I accidentally became a runner because I lied on a resume.
Relax, there was no full blown fraud; though I grew up thinking you could get any job by copying a resume out of a library book and reciting a mantra of “I’m right on top of that, Rose”. Thanks Christina Applegate.
You may have noticed this blog’s hiatus. It’s not that I haven’t been writing. I painstakingly bricked together a few essays, here and there, that one day may see the light of day. I wrote a short story which I tried to turn into a novel, its fate doomed to that of all my other attempts at novel writing: death at about ten thousand words.
Perhaps this is a metaphor for my life.
My celebrities crushes are Jaime Oliver and Elon Musk. I live to eat and Jaime Oliver’s the cutest TV Chef*, hands down (*runner up is Chef Ben from Below deck). As for Musk, well, it seems I have a thing for bad boy tech entrepreneurs who want to save humankind; as also evidenced by my love for my partner, Kory (who, in addition to creating internet-connected indoor farming systems, also lets me cook for him, which requires a sense of adventure and lack of risk aversion in and of itself).
My first grown-up job was as a lawyer in the Waffle Building, a deceptively nicknamed high-rise in downtown Vancouver. The word ‘waffle’ typically conjures warm, fuzzy feelings. Memories of Sunday mornings. Smells of maple syrup and bacon. The warmth of a fireplace and quilted blanket. The Waffle Building was anything but cozy.
May the Force Prevent World War III
I was in grade four when I heard they were making new Star Wars movies. They would tell the story of what happened before Luke joined forces with cuddly Ewoks (and, well, The Force) in defeating Darth Vadar. There would be three films, prequels as the term was coined. The first would be released in 1999.
My initial reaction was: MIND BLOWN.
You can’t go home again, especially after you’ve suffered embarrassment on reality TV. A few years ago, I was a contestant in Season 1 of The Bachelor Canada. I didn’t last long, so I empathize with the women about to get dumped on TV.
After my first-and-only rose ceremony, I was hungover or, more probably, still drunk. The cocktail party wrapped filming as the sun came up and I hadn’t slept a wink. I was put in a white van filled with skinny women with puffy eyes and wine breath.
Disneyworld, the happiest place on Earth? I think not. Forget the lines jammed-packed with Crocs, khaki shorts, and sugar-high children who can’t stand still. Never mind the crowds, and dodging strangers’ family photos like landmines on your way to a restroom. Let’s talk about the rides. The nightmare-inducing, deep-rooted-trauma-causing rides of my childhood.
“Honey, I’m terrible at memoir writing,” I say, forlorn, my bare feet plopped on the leather couch near K’s lap, my Kindle hiding my distressed expression.
“Being aware of your fears will improve your life,” the fortune cookie reads.
That’s probably true. I feel, lately, there is something off, deep-seeded in my core operating system. Like a computer virus, downloaded surreptitiously with a Game of Thrones torrent.
Sisu is a Finnish term that lacks a direct translation in English. It’s a package of grit, determination, and resilience, which defines the Finns’ national character.
In other words, Finns are tough f#ckers. Tough enough to fight off the Russians and the Nazis. For fun, they cross-county ski, literally across the country, in minus 40 degrees Celsius. If you don’t know what minus 40 degrees Celsius feels like, it’s snot-freezing cold. So cold, your eyelashes grow icicles. All your caloric energy goes towards warming your bladder so your piss doesn’t solidify.