same time each weekend so I could have staged my own death.
Saturday arrived and so did they. Slowly the car pulled up the driveway with the foursome inside...they killed the engine...a tall lady with a weird hat got out and straightened her blazer. I swear I heard the theme song from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly playing.
Mom: “get on the floor.”
Me: “uuhh...what?”
Mom: “on the floor, now!”
Yes, we did. The two of us lying face down on the kitchen floor breathing as softly as possible because obviously they could hear us from outside the house and 20 feet away. The weird hat lady knocked on the door and waited. She knocked again. And again. Then nothing. We were in the clear! We did it! We outsmarted the messengers of God! It was almost time to celebrate; as soon as we heard the car start we could stand up.
Wait, was she? No, she couldn’t be...she’s opening the door!?
Weird Hat Lady: “Helllooooooo! Anyone home!”
She stepped INSIDE the house....
Weird Hat Lady: “Katie!? Are you home?”
Mom and I exchanged glances of disbelief. Was she really breaking and entering in the name of God? Would we allow that? Would we really stand (lay on the floor and hide) for that!?
The answer is, yes. Yes I will hide, I will grovel on the floor, I will hold my hand over my cat’s mouth so even she can’t give me away. I will spend 30 min face down on the kitchen floor instead of 30 min in awkward politeness with this stranger. I will spend the afternoon walking around on my hands and knees so my head doesn’t cross into their sniper sight line...I will do ANYTHING to get out of talking with her each weekend.
Oh, except actually tell her that I don’t want to talk to her, because that’s just rude.
Moral of the story – take a satellite sciences course so you can figure out how to turn off Spiritual GPS.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
New York I Love You?
I love to travel. I love the idea of going to a place I’ve never been before and trying to see all its highlights in only the few days you can afford to go there. I didn’t do a lot of traveling growing up, that is if you don’t count soccer tournaments in Pit Meadows and Ringette games in Lumby. I found out along the way that the more you travel the savvier you get; meaning those first few trips are pretty uninformed and down right expensive - I’ve walked right past the Newark Air Train sign and inadvertently paid a $90 cab ride into Manhattan. Plus tip.
We’ve all done it; we’ve booked ridiculously expensive flights only to find out the seat sale happened the next day. We’ve spent a week at a hotel that obviously borrowed its online photo from another country because the place you’re at totally sucks. We’ve been ripped off by cab drivers in foreign countries, snuck into the wrong bunk at a hostel, and we’ve definitely stayed in neighborhoods that sounded great on paper, but the peeled paint on the roof and rattrap in the corner said anything but “quaint and homely”.
Let me explain.
In an effort to both travel and decide where I wanted to study music after graduation, my boyfriend and I took a trip to New York for about 5 days. I was a year out of school, hadn’t really traveled except for school trips, and was completely amped on going to the Big Apple for the first time.
Now, we needed to do this on the cheap, and the fact that it was Christmas time made that almost impossible. We had a friend who had recently moved there and we had arranged our last night to stay with him. The first 3 nights we booked on something pretty similar to Craigslist. I mean people don’t lie about that kind of stuff, right? They list exactly what they’re offering, right? Broadway means right downtown next to all the theaters, right?
We paid $75 for the scariest cab ride of my life. We would have placed first at the Indie 500, and you would have thought we mistakenly jumped into a getaway car by the amount of weaving and squealing of tires taking place. We drove through the fashion district, we past through the theater district – I could see Times Square, this is amazing! We rounded the top of central park…hhmmm. Wait, that was Columbia University, (uuhhh this is gonna be a long walk to get a bagel in the morning). I see signs for Harlem. Um. I don’t think…Oh HELL NO! East Harlem!??!!
The cab stopped outside of our “Bed and Breakfast” that consisted of a 5 story run down apartment building with El Pablo’s Pawn shop/Chicken Eatery on the main floor. There was what I believed to be a homeless person standing out front who gave me such a creepy look as I approached the door that I actually felt stupid for not giving him money sooner. It wasn’t until I passed by him that I saw his nametag with “doorman” pinned to his shirt.
The front desk consisted of an elderly woman with a prerequisite of hacking into a dirty handkerchief before she told us that our suitcase would not fit in the elevator. How is that possible? Because the elevator was designed to hold a max capacity of 2 anorexic midgets. Once climbing 8 flights of stairs we arrived in a dimly lit hallway with a very strong remanence of an ethnic dinner and after meal digestive herb.
The room we rented was a shared apartment of two girls who rented their place out for extra money. Oh, but they still lived there. Our “bed” would be sleeping on their couch, and our “breakfast” was explained to us in a scribbled out note saying ‘eat anything you want in our fridge’. Should I have looked? Maybe not. Let’s just say I was testing to see if it could get any worse. Moldy meat and half eaten containers of cottage cheese danced before us in anticipation of our morning meal. Yummy.
I’m not proud of it folks. I wish I was stronger, but it happened. I cried. A lot. Tears of panic started streaming down my face, I looked around me in horror and imagined my death at the hand of a giant rat wearing an eye patch named Skeeter. My boyfriend tried to calm me down and say that we would be fine, but it was hard to hear his reassuring voice over the bumping beats coming from the apartment next door.
Trying to get a hold of myself I walked over to the window for some fresh air. I needed to take control here, I needed to grow up and learn to accept new experiences, I needed to…hold on, is that? Are they? Oh lord, I’m witnessing a drug deal beneath my window. Of course, of all the windows of all the apartments in East Harlem, it’s this one that these three dudes decide to do business under…(although in East Harlem, I think the chances might be pretty good). It’s not enough that this place sucks, that it smells like medicinal curry, that the doorman scared me into giving him money, that a rat named Skeeter is most likely going to make off with my luggage tonight!? THIS has to happen, this cliché!!!!
Then they saw me…watching them…I smiled, waved, and mouthed “hi” like a nice Canadian. They looked at each other, and then looked back at me. I picked up my bag and walked out of the apartment and got a $50 cab ride back downtown, then happily paid a criminally high price for a double bed in Tribeca. You can’t put a price on first time travel.
Moral of the story: look at a map before you book your next Bed and Breakfast.
We’ve all done it; we’ve booked ridiculously expensive flights only to find out the seat sale happened the next day. We’ve spent a week at a hotel that obviously borrowed its online photo from another country because the place you’re at totally sucks. We’ve been ripped off by cab drivers in foreign countries, snuck into the wrong bunk at a hostel, and we’ve definitely stayed in neighborhoods that sounded great on paper, but the peeled paint on the roof and rattrap in the corner said anything but “quaint and homely”.
Let me explain.
In an effort to both travel and decide where I wanted to study music after graduation, my boyfriend and I took a trip to New York for about 5 days. I was a year out of school, hadn’t really traveled except for school trips, and was completely amped on going to the Big Apple for the first time.
Now, we needed to do this on the cheap, and the fact that it was Christmas time made that almost impossible. We had a friend who had recently moved there and we had arranged our last night to stay with him. The first 3 nights we booked on something pretty similar to Craigslist. I mean people don’t lie about that kind of stuff, right? They list exactly what they’re offering, right? Broadway means right downtown next to all the theaters, right?
We paid $75 for the scariest cab ride of my life. We would have placed first at the Indie 500, and you would have thought we mistakenly jumped into a getaway car by the amount of weaving and squealing of tires taking place. We drove through the fashion district, we past through the theater district – I could see Times Square, this is amazing! We rounded the top of central park…hhmmm. Wait, that was Columbia University, (uuhhh this is gonna be a long walk to get a bagel in the morning). I see signs for Harlem. Um. I don’t think…Oh HELL NO! East Harlem!??!!
The cab stopped outside of our “Bed and Breakfast” that consisted of a 5 story run down apartment building with El Pablo’s Pawn shop/Chicken Eatery on the main floor. There was what I believed to be a homeless person standing out front who gave me such a creepy look as I approached the door that I actually felt stupid for not giving him money sooner. It wasn’t until I passed by him that I saw his nametag with “doorman” pinned to his shirt.
The front desk consisted of an elderly woman with a prerequisite of hacking into a dirty handkerchief before she told us that our suitcase would not fit in the elevator. How is that possible? Because the elevator was designed to hold a max capacity of 2 anorexic midgets. Once climbing 8 flights of stairs we arrived in a dimly lit hallway with a very strong remanence of an ethnic dinner and after meal digestive herb.
The room we rented was a shared apartment of two girls who rented their place out for extra money. Oh, but they still lived there. Our “bed” would be sleeping on their couch, and our “breakfast” was explained to us in a scribbled out note saying ‘eat anything you want in our fridge’. Should I have looked? Maybe not. Let’s just say I was testing to see if it could get any worse. Moldy meat and half eaten containers of cottage cheese danced before us in anticipation of our morning meal. Yummy.
I’m not proud of it folks. I wish I was stronger, but it happened. I cried. A lot. Tears of panic started streaming down my face, I looked around me in horror and imagined my death at the hand of a giant rat wearing an eye patch named Skeeter. My boyfriend tried to calm me down and say that we would be fine, but it was hard to hear his reassuring voice over the bumping beats coming from the apartment next door.
Trying to get a hold of myself I walked over to the window for some fresh air. I needed to take control here, I needed to grow up and learn to accept new experiences, I needed to…hold on, is that? Are they? Oh lord, I’m witnessing a drug deal beneath my window. Of course, of all the windows of all the apartments in East Harlem, it’s this one that these three dudes decide to do business under…(although in East Harlem, I think the chances might be pretty good). It’s not enough that this place sucks, that it smells like medicinal curry, that the doorman scared me into giving him money, that a rat named Skeeter is most likely going to make off with my luggage tonight!? THIS has to happen, this cliché!!!!
Then they saw me…watching them…I smiled, waved, and mouthed “hi” like a nice Canadian. They looked at each other, and then looked back at me. I picked up my bag and walked out of the apartment and got a $50 cab ride back downtown, then happily paid a criminally high price for a double bed in Tribeca. You can’t put a price on first time travel.
Moral of the story: look at a map before you book your next Bed and Breakfast.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Big City Begging
One of the greatest things about living in a big city is convenience. I can walk a block and watch a Jays game in the sun. I can go into my parking garage and rent a car for the day. I can go across the street and get my nails manicured. Hey, I could even get my dogs nails manicured if I really wanted. However, the greatest everyday convenience of my life? Sobey’s. In my building. Like, an elevator ride away.
For those of you who don’t know what Sobey’s is; it’s like a less snobbish Urban Fare, or a way nicer Safeway. Basically, I have a grocery store with everything I need in it, right below me at all times. No eggs for breakfast? No problem! No lettuce for your salad? Who cares! Need to send your boyfriend out for tampons? Yes you can! Everything we could possibly need is only 1 elevator ride away.
Now, what comes along with this Mecca of greatness and all who gather there is probably the same everywhere. Homeless people. And you have to agree, that’s a well thought out location. Everyone who goes in there is going to buy something, they have money, and they’re getting change for whatever bill they just broke. There are really good odds of making some Hollywood dough out there, and the guys outside of my Sobey’s have it down to an art.
Numero Uno - They have puppies. Yup, puppies. The cutest, softest, most adorable little puppies you have ever seen.
B - (for those of you with cold decrepit hearts who didn’t want to empty your pockets when you saw the puppies) - The two homeless people look exhausted. It’s hot out, so I totally get that they need to lie there half asleep in the shade.
Third - They are trying to earn it; they have a creative sign placed on the ground saying they are disabled Clone War Vets that need money to buy a new Death Star.
I hear the employees at Sobey’s talking about them all the time. It looks bad for the store; they can’t have homeless people asking their customers for money. On this particular day I heard a conversation a little like this; “they have money for those dogs, for dog food, for their tattoos, for their clothes, they don’t need to be begging.” That made me wonder. How much money do they make in a day? If I gave them a dollar, how many other people gave them a dollar? And remember…they look exhausted!
Then it happened. The event that changed my perception of these so-called homeless people. It was as if it all happened in slow motion. The man with the cute little puppies who looked so exhausted and tired and hungry and dirty from having to beg for money (who I gave a dollar to) passed by me to go inside the grocery store. ‘I bet he’s going to buy some water’, I said to myself. ‘I bet he’s going to spend that hard earned money on some dog food’.
He looked around, he looked down, he found what he was looking for… he PLUGGED IN HIS BLACKBERRY!!!!!!
Moral of the story – always inquire as to how much a homeless person makes in a day. I bet its more than you!
For those of you who don’t know what Sobey’s is; it’s like a less snobbish Urban Fare, or a way nicer Safeway. Basically, I have a grocery store with everything I need in it, right below me at all times. No eggs for breakfast? No problem! No lettuce for your salad? Who cares! Need to send your boyfriend out for tampons? Yes you can! Everything we could possibly need is only 1 elevator ride away.
Now, what comes along with this Mecca of greatness and all who gather there is probably the same everywhere. Homeless people. And you have to agree, that’s a well thought out location. Everyone who goes in there is going to buy something, they have money, and they’re getting change for whatever bill they just broke. There are really good odds of making some Hollywood dough out there, and the guys outside of my Sobey’s have it down to an art.
Numero Uno - They have puppies. Yup, puppies. The cutest, softest, most adorable little puppies you have ever seen.
B - (for those of you with cold decrepit hearts who didn’t want to empty your pockets when you saw the puppies) - The two homeless people look exhausted. It’s hot out, so I totally get that they need to lie there half asleep in the shade.
Third - They are trying to earn it; they have a creative sign placed on the ground saying they are disabled Clone War Vets that need money to buy a new Death Star.
I hear the employees at Sobey’s talking about them all the time. It looks bad for the store; they can’t have homeless people asking their customers for money. On this particular day I heard a conversation a little like this; “they have money for those dogs, for dog food, for their tattoos, for their clothes, they don’t need to be begging.” That made me wonder. How much money do they make in a day? If I gave them a dollar, how many other people gave them a dollar? And remember…they look exhausted!
Then it happened. The event that changed my perception of these so-called homeless people. It was as if it all happened in slow motion. The man with the cute little puppies who looked so exhausted and tired and hungry and dirty from having to beg for money (who I gave a dollar to) passed by me to go inside the grocery store. ‘I bet he’s going to buy some water’, I said to myself. ‘I bet he’s going to spend that hard earned money on some dog food’.
He looked around, he looked down, he found what he was looking for… he PLUGGED IN HIS BLACKBERRY!!!!!!
Moral of the story – always inquire as to how much a homeless person makes in a day. I bet its more than you!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Meet the Girl behind the Story
I come from a small town, and sometimes life in a big city catches me off guard. Crazy things happen here; I guess they happen everywhere, but I just wasn’t brought up in a fast pace lifestyle.
Now don’t get me wrong, I never shy away from drama. Feed me classy dinners out and pretty dresses in HUGE spoonfuls. Being a classically trained singer I enjoy a night at the opera more than most, and would be totally lost without my daily gourmet coffee fix. I treasure my Coach purses, Pashmina’s from Prague, and delicate Italian leather high heels.
But, a majority of the time, I can also get by with a cold beer on the patio and a BBQ dinner. I love my cowboy boots more than any other boot and sweatpants are my pants of choice.
My favorite sounds are crickets on a warm summer night, and the next Spadina streetcar actually arriving on time. I have no trouble sleeping through ambulances passing my building with such alarming regularity that I could set my watch by them. When you grow up taking naps in the orchard with a tractor driving by, you learn to sleep through anything.
Yup, I’ve got both sides to me; small town and uptown...and I like it that way. One day I’ll be at an audition in pumps and lipstick, the next day I’m in my favorite old jeans belting out Keith Urban.
I present to you The Concrete Orchard; everyday events with dash of pizzazz. Each week I’ll bring you a new story and I promise it will always make you smile. I mean, who doesn’t like to read about other people’s lives anyway?
...even the simplest lives have a little drama.
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