Love Lessons From My Childhood Pen Pal

I got a letter in the mail the other day. It was a bit of an unexpected thrill, considering my mailbox is usually filled with nothing but Domino’s pizza flyers. (Which, don’t get me wrong, I still appreciate.) 

While reading it, I was reminded of a time in my life when letters weren’t quite so infrequent.

………. Cue the flashback (you knew it was coming)

The year was 1995: I was 9 years old, bookish, and heavy into Blossom Hats and The Babysitter’s Club. I was teetering on the verge of what would soon become my five-year “awkward phase”, but didn’t know it yet. Life was good.

It was also the year I made my first Pen Pal.

*Not me or my dog.

I acquired my Pen Pal through somewhat unusual circumstances. My father, the son of Croatian immigrants, liked to keep ties with his Eastern European heritage. This manifested itself mostly in three ways: cooking obscene amounts of cabbage, hoarding things, and subscribing to a Croatian newsletter called  Zajedničar. 

Zajedničar, as I recall it, was a bizarre publication filled with ads for life insurance, way too many consonants, and people in weird costumes playing Tamburitzas.

 I never paid much attention to it until one day, my dad showed me an ad offering a PenPal service connecting Croatian children across North America.  

Now this was something I could get down with. The opportunity to correspond with a real live girl in another country? Sign me up!

I immediately submitted my information to the magazine, and a few weeks later, received my first letter.  It was from a girl named Jessica in Erie, Pennsylvania. She was 10 years old, and loved Barbies, gymnastics and stickers- in that order.  She even sent me her school photo, in which she was wearing one of those Western bolo shirts that were popular at the time.

This was the best I could do on Google images. She actually looked nothing like this.

Her long, sandy blond hair was tied into a side braid with a fluffy white scrunchie on the end, and she accessorized with dangly troll earrings, gummy bracelets and a toothpaste-commercial smile.

To me, she was impossibly cool.

I immediately began crafting my response. Besides just telling her my entire life story, I also spent hours researching her hobbies and interests in order to prove what a thoughtful and conscientious Pen Pal I could be. I even had my dad pull out the atlas to show me where Erie was on the map. 

I was certain she would be impressed by such informational gems as:

“Did you know your town is named after a lake??!”; and 

“I heard toothpaste is great for removing sticker residue!“ 

We corresponded for the next few months, sending letters as well as other totems of our respective 90’s childhoods: stickers, colorful erasers, POGS, temporary tattoos.We never spoke a single word about Croatia, but that was OK. 

Eventually, things kind of fizzled out. Ok, I’m lying. Jessica just straight-up stopped writing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I mean, maybe I was a little overzealous in my pursuits- spending hours drafting elaborate letters, consulting atlases and whatnot. And maybe I should’ve seen this one coming when my 10-page anthologies met with only a few measly paragraphs in response. “Maybe she’s busy practicing her tumbling,” my mother would say. But deep down, I knew the score. 

While being blown-off so coldly hurt at the time, in a way I’m thankful, because it probably prevented me from becoming a full-on stage 5 clinger in future romantic relationships.  

Now I’m just incredibly closed-off and distant. I think it’s working out pretty well for me.

So thank you, Jessica, for teaching me that there is such a thing as coming on way too strong. I  hope you finally found that Sailor Moon sticker sheet you were looking for, and that somewhere, out there, you and your side braid are tumbling off into the sunset.

Question of the Day: Did You Have A Pen Pal Growing Up?

Throwback Thursday: 90′s Edition

Fasten your seatbelts, kids- because I’m about to take you on a trip down memory lane the masochistic nostalgia highway with yet another round of have beens, washed ups and never-weres.

Yes, it’s Throwback Thursday again- and this week, we’re kicking it 90′s style.   

The inspiration for this TBT actually came from an experience I had at a play a couple of weeks ago here in Toronto.

Yes, you read that correctly: BreezyK went to the theaaaataaah! Clearly I’ve been spending way too much time with Intellectual Dachshund.

All the world’s a stage and…. hey, who moved my scotch?

Anyway, I was standing in line at the box office waiting for my homies, when suddenly I spotted a handsome gentleman to my immediate right. I was like

I turned my head to take a closer look, only to discover that this “cute guy” was actually BRANDON FREAKING WALSH!!!

 Yes- Jason Priestley was standing directly beside me, breathing the very same air. I wanted to say something snarky like “hey, wanna go to the Peach Pit after this?” or  “how’s Brenda? still reeling from that pregnancy scare?”

But I refrained, and instead focused on obsessively studying every detail of his face. He was wearing a red K-Way type jacket, and looked a little worse for the wear- sort of like a hot dad post-soccer practice.

He was also shorter than I expected, but had movie star eyes: the kind that melt your heart and haunt your soul at the same time. We held eye contact for roughly 3 seconds. (I counted.) 

Obviously I had to Google him afterwards. It’s the responsible thing to do once you start dating someone new. I discovered that after such career highs as Choices of the Heart: The Margaret Sanger Story and People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful 1991, Jason bounced around for a while before landing the role of a morally flexible car salesman on HBO’s Call Me Fitz. 

The show has received some critical acclaim and firmly re-trenched the Canadian starlet in D-List celebrity territory. Priestley is also starring in David Mamet’s new play “Race”, opening here in Toronto on Sunday. So, if you need me, I’ll be sitting in the front row, wearing my ratty old 90210 shirt and cheering on my man until further notice. Jason, if you’re reading this- let’s try to make it 4 seconds this time.  ;) 

Savage Garden

This TBT is brought to you by the Bellagio hotel lobby, whose unofficial radio policy is: “All Savage Garden, All The Time”.

I swear I heard their songs more times in the past 4 days than in the past 10 years combined.  (Not that I’m complaining.)

For those of you who didn’t slow dance to “Truly Madly Deeply” with your grade 6 boyfriend like I did, I’ll give a little background: Savage Garden was an Australian pop/rock duo who first hit it big in North America back in 1998. Something about “Chicken Cherry Cola”.

The band consisted of Darren Hayes on vocals and Daniel Jones on instrumentals. After producing a handful of hits in the late 90′s, the pair split up in 2001 so Hayes could pursue his solo endeavours. 

Hayes came out with the song “Insatiable” in 2002 which I never heard but somehow has over 4 million YouTube hits???

I initially credited this to his glorious frosted tips in the video:

but joke’s on me, because Darren Hayes is actually a legit TBT success story! He has done four solo albums since Savage Garden, all of which have been commercially successful. According to Wikipedia, he also came out as being gay in the early 2000′s and is a huge a Star Wars buff. Who Knew!

Chumbawamba 

Now I know y’all remember pissing the night away to this one:

But what has happened to the Brit band since?

Well, apparently Chumbawamba has been together for almost 30 years (!!) and was originally formed as an anarchist movement.

After gracing the world with their surreptitiously anti-facist party anthem “TubThumping”, Chumbawamba had a bit of an identity crisis. They signed under multiple different labels, recording songs in basically every genre possible: techno, punk, world, a capella folk. They even released a Japan-only mini album (wtf is that?) consisting entirely of country and western versions of their greatest hits. Oh, and I almost forgot- they also sometimes go by the name “Skin Disease”.

Apparently they got tired of being the weirdest band on earth, because in 2012, they decided to call it quits.

So I know I say this about everyone, but this band REALLY needs their own reality show. I would totally watch that noise.

Off to find a way to make that happen!

Question of the Day: Any 90′s stars you wonder about?

Book Review: Ham On Rye By Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski was one angry man.

….Or should I say, Henry Chinaski, Bukowkski’s thinly veiled aler-ego in the novel Ham on Rye.

In this semi-autobiographical take on Bukowksi’s own life, Ham on Rye follows Chinaski through his childhood and adolescence, first in Germany, and then in depression-era Los Angeles.

To say life wasn’t easy for the young Chinaski would be an understatement. Poverty, bullying, and frequent beatings from his father were just a few of the problems he faced on a daily basis. Not to mention the horrible,  disfiguring acne he acquired as a teenager, forcing him to suffer through painful treatments and social ostracization.

As a result of this, Chinaski grew up an angry outsider. He had few friends at school, and spent most of his time reading D.H. Lawrence books in the Los Angeles public library. He also sought solace in writing, but his stories were often dismissed by others as being “too angry”.

I would call Chinaski a misanthrope, were it not for his abiding love – nay, obsession- with the female form. (let’s just say l had no idea how gross teenage males could be).  Oh, and of course, alcohol. He notably remarks, after experiencing intoxication for the first time: “this is going to help me for a long, long time”.

Unfortunately, the honeymoon is short-lived, and his relationship with alcohol leads to progressively seedier and more violent behavior.

There’s not really much of a “plot” in Ham on Rye: it tells the story of the first 20 years of Chinaski’s life; and then it ends. And that was OK with me.

I read this book in one Sunday afternoon. I had planned on seeing Gangster Squad, but had 45 minutes to kill before the movie started. So I popped into the bookstore next to the theatre. I’d been wanting to read Bukowski since I read this letter he wrote, so I picked up this book and settled into a comfy chair to check it out.

Four hours and 230 pages later, I completely missed my movie, but found a great book. (Yes, a book beat out Ryan Gosling. What is happening to me.)

I ended up buying a copy out of guilt (Well played, Chapters Indigo…Well played), and proceeded to walk out of the store like a zombie. The last time I read an entire book in one day was probably in Middle School, when I was obsessed with the Emily of New Moon series.

I used to lock myself in my room for days, devouring books like some sort of crazed meth addict. I’d forgotten what an overwhelming and mentally exhausting feeling this can be. Thoughts and emotions whirred around my brain like crazy; letters floated in front of my eyelids every time I blinked.

I think this book hit me particularly hard because it was so emotionally raw. At times I thought about putting it down, but couldn’t. It was sort of like pressing a canker sore; as uncomfortable as it was, I also kind of liked it. Having read a lot of fluff before this, it felt good to read a book with real pain and tangible feelings involved- one that wasn’t obviously angling to become a Hollywood film.

I think one of the biggest things I took away from this book was just how good my generation has it. Growing up, my parents would say things like, “you kids don’t know how lucky you are!”. And proceed to regale us with harrowing tales from their youth; like “I used to walk four miles to school, in 35 foot high snow!”  or “I had to scrub the floors for three hours every day.. with a toothbrush!”

It was easy to tune them out and hear the voice of the Charlie Brown teacher when it was my parents:

not so much when the words were right there on the page in front of me. It made me feel guilty and ashamed for complaining about all of my first-world problems, when poor Henry Chinaski was wearing the same pants to school every day and getting his ass kicked for missing a blade of grass when he cut the front lawn.

Chinaski’s experience as a German immigrant also really hit me on a personal level. Like Chinaski, my father was also the son of Eastern European immigrants, and he too was chided by his peers and made to feel unwelcome for his immigrant status. It gave me a whole new appreciation for how difficult it was for my dad growing up. I wanted to reach out across four provinces and give him a great big hug.

Even though it was aggressively emo and made my cold sarcastic heart grow three sizes in one day,  I still thought this book was great, and would recommend it to anyone who is looking to take a step out of their reading comfort zone.

I give it: 4/5 Intellectual Dachshunds 

Intellectual Dachshund Says: I Feel Feelings

Question of the Day: What book has made a lasting impression on you?

And P.S. for those of you who are worried about my emotional health, rest assured that I am currently reading The Happiness Project.. which I’m told fixes every problem in your entire life. Right??

When Did Valentine’s Day Get Such a Bad Rap?

The other day, I got a package in the mail from my mom and dad. In it, was a little Valentine’s day gift (yes, I know I am 27 years old.. what is your point, please?), as well as this vintage looking card with Raggedy Ann on the front:

Curious, I opened it up to reveal that this was one of the cards I had given away myself in elementary school.

Cute, eh? I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure I gave these out in grade 3. I also dressed up as Raggedy Ann for Halloween that year, so the timeline (and sadness) of it all would make sense.

Grade 3 was a bit of an awkward year for me.

Anyway, it all got me to thinking about Valentine’s days past.

I will take any excuse to use this flashback image.

Back when I was a kid, Valentine’s day was invariably awesome. I’d wake up to some little treat from my parents; a card with some chocolate, some new barrettes, maybe even a Barbie (!!!) and then sit down to what I can only assume were my dad’s attempt at heart-shaped pancakes.

He tried.

Then, I would deck myself out in red from head to toe (even the socks. I was a Valentine’s day extremist) and head to school, where we’d spend the morning fashioning little envelopes out of construction paper to hang on the edge of our desks to collect our Valentine’s bounty.

After lunch was when the magic happened: Everyone brought in some food item to share with the class; (homemade cupcakes if your mom was fancy; a box of Oreos in my case) and there was often a bowl of punch, which, as a kid always made you feel very grown up.

Then, when it was time, you’d walk around the room and drop your painstakingly chosen Valentines into the newly minted envelopes of each of your classmates. No one was ever left out; as the rule in my school was that everyone got a Valentine.

When all was said and done, I’d lay them all out on my desk; analyzing my haul the way I would my Halloween candy. Disney cards were always a constant; The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast. Other themes varied from year to year. One year Power Rangers was big; another year I distinctly remember getting 6 separate Sailor Moon cards.

I can’t help but wonder; when did it all change? When did Valentine’s day go from being this awesome day filled with treats, kitschy cards and self-assurance; to the polarizing, commercial holiday it is today? When did we start calling it “Singles Awareness Day”, rather than just “Best Day Ever”?

Was it once elementary school ended, and the safety net of everyone getting a card was cruelly ripped out from under us? Or was it even sooner? Come to think of it, I remember as early as grade four, poring over the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles card given to me by my crush, analyzing the cryptic message inside. “You have a Pizza My Heart” it read. Did this mean we were officially an item now? He had pushed me in the mud earlier that day…

I can’t say for sure, but I kind of long to have those days back. I want to make sh*t out of construction paper again, and dress in monochromatic red with reckless abandon. I want to drink Hawaiian punch out of a fancy bowl and gorge myself on Grocery store slab cake. (Ok, that last part I will probably still do; though it will be in the solace of my own home rather than a classroom setting. And the punch will probably be spiked with the good stuff). Who’s with me? Let’s find a DeLorean and make it happen.

Question of the Day: When did your perception of Valentine’s Day shift?

Like Father, Like Daughter

So as I mentioned in my last post, my dad came to visit me in Toronto this weekend.

Since his birthday is on Christmas and he perpetually gets the shaft gift-wise, my siblings and I decided to chip in this year and get him tickets to the Buffalo Bills game happening here.

Now, given my dad lives in small town Nova Scotia and has only been to Toronto once 30 years ago, I kind of expected his visit to resemble one 48 hour-long episode of Breaking Amish.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dad soaked up Toronto like a sponge and wanted to experience everything it had to offer. He seriously wore me out. I’ve gotta start taking those iron pills.

The weekend got off to a rough start, however, when we experienced a slight luggage snafu at the airport. (I just love the word “snafu”. It makes even the most horrific problems sound like charming little anecdotes). I won’t get into too much detail because it’s kind of a long story, but know that in the end, we emerged victorious. And there might have been a little low-level B&E involved (By him, not by me of course: I have a professional reputation to uphold).

All’s well that ends well, right??

Anyway, with lady luck on our side, we prepared to tackle the rest of the weekend. (<— football pun).

Some highlights included:

• Brunch Dates: (Sorry Karen.. had to cheat on you just this once)

• My very first visit to the CN Tower

(And no, I did not step foot on that glass floor. Heights and I do naaaat get along.)

• The Hockey Hall of Fame

Ladies- a word to the wise. If you plan on accompanying a man here, bring reading material. And maybe a flask. (Unless you’re one of those progressive ladies who are really into sports. In which case, have fun… and ignore my anti-feminist propaganda. )

• The Allan Gardens Conservatory:

• The St. Lawrence Antiques Market

This was a win for both of us. I checked out vintage jewellery and books while he bartered over old coins. I even scored this sweet vintage 1968 Bulova. #treat

• He even got me to go to church. At least I got this cool instagram pic:

And, of course, the Bills game:

To say he loved it would be an understatement. We got kicked out of the stadium for lingering there so long afterwards. He loved the crowd and seeing all of the behind-the-scenes stuff you don’t see on TV.

I, on the other hand, amused myself by taking pictures:

Reaffirming my love for cracker jacks, and of course, Psy’s halftime performance.

Does this feel like a really long 15 minutes to anyone else?

I also feel like I got to know my dad a lot better this weekend. Like for one thing, he asks a LOT of questions. Here is just a small sampling of the many queries he had for me:

• Are the Concession vendors inside Rogers Centre paid an hourly rate or by commission?
• Who owns this building/when was it built/what is the occupancy/how many stories is it (Re: every single building we were in)
• What does your landlord’s boyfriend do for a living?
• Are the subway cars the same on both ends? What happens when it gets to the end of the line?

I guess I can’t really fault him; I, too, was notorious for my relentless questioning as  a child. I remember asking my older sister what other names my parents had considered for me, and she responded “Sun Yeoung”.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“She who asks too many questions.”

What’s that about an apple and a tree?

He was truly obsessed with the subway though.

He had never been on one before, and kept trying to convince me to take it to the end of the line just to see what would happened. Of everything we did this weekend, he told me the Bills game was his favourite, followed by riding the subway. I told him he was like a little kid who gets a gift and likes the box better than the present itself.

Dad also made like 800 new friends talking to every single person he encountered. Ticket scalpers, homeless people, construction workers, TTC employees, you name it. He knows all of them by name and their life stories. I hope he doesn’t get wind of the fact that we’re looking for a new mayor here in Toronto, or I may never have my apartment to myself again.

Question of the Day: Are you like your dad? Your mom?

P.S. I know you’ve been waiting for it. Here it is, folks: Track 3 from the mix-tape nobody cares about!

On How I Ruined Christmas

The year was 1994, in the month of December. My best friend and I had just settled into a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos when the topic of Christmas arose.

“I hope I get SuperTalk Barbie,” I yearned. “Did you know she can say over 100,000 things?”

Truth

“Well I already know what I’m getting for Christmas,” replied my best friend, “because I snooped and found it all”.

I was incredulous. At 9 years old, I was a play-by-the rules-type of kid. I did my homework religiously, never talked back to my parents, and had an unwavering, self-imposed bedtime of 8:00 p.m. The idea that someone would snoop for their Christmas gifts seemed an affront to almost everything I believed in.

“But you couldn’t have found them all!” I pleaded. “What about the ones Santa brings on Christmas Eve?”

“Oh Bree,” she said, shaking her head, “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

She led me down the hall towards her parent’s room, checking to make sure they were firmly entranced by the TV on the way. She motioned for me to “Shhh” as we tiptoed into the bedroom and opened the closet door. There stood a large bag full of Christmas delights: Barbies, shiny new clothes and a few wrapped packages.

“That one’s The Lion King,” she said, gesturing to the colourfully wrapped package I was holding. “I already steamed it open and wrapped it back up.”

I was overwhelmed with emotions. Despite this stark evidence to the contrary, I refused to believe that Santa was nothing more than an elaborate hoax. Maybe her parents just didn’t understand how the whole process worked. Did they even have a chimney? Perhaps they had worked out some sort of alternative delivery arrangement with Santa and were simply holding these presents in escrow on his behalf.

Seriously. That bag probably gets real heavy on Christmas Eve.

But try as I might to justify it, once this brain worm had been implanted, it was like inception. I needed to see for myself.

I waited until my mom was out grocery shopping and my dad was fussing with the Christmas lights outside to make my move. Given that I was a complete novice in gifting espionage, I didn’t quite know where to start, but figured I’d begin with the usual suspects. After striking out in the closet, under the bed and in the basement, I knew there was only one place left to look: the attic.

I had vowed never to set foot in our attic again after my two older brothers had locked me up there with a horrifying life-size Raggedy Ann doll almost 5 years prior. But sometimes, even your own rules are meant to be broken.

I took a deep breath, pulled the cord that released the rickety old ladder and began my ascent. Through the near pitch -darkness, I could make out a fuzzy pink blanket covering something big and oddly misshapen. I tip-toed closer, careful not to make a peep, and yanked the blanket off.

There before me lay Christmas morning: almost three weeks early. There was SuperTalk Barbie; just as I had dreamed of! There was a GT snow racer, a brand new SEGA genesis for my brothers, nerf guns, even a BopIt! And of course, the mother of all gifts: a giant, 12 disc rotating CD player (which, in 1994, was no small potatoes). It even had a double tape deck!

But then a funny thing happened. Instead of feeling validated like I had expected, I felt sick to my stomach. My initial excitement over being able to tape a tape quickly faded and left me with nothing but guilt and anxiety. I had ruined Christmas. There would be no surprises now. And worst of all, this seemed indisputable proof that there was indeed, no Santa Claus. We had a chimney. And it worked just fine.

Riddled with guilt, I tried everything in my power to clear my conscience. I wrote tearful admissions in my diary. I became Santa’s biggest playground defender. I even went to confession. But no amount of Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s could repress the memory of what I had done.

When Christmas morning came, I smiled with a heavy heart as we headed into the living room to see what “Santa” had brought us. “Look!” said my mom, pointing to the CD player excitedly, “Santa must know how much you like making mix tapes!”

I nodded forlornly as I watched my siblings tear open packages, their eyes glistening with delight at each new surprise. Oh what I would have given to experience that feeling myself!

Not me

“Hey guys,” said my dad, “come look on the roof! I think the reindeer left hoof prints!” I knew, of course, that there had been no reindeer. I had heard my dad up on the roof himself the previous night as I lay awake sleepless. He had spent almost an hour creating the perfect “tracks”. I was going to fake this surprise if it killed me.

I never did come clean to my parents about what I had done, and although I never snooped again, I still live with the residual guilt. I don’t know what, if anything, I can do to repay this karmic debt, but I do know that when I become a parent, I’ll be certain to find a better hiding spot.

Really mom and dad? The attic? Have you SEEN Christmas Vacation?

Question of the Day: Did you snoop for your Christmas gifts growing up?

It’s Not A Party Until Somebody Busts out an EpiPen

“Someone call 911!!” my Father shouted, “and for God’s sake would someone go calm down your mother??!”

It was Thanksgiving 2007, and I was standing in the upstairs bathroom of my childhood home, staring down at the (seemingly) lifeless body of my older sister Marija.

Just a few moments before, she had returned from her annual Thanksgiving 10k run and  gone upstairs to take a shower. The rest of my family and I were busying ourselves in the kitchen when suddenly, we heard a telltale “THUD” . We rushed upstairs to find my sister, passed out cold on the bathroom floor, sweatband and dry fit gear still firmly in place.

What she had neglected to tell any of us was that for the past four days, she had been subsisting on nothing but a cayenne pepper and maple syrup concoction (laced with speed, evidently) in an effort to pare down for the holidays. Apparently, this was a diet Beyonce swore by.

Right. So that makes it a good idea.

Unarmed with this essential information, we all feared the worst and launched into full-scale panic mode. My brother hit the floor, attempting to revive her like a scene from a bad Nicholas Cage film, while my mother screamed bloody murder in the background. I, in my usual helpful fashion, did nothing but stand there and sob uncontrollably. My father had just gone to send up an emergency flare in the backyard when my sister came to, staring into the faces of 6 crazed lunatics.

“Guys, I’m fine” she said. “But can someone get me a Gatorade or something?”

I wish I could say that this story was one of a kind; a blip on the radar of an otherwise unblemished Thanksgiving history. But sadly, this is just the tip of the iceberg. Growing up the youngest of 5, Thanksgiving, much like any other holiday, was basically a shit show. If someone wasn’t passing out, they were splitting their hand open with a carving knife, or arm-wrestling over the last drumstick. Just getting us all in one place was cause for celebration in and of itself.

Despite all of this calamity,  I continue to book the overpriced ticket and go home for Thanksgiving every year. Why? Because there’s always the distinct possibility of one of my siblings getting their head stuck inside a turkey. And if so, I’d really like to put sunglasses on it.

Another Thanksgiving debacle in our family is the annual debate over who will say grace. The pre-dinner prayer was a necessary precursor to every Thanksgiving meal growing up, and one my siblings and I avoided like the plague. My Father would take up his post at the head of the table and ask, “Now, whose turn is it to say grace this year?” And inevitably, 5 collective heads would lower, eager to escape this cruel and unusual punishment.

I’m not really sure why we hated it so much. You reference the grub, thank the Big Man upstairs and move on. I mean, sure, there are are some weird, Latin old-timey words in there, but it wasn’t like you had to announce that you still wet the bed or something. Regardless, it was an unwritten rule that the one who had to say it would be forced to carry around a lifetime of eternal shame.

As the youngest, I was often the scapegoat. My siblings would team up against me and insist “It’s Bree’s turn! It’s Bree’s turn!” conveniently “forgetting” that I had recited it the previous 5 years in a row. If I ever thought about objecting, I only had to look at my brothers to know that one peep would result in a year’s worth of Smurf bites and figure four leg locks. Inevitably, I relented, left to mumble “Bless us o lord, for these thy gifts…” into my mashed potatoes as my brothers snickered in the background.

Things only got worse for me when one year, I decided to make a Thanksgiving centrepiece. I was 11, and going through my short-lived “interior decorating phase”. I watched home decorating shows religiously, rearranged the furniture in my bedroom daily, and, if permitted, would have sponge-painted every available surface area in our home. I had seen an amazing centerpiece in a copy of Martha Stewart Living  and was hell-bent on making it, despite my mother’s objections about the mess it would cause and my brothers’ taunts that “no one cared about a stupid centrepiece anyway”. It consisted of fall leaves artfully arranged in a cornucopia made out of a single piece of birch bark: all sprinkled with a hefty dose of glitter. It was magnificent. I just knew having it on our table would make for the best Thanksgiving ever.

Determined, I set off  in search of the perfect fall foliage for my piece de resistance. What I neglected to consider, however, were my chronically severe seasonal allergies. About 20 minutes into rummaging through leaf piles, I was sneezing so hard I could barely see straight, hives popping up on every inch of exposed skin. Think McCauley Culkin in My Girl, minus the anaphylaxis. I was barely able to stumble back home and limply drop my leaves onto the table before my mom gave me a hefty dose of Benadryl and sent me to bed. This was not, as Martha had suggested, A Good Thing.

Luckily, I only had to wait one year for my embarrassing Thanksgiving moment to be eclipsed by my brother Kristin performing what was perhaps the most notoriously stupid act in our family’s history.

We were celebrating our first Thanksgiving in a brand new home, and my mom brought out her gold-plated wedding china for the occasion. We had all been served, and were just about to sit down to dinner when my brother decided to warm up his turkey dinner in the microwave.

Not being an idiot, I of course knew that the combination of gold plating and microwaves did not mix, but despite this did nothing to stop it. Why? Because the irony was much too sweet. My brother; the self-described “science prodigy”. Boaster of many a math and science accolade. Dropper of frequent and unsolicited periodic table-related puns. This was much, much too good.

Just as I (and every known law of physics) predicted, within seconds sparks began flying and the Microwave lit up like a fourth of July picnic. He quickly rushed to press “cancel”, but not before leaving a sizeable hole in the newly microwave and a strong sulphuric tinge in the air. I had never felt so validated.

Shockingly, the mayhem is showing no signs of slowing down, and year after year, our house continues to resemble another instalment in the National Lampoon series. Just this past Thanksgiving, my mother claimed to have taken an allergic reaction to my sister Sherene’s homemade preserves, and proceeded to fan her face and sneeze dramatically throughout the entire meal. She says it was because of the nutmeg. I say it’s because they sucked. Oh well, I guess the old adage is true: it’s not a party until somebody busts out an EpiPen!

           Question of the Day: Any Good Thanksgiving Fails to Share?

*Ok so I know it’s not technically Thanksgiving for me. But I thought I would share this one for all my Amurrican friends. Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

Tales from the Altar

This week’s assignment for my writing class was to write a piece of dark, transgressive humor that pushes the boundaries of what’s socially acceptable. Our teacher provided us with some Sarah Silverman and George Carlin videos as inspiration, and encouraged us to be “outrageous” and really go for it.

I guess I’m a total prude, because I found this extremely difficult.  I worried everything I said was too offensive. Eventually, I just said f*&k it, and came up with the piece below.  Admittedly, I PG-ified it a bit for you – but in the event that I still offend anyone, I’m sorry. Breezy don’t mean no harm, y’all.

And Mom: Please, please do not disown me over this. I love you and I know you have done everything in your power to prevent me from turning out this way.

Enjoy!

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Whenever anyone asks me about my religious proclivities (or, if I just want to make things really awkward at a dinner party), I tell them that I am a lapsed Catholic.

A lapsed Catholic, at least in my case, is someone who was raised Catholic, in a good Catholic family, was baptised, received First Holy Communion and was Confirmed, and despite all of this, has not stepped foot inside a church for the past five years. Why? Well, how long do you have?

It’s not the whole sexual abuse and rampant discrimination thing (although, that doesn’t help). Or the rigidly formalistic ceremony and all of that damn sitting, standing and kneeling. It’s not even the intense and unrelenting Catholic Guilt (which, of course, I am experiencing intensely as I write this.)No. The real reason behind my estrangement with the Catholic Church stems from my brief, albeit traumatizing, history as an altar girl.

*Not me or anyone I know. Poor bastards.

Serving on the altar was never a role I coveted. I was forced into it by my mother, who, as a young girl, wanted nothing more than to don that miniature white robe herself, but was not permitted, due to her pesky vagina.

But in 1992, in perhaps the only development the Catholic Church as made in the past 50 years (besides installing bulletproof glass on the Pope-Mobile), girls were finally allowed to sit on the altar.

Since my older sisters were already in high school at the time and had aged-out of the “target demographic” (if you know what I’m saying), I alone was left to carry the weight of my mother’s lifelong dreams on my shoulders.

I begged and pleaded not to have to do it, all the while cursing my mom for not having a better lifelong dream, like “being a fairy princess”, or “eating the world’s biggest hoagie”. But resistance was futile. The day after my 10th birthday, she marched me down to the Glebe House to sign up.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, at each Catholic mass, there are between 2-4 boys or girls who sit beside the altar and assist the priest with the running of the mass. They set up the altar, fetch items as necessary, hold the bible open on their heads for the priest to read, etc. In essence, they are basically glorified stage hands. Or towel racks. I remember for some reason always holding a stiff, white towel on my arm. It didn’t seem suspicious at the time….

Soon the time came for me to put on my unflattering, off-white robes (which I’m convinced were actually old curtains from an abandoned convent) and make my altarial debut. I was instantly anxious about being “on stage” in front of so many people. At the age of 10, I was, to put it mildly, at an ”Awkward Stage”. I was prepubescent, mildly overweight, and extremely clumsy, and had no desire to call further attention to myself; especially in that get-up. Each Sunday, I would say a silent Novena that I would not spill any wine, trip over my own feet or generally make an ass of myself.

Well that, my friends, is when I learned that there is no God. Every week, without fail, I fucked up. I stumbled up the stairs. I dropped things left, right and centre. Once, I even knocked over a candle backstage and started a small fire. I had to use three spare altar robes and a bucket of holy water just to put it out.

Almost my church.

Another time I had an allergic reaction to the Easter Lilies while on stage. I began sneezing like crazy and clutching my throat in an attempt to breathe, while 2 Eucharistic Ministers rushed to my aid and escorted me offstage.

While the process for regular masses was bad enough, it was even worse during church Holidays. At Easter, we pulled out a massive crucifix that I’m pretty sure had to be air lifted in, and set it up on the altar for the entire congregation to come and kiss Jesus. My job was to stand there, with one of those stiff white cloths I always had, and wipe the lipstick and saliva droplets from Jesus’ emaciated nether regions after each churchgoer was done. (Which, incidentally, is also a form of torture used in many Siberian prisons.)

Another ceremony we had at Easter was what I call the “Fucked-Up Holy Water Parade”. This is how it worked: I carried around a bucket of holy water while the priest dipped a sceptre-like device into it and waved it all over the people in each pew. (I don’t know why he just didn’t just use a Supersoaker. It would’ve been so much easier.)

Like this, only the bucket was allll me

I inevitably got soaked every single time. Looking back, I guess I was just really blessed, but at the time, I only remember feeling damp.

I thought that it would at least be interesting to get a behind the scenes look at the priest; the “man behind the robes”, if you will. But I soon realized that he was just as boring in real life as he was during his homilies. He would breeze in 5 minutes before mass, put on his jazzy robes and get to business, speaking little, if at all, to us kids. Which I guess makes sense, because it’s probably hard to stifle deep-seeded urges and make small talk at the same time.

My career as an altar server was ultimately short-lived. Admittedly, my commitment was pretty lax. Due to my aforementioned childhood obesity, I would rather watch TV or eat Passion Flaikies than actually move my appendages. Eventually, I started doing everything I could to affect my own constructive dismissal. I wore jeans on the altar (a big-no-no) paired with a too-short robe. I skipped my shifts. I started salacious rumours about my fellow altar servers. And, need I remind you of the infamous backstage altar fire of 1997? Enough said.

Eventually, my name began appearing on the schedule less and less, until one month it was nowhere to be found at all. My mother was devastated; convinced that this was yet another sign of the Church’s developmental retardation. They didn’t really want girls on the Altar. It had all been just a sophisticated ploy to appease the masses. She hugged me and told me to not let it get me down; that despite that awful Priest, girls in this world could still do anything! She insisted that we say the rosary together and pray for guidance. And as I knelt down and began saying my “Hail Mary’s”, I stifled a smug grin of victory into my folded hands.

Question of the Day: How do you feel about dark humor? Do you push the boundaries, or stick to what’s PC?

A Hairy Situation

Here’s the thing about my hair: I have about 4 ounces of it.

Literally. I’ve seen newborn babies with more hair than I have.

Stop showing off, baby.

Unlike the biblical passage suggests, my hair is by no means my “crowning glory”. Fine, limp, and impervious to growth, it’s really more of my cross to bear in this life. In fact, I’d probably rank it #3 on my running list of nemeses (nemesi?), right after stairs and the subway turnstile.

When I was a child I had no hair at all until I was 3 years old. Seriously. I’d show you a pic, but no one wants to see that sh*t. Trust me when I say it was freaky. A walking, talking, bald-headed human-child, I was sort of like Stewie from family guy. Only without the british accent. Or the evil genius.

Eventually, after being the recipient of enough horrified glances and people running away screaming, my mom got wise to the situation and sprinkled some chia seeds on that noise, allowing me to sprout out a few, feeble spaghetti-like strands and to make it through the rest of my childhood without being mistaken for an alopecia patient.

Exhibit A: Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia

But it was never ideal. Paper thin and mousey brown, I remember envying all the girls in school with long, thick beautiful hair and wishing I had been similarly blessed.

Eventually, after almost 20 years of trying, my hair finally grew long when I was in university. Must’ve been all that non-exercise and balanced diet of wine coolers and frosted mini wheats.

For a few years, I was in the hair sweet-spot:

Exhibit B: Long, flowing locks. I also apparently grew a third hand.

But for some ridiculous reason, in third year I decided to cut it all off.

Like choosing milk on a hot day, I immediately regretted my decision, and left the salon in a puddle of tears and anxiety.

Exhibit C: What was I thinking

For the next 2.5 years, I tried desperately to grow it back, while at the same time dealing with the awkward aftermath of a short haircut (All those in-between stages? yikes.) But it’s still nowhere near the length it once was.

Fearing that I was destined to spend the rest of my life looking like that sad, “before” girl in the Pantene Pro-V commercials, I decided to get to the root of the matter (pun intended) and explore some new methods of getting my hair to grow:

#1. The Shank Braid.

At my last hair appointment, I told my hairdresser about my plight and she suggested that I try braiding my hair while running, rather than tying it back in a ponytail, as it is much easier on your hair.

Sounded like a good idea. But here’s the problem: Given that I can’t even look at a treadmill without sweating like a wh*re in church, halfway through my run my braid got so heavy and water-logged that it became somewhat of a weapon, swinging back and forth on my head and hitting my fellow gym goers with a powerful sweat-blast every stride I took.

Exhibit D: The Shank Braid. You’re welcome for this beautiful pic of me in my sweaty gym clothes, by the way.

Back to the drawing board.

#2. The Friend-Repeller.

A little internet research told me that for fuller, healthier hair, you should cut down on the number of times per week you wash it. This appealed greatly to my lazy side (aka: my only side), so I immediately rushed out to Sephora and picked up some dry shampoo.

Now, although this method works quite well at making your hair fuller and more voluminous:

Exhibit E: Day four, unwashed. So dirty, yet oh-so bouncy.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t help the fact that you’re a dirty mofo the entire time.. and even Oscar Blandi can’t get the stench of four days worth of smog, oil, and run-sweats out of your hair.

What else we got?

#3. Diet.

It’s no secret that diet can affect hair growth, and the fact that I’m a seafood-vegetarian with chronically low iron could be impacting my hair in a negative way. Google tells me that salmon, beans, and leafy greens can help this, so I’ve been eating nothing but Salmon/Kale/Lentil smoothies for every meal. The verdict? I hate my life. But I swear I can already feel the hair growing.

#4. Weird Foreign Remedies.

Yesterday over brunch, I was describing my hair-woes to my girl Karen, and she suggested I try the traditional Indian remedy of coating your hair in extra virgin coconut oil. She’s even going to bring me some to our next date brunch meeting.

She tells me it feels gross, smells awful, and that I won’t want to be around anyone for at least a few days afterwards. I can’t wait!

Question of the Day: Do you have hair troubles?

.. or are you all like that smug baby in the first picture. Just don’t even bother answering if so.

PS: Thanks to all of my new followers and for those of you who read, commented and liked my TIFF post that was Freshly Pressed last week! You guys are seriously jokes. (<;– I don’t know what this means but I heard someone say it the other day and liked the way it sounded. I think it’s a good thing.)

Stand Up! And Be a Friend

So I woke up this morning to a text from my sister of this adorable photo of my niece, Lola:

Lola is dressed in all pink today because she is a total diva/pop star/reality tv contestant in training in honour of  “Stand Up Against Bullying Day“, where students across Nova Scotia wear pink to school to support bullying awareness, and to demonstrate their pledge to always Stand Up! And Be a Friend.

When I saw this pic, I thought “Dayumm. I need to start taking posing lessons from this chick“… but also what a great initiative this was. 

I don’t know, maybe this scene from last night’s premiere of “The X-Factor” where Demi Lovato bonds with a fellow-bullied contestant was also getting to me a little bit… but it all made me think about how bullying is some seriously serious sh*t. In my 26 years on this earth, I have been both the victim, and sadly sometimes the perpetrator of bullying and I can tell you it is no fun for anyone involved. Not only can that noise make going to school every day a living nightmare, it also has the potential to leave lasting scars and self-esteem issues.

I wish I could say that kids quit that sh*t after high school, but unfortunately I’ve seen just about as many full-grown adult bullies as I have playground ones. They just choose passive aggressive insults and psychological manipulation rather than swirlies, wedgies and writing nasty sh*t on your locker.

I don’t know about you guys, but to me, none of that sound like a fun time. Mostly cause there is minimal wine involved.

So that’s why I decided to take inspiration from my fabulous niece and throw a little hot pink into my regular corporate garb today:  

Obviously I’m not as mayjah as Lo and can’t pull off the full monochromatic head-to-toe pink look.. but I do have a pink iphone cover and a hot pink purse in the background? Does that help?

Anyway, if you’re still at home eating cookies and watching Ellen on your living room sofa (aka: living the dream), then put on some pink when you leave the house today! And if pink ain’t your thing, then remember this post, my wicked cool niece, and do your part today to Stand Up! And Be a Friend.

And maybe listen to this song. Just cause it’s stuck in my head now:

Question of the Day: Have You Ever Experienced Bullying?

aah I’m getting all personal on you now. What is HAPPENING at the Camel Life today!!