Paranoid Pedestrian Ponderings

Good day? Great day!

2011-11-22T14:24:00.010-05:00

The morning started with a phone call. I was informed that my name was selected in a televised draw. The prize? A trip for 4 for 25 days across seven countries. It starts in Hong Kong and ends in Argentina.

"Get outta here!" I said. "Is this free?"

I suspected some sort of scam.

A couple of weeks ago I completed a telephone survey. The lady on the other line was Taiwanese and was really persistent. I told her I had 5-minutes before I had to head out. I remember something about a prize draw being held at Yonge-Dundas Square, but I didn't think much of it since I'd never attend some Asian community organization activity anyway.

Needless to say, I thought it was too good to be true so I told her to contact my mom to clarify the details. My mom's definitely weary of things like this, but she told me they didn't ask for any credit card details or personal information.

"It doesn't appear to be a scam, but why aren't you going?" she asked me.

"Because," I nearly squealed, "I got a call a few minutes ago saying they want me at the animation studio! I start next Monday!"

A week and a half ago, I received an email from the studio's HR head, asking me if I'm available for a recent opening. I find out later the producer I'd met in August had regret not hiring me and recommended me to be this executive producer's assistant.

"Lily ****! You gotta get her on board. She was fantastic!" she later told me.

We met on a Tuesday, the position sounded fantastic, and a week later, I got the job. This is completely different from my last gig as an EA because my relationship with my boss will include total transparency rather than secrecy. I'd be her right-hand woman, so to speak. She'd expect me to attend meetings with/for her, read all incoming scripts, travel with her, etc. And this woman, she is a hell of a firecracker! Originally from California, she worked in New York before being headhunted for this job in Toronto. She told me she loves this city, loves Canada, loves her job. That's someone I see myself wanting to work for, that joie de vivre. It's contagious. No doubt, the traveling perks are pretty good for me, too.

Critical parents

2011-11-04T21:09:00.004-04:00

I got off the phone with my parents a few hours ago and their attempt at emotional blackmail is still resonating in painful waves.

My mom offered to unburden me by making my mortgage payments ... if I went to law school. I've told her for years I wasn't interested in studying law, but she's stubborn and relentless. Somehow, she can find the money to "help" me if I do what she wants, but I can continue being a "welfare queen" if I don't. (I'm on EI, I paid into the system!) Just thinking about this conversation makes me angry.

I tried to tell them that a law degree doesn't guarantee stability; there are loads of new grads waiting tables and paying off their debts in unrelated fields. But they refuse to believe me and don't have any evidence to support their stance either. They somehow think an MBA, med school, computer sciences, etc. will get me out of this rut. As if people who go to school for these programs are completely protected from the realities of the economy.

My mom wants me to be certified in something, anything. (Well, anything that will make me miserable and hate my life.) As much as everyone tells me she just doesn't want to see me suffer, I feel like she makes suggestions that have nothing to do with my personality and more to do with bragging rights. "I have a lawyer for a daughter" sounds so much better than "she's in-between jobs ... again." In fact, my parents are so embarrassed for me that my extended family don't even know I'm out of work. They like to compare me to my cousin, who "already bought a house for her family!" My dad says I'm a "zero" because I have a useless liberal arts degree, whereas my cousin studied accounting and has a cushy job in an office. OOOH! A fucking office! Let's hold a press conference!

"Your dad and I came to Canada with nothing and we didn't speak English and we still found jobs!" she told me today. I asked her if she's been completely oblivious to the news because all those riots happening around the world aren't a coincidence! "They all had their roots in youth unemployment and stagnate economies!" I yell back.

I mean, I get jealous of Chinese families who only occasionally nag. And frankly, I'd prefer passive-aggression to the near-daily onslaught of parental criticism. My other cousin says it's worse for me because I'm the first to graduate university, so my every move is subject to scrutiny. My dad's side of the family is really cool and open-minded, but they're all in Beijing. It's my Cantonese relatives, the ones who live nearby, who act like they need to compensate for being denied an education (blame the Cultural Revolution). They are complete bores and enjoy seeing me down and out.

Clearly there is only one way out: stop picking up the phone. It's reached the point where seeing my parents' names light up on my Blackberry screen gives me anxiety attacks. Every time I hear their voice, I know it's going to be another lecture and "helpful" suggestion that has the effect of making me want to slit my wrists and perform seppuku.

2011-10-28T01:28:00.002-04:00

Here's me leaving Occupy Bay Street and texting my friends about a crazy man there who claimed the derivatives market was worth $1.2 quadrillion.

If there's a cosmic reason for this, please let me in on it

2011-10-28T00:20:00.013-04:00

It's been several months since I was let go and still no luck finding a job. I'm at a weird place right now, having never been unemployed for any substantial length of time, and it's really forcing me to face certain inevitabilities. Mainly, what I want to do with my life. (Yes, still.)

I did gain some insight into the origins of my professional roadblock. I used to believe that I had yet to find the right industry for me. The truth is, I simply hate working ... for other people, that is. Out of everything that I've done -- retail associate, piano teacher, fashion journalist, TV news producer, assistant director, corporate E.A., etc. -- I've been the most happy when I was given freedom and autonomy. The further I was from the naked emperor, the better. Since this realization, I suggested to Paul that we start our own wedding/event photography business. I reckon the overhead is low and he already has his own equipment, so lately, we've been taking photos of our engaged friends to bulk up our portfolio.

When he and I worked on his short film awhile ago, we wrote the script and executed the production flawlessly. It was a seamless connection. He was in charge of creative and I oversaw the logistics. That was when I knew we'd have a future ahead of us. He is my best friend and I am his, so it would be a shame if we didn't conspire and contribute something to the world.

My second realization is that rather than depend on one source of income, it would be wise (especially in this economy) to diversify my interests. My sister has been working on the online portion of our family business and my mom wants me and Paul to take over. She says it's not a full-time commitment, but it'll make us enough money to keep us afloat when we're between more stable options. Furthermore, there's always the option of teaching piano again. There are a lot of children in my condo and it would be really convenient for them to take lessons nearby.

However, the biggest eye-opener of all has been Paul. He's really stepped up these last few months. Six months ago, he was still living at home with his parents and going to school full-time. Nowadays, he does the bulk of chores, freelances on movies, has plans to join the union, and gives me every penny he earns to manage. He also shoulders the burden of my depression. Every time I begin to feel uneasy and unable to cope, he talks me out of it and stays with me until I regain control. I told him how I ashamed I was for not pulling my weight and he responded by pointing out that I'd supported him throughout our relationship and that he's happy to return the favour. "And when I have money one day," he adds, "you can buy whatever expensive dress you want!" I can honestly say he is the major reason I am not sinking right now. He provides me with perspective and companionship and visions of the future I don't want to give up on. Now that's husband-material!

Our house, in the middle of our street ...

2011-07-22T01:19:00.010-04:00

Paul and I are broke as all get out, but at least our home is coming together nicely. We plan to hang up more of his photos and my artwork (the one above our couch was taken from our trip to the Great Wall). There's also a definite need for more plants, shelves, and storage. Paul's grandfather build closet organizers for us, so we can utilize the vertical space in all of them.

We're really enjoying this place. Although it's located in the heart of downtown, we're surrounded by leafy canopies and Victorian homes, so we don't get the noise and pollution. A shrinking wallet from paying property taxes, hydro, mortgage, and credit card bills is a cause for concern though. Thankfully, I have Employment Insurance to tide me over until I get back on my feet. However, it's not enough to cover any extraneous expenses, like gas and groceries, which are coming out of my savings. I know my parents think I should go back to school and get a degree in something less risky, but I think if I can make it past this hurdle, I'm mentally prepared to live like this (that is to say, simply) for life.

New horizons

2011-07-14T00:33:00.003-04:00

Unemployment isn't terrible. Not ideal, but also liberating as all-get-out. I have a couple of freelance possibilities in the future for a casting agency and some magazines. But what I'm really focused on is getting my little business idea off the ground. Paul's friend, Natalie, suggested we could start a matchmaking service together. I've been looking into a government-sponsored program that could get this project off the ground and Natalie's eager to have us interview people to gain insight into the market.

I reckon, I already give so much relationship advice, I might as well do it on my own terms and get paid for it!

Corporate Shenanigans

2011-07-13T23:46:00.006-04:00

The executive assistant I had worked with quit her job two weeks after I was let go. She brought along a host of juicy gossip over wine and cigarettes at the park. Like how ...

... her (former) boss is allegedly putting up his mistress in one of the chic downtown condos he owns. Her boss has a well-known reputation for being the most arrogant, precious, coddled, and demeaning person in the industry. He tried to make Harvey Weinstein wait at a meeting, just out of sheer unmatched ego. "Harvey is a household name," she says. "He is no Harvey."

... my (former) boss likes to get rip-roaring drunk and did so at the recent charity golf tournament. His $135,000+ car (charged to the company account) had to be driven back to the office by some underling. He then proceeds to throw a tantrum because she parked it in the wrong spot. In an unrelated incident: the assistant selected to replace me went into his office to clean up the water he had spilt when he broke his glass. She had to pat around him because he refused to acknowledge her presence and proceeded to continue his conversation with his colleague over her head. (*Note: Oddly enough, I never encountered this kind of behaviour from him. I guess he didn't feel like he could be himself around me. Ha!)

... the hiring process with regards to assistants is based on how attractive the executives find them. This admission made me feel soooo dirty. Can you imagine being hired to be ogled at by a bunch of petty, middle-aged fat cats?

... when they travel to markets (to purchase films), they act like a bunch of lecherous frat boys. I am not surprised by that revelation. How much fucking golf can someone take before they need to go fuck a ho in France?

... the hardest worker there, who idolizes these evil men in corner offices and sacrifices her life for them, is actually considered "weak" and "desperate" by her closest mentor. Why? Because he said she didn't "fight harder" for her raise. Yet, even with her promotion, she still goes on coffee runs for them and sends their photos to hotels beforehand so the staff will recognize their big heads when they arrive.

Lesson learned: You can either give up your soul for the carrot or get fired for not playing the game. Either way, they'll never let a girl join the big boys table.

Shit, I need to go smoke a bowl.

You're fired!

2011-06-10T10:18:00.004-04:00

I got the axe yesterday.

"Your position is no longer required," the head of HR tells me. "It was a business decision. It wasn't your job performance. If you like," she goes on, "we can give you a recommendation letter." Then she hands me this lame pamphlet on life changes. My boss is out in Calgary, visiting film sets and riding horses with his daughters and she tells me, "He wanted to be here to tell you."

I was shocked, relieved, angry, resentful, happy, and bitter often simultaneously.

Here I was, sitting in the office of another departed colleague, being told "it gets better" by a woman with a frozen face. I asked her twice if it was something I did, but she stuck to the script and insisted that it wasn't. What the fuck does a "business decision" even mean when it comes to laying off the CEO's only assistant? I know he's an independent guy, but who's going to put together his expense reports and schedule calls and book all the bullshit that comes with being a rich SOB who rides in a style in a 6-figure car paid for by the company?

HR personnel escorted me out.

Spiritually, I feel like a success: I make friends easily, I've helped a lot of people, and I've achieved an equilibrium of the soul. Materialistically, there is now a sudden dissonance. How can I reconcile living in a handsome home with handsome furniture when I no longer have the income to maintain the bubble of stability? The contrast is palpable.

I had a good cry before bed last night. Paul held me as I soaked his neck in tears. I told him I wasn't mourning for the loss of my job; I was mourning for a future in jeopardy. He countered that it was merely on hold.

The job had been coming between us, encroaching on our sanctuary. I'd check my Blackberry and return emails at all hours of the night. "This is the nature of the job!" I'd tell him when he showed signs of irritation. "It isn't right," he'd say. "They can't treat you this way."

I'd wave away his comments: "It's what I signed up for."

The scariest part of this ordeal is that I am back where I was before this: Trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. The job distracted me from that continued journey and I was punished for my complacency. There might be some magazine commissions headed my way in the fall. I asked a former colleague for help; she currently works at a publication specializing in luxury goods and services. Fingers crossed.

New home

2011-05-31T23:04:00.003-04:00

Closing day was a success. Paul got the keys from my lawyer and dropped off some things at our new place. The final down payment was $500 under the original value because the Korean owners didn't replace the floor boards near the kitchen (even though the contract stipulated that it was a pre-condition of the sale).

Rather than haggle over the amount a day before our furniture was scheduled to arrive, I accepted the reimbursement to get them off my back. But now I'm a little annoyed that we're responsible for the problem. On top of that, I don't know where the water damage originated from and have to see if the stacked laundry unit is to blame. Argh!

So here I am, in no man's land. Although I've lived with my ex-boyfriend before, it was different. The apartment was a rental, we were from different provinces, and the gesture was mostly economical. As much as this is a big step for the two of us, I'm glad Paul has had no hesitations in making the leap with me. I wouldn't even call him brave; he's just self-assured and trusts women.

We received the furniture today and they look better than I remembered. Gorgeous, actually. Paul's mom and grandparents cleaned our place top to bottom. I was really thankful because I didn't have to do anything by the time I returned from work. His grandpa even took measurements of our closets so he can build us custom organizers. Cannot wait to get settled in!

Doggy Love

2011-05-22T14:26:00.003-04:00

Paul's dad called him while we were at a party last night:

"Pavelik, do you know where the dog is?! We came home and he's missing! Oh wait ... he's under the dining table. He's MAD! *click*"

Is this hell?

2011-05-18T22:25:00.001-04:00

Lady on my left spills soda on my dress. Ladies on my right chat through the entire movie. (Is it really necessary to repeat dialogue and explain the jokes and then sing along to Wilson-fucking-Phillips?) I've had it with public movie watching ... and I work in the fucking industry!

Aftermath

2011-05-15T11:51:00.002-04:00

So last Friday, I hung out with that dude who asked me out on a "date". We had frozen kefir and I chatted with a homeless man. I had a feeling he was going to be like other engineers: shy, reserved, passionate about esoteric interests. I was right.

He was a nice enough guy and even got a haircut for the occasion, but I made it abundantly clear "this" would stay platonic. Paul asked me how it went and I told him the truth: I was there to gather information about my boss with whom they are family friends. Also, it was flattering.

I also discovered through him that my boss and I share the same philosophy about money as a measurement of success rather than a resource to hoard. (He asked me if I stole that from my boss; I took it as a compliment.) It makes me feel like, yeah, in 20- to 30-years, I can traipse around the world, expanding my empire too! Or ... it means he has enough money to say it while I believe it as a consolation of my near-poverty.

Hope springs eternal

2011-05-10T20:04:00.013-04:00

Paul's friend had an interview at our company for a summer internship so I suggested that we all go out for lunch afterward. As we were talking, I brought up my colleague who jokingly asks me whether I've been trying to persuade my boss to take me to Cannes.

Just as I mentioned his name, he turns around and says hi. I was super red-face and spilled that I've been trying to locate valid excuses to accompany him to Cannes, but so far, I've come up short. Zip, zero, zilch.

He said I wasn't useless and might consider it next year. Which was, of course, his way of deflecting the awkwardness.

So back at the office, I had to organize a fancy dinner in Antibes and called the restaurant to make a reservation. As I was chatting away en francais (and flirting with the Maitre d', bien sur!), my boss passed by and did a double take, having never heard me speak French before.

His reaction got me thinking ...

Maybe I can make my case by telling him how many great places he's been missing out on simply because he doesn't speak la belle langue. "You don't have to be hanging by the boardwalk," I'd plead, "when you can take the road less traveled. And a man of your stature ... well, excuse my brazenness, but the bragging rights alone would pay for themselves." Then again, he also has some of the best connections at the festival so he has no trouble gaining entry into glamorous yachts and studio parties ... all the while, I sit and watch my life flicker away across the ocean. But what do those smarmy publicists know about finding greasy chow mein and veggie dogs at 3AM Central European Time?! Um, winning!

Le sigh. All that potential ass-kissing just for some free movie passes and overpriced quiche? I'd still do it.

Another week, another man

2011-05-09T23:21:00.009-04:00

This young fellow (late-20s, early-30s?) met with my boss about two weeks ago. I didn't pay much attention, but my female colleagues both lustfully inquired about his identity. "I dunno," I shrugged, though slightly curious as to how he secured such a rarefied meeting. He wore sneakers and jeans and had shaggy blonde hair. Looked like a wrinkle-less Timothy Olyphant.

Anyway, he accepted a bottle of water from me and waved goodbye. That was the extent of our interaction. Two days later, he sent me an email that contained suggestions for natural remedies for my cold. I thanked him for his concern and didn't think much of it. But he responded immediately. And again. Now it has spiralled into a regular "thing" and I've agreed to hang out with him this Friday.

My girlfriends at work have read some of our correspondences and they wonder what Paul thinks about the whole thing.

"Oh, he knows," I reassured them, which is true. However, this time, I sense a hint of danger because as much as I mention Paul in our exchanges, the guy doesn't seem bothered by it and continues on his chatty way. Is it because he's an engineer by trade? Are engineers just oblivious to social decorum and boundaries? I mean, he is simply the chattiest nerd I've met in recent memory especially since our initial encounter was so utterly pedestrian.

The office manager says the boy is "smitten". My friends tease me and tell me I'm "unforgettable". Another executive assistant pointed out the irony: Her eggs are drying up while I'm in a relationship AND getting asked out on dates.

I also figured out that his mother is a friend of my boss's wife. (Make sense?)

He's traveling across Europe for a month starting in June so I think there's no harm in meeting up considering we've had our share of online conversations. I've informed Paul of Friday's plans and to my surprise, he sounded a bit reluctant to let me go. I told him I'd see him immediately afterward to attend his film festival showcase. That satisfied him.

I suppose as a reformed-introvert, I know I have to be careful not to take Paul's patience for granted. He doesn't have a jealous bone in his body and it would be cruel to coax it out of him. So as much as I enjoy experiencing new people, Paul knows it is the "first-date jitters" that riles me up and keeps me happy. As much as my friends think it's totally weird that Paul doesn't mind me hanging out with guys, I give him the same freedom with girls because he gets along with them with more grace and ease. This is our understanding and at the end of the day, it is Paul with whom I crawl into bed and dream of eternity.

This is why I love my profession

2011-05-01T00:49:00.005-04:00

Paul interviewed for a gig in the lighting department of an indie feature today. I tagged along and sat outside of earshot in the Starbucks where he was meeting with the producer and director (who were also twin brothers).

They didn't speak for long. I suggested that we both say goodbye to them.

"Are you an AD [assistant director]?" one of them piped up.

"Yes, you're ..." I tried to remember. "You attended the last AD caucus meeting!"

The next thing you know, I was in an animated conversation with them as Paul stood nearby, looking dumbfounded. The director said he remembered me because I was pretty outspoken during the union meeting (behaviour, unbeknownst to me, that was an anomaly among junior ADs because the atmosphere can be intimidating). He said I also had a "memorable face". Ha! He probably meant "Asian" because there aren't that many of us in the industry.

In any case, I slipped in my credentials and they enthusiastically took my business card. "So if you don't hire my boyfriend," I added half-seriously, "I'll be very angry."

"Don't worry," they said, "he has an in now."

Let's hope.

*sidenote: The three of us had talked so much that the next person scheduled for the interview arrived and had to wait for us to finish. Lo and behold, he had worked with Paul on another shoot! Needless to say, they had some catching up to do as well.

What a small world!

A little slice of life

2011-04-26T02:23:00.002-04:00

A political protest was approaching and Paul thought it would be a good idea to take some shots of the cops and their rides (hogs and horses).

One officer asked to see his camera.

"Sorry," Paul said, "[the shots] are on film."

The officer then turned to me: "You want to get on the motorcycle? He can take your picture."

"No, thanks," I said. "That's sort of pervy."

Criers are my kryptonite

2011-04-26T01:15:00.009-04:00

Allow me to set the stage:

I come home from work and the fucking toilet is clogged up with toilet paper and the contents of a bowel movement. After my sister returns home and tries to fix it, she heads over to my room and tells me that, yes, the toilet is indeed clogged and will be out of commission.

So I asked her whether she took a dump and stuffed all that paper down there. She hesitated: "No, it wasn't me."

I saw an extra mattress in her room. "Did one of your friends take a dump and clog up the toilet?" I asked.

"Maybe," she shrugged.

"Well then," I said, "where's your friend to clean it up?"

"I dunno, but you're being rude."

Wait, I'm rude? Did I roll up baby Jesus and try to force him down the toilet before walking away? Nuh uh, I did not.

What's RUDE is hoping the next person deals with your mess (and potentially flooding the entire bathroom) by mopping up bits of your banana cream pie from last night because you thought you could whistle your way out of trouble.

What's STUPID is pretending you didn't know who took the epic shit and taking offence on your "friend's" behalf! I have a friend, too. Her name is Miss Lyingouttaherass. Every time you give her a penny, she says you owe three more!

I was on the phone with my friend: "Why am I always the bad guy?"

Story of my life.

Three weeks ago, I calmly told my fat ass roommate that she'd been flouting house rules for months and I had proof that she'd been doing so behind my back with the belief that she wouldn't be caught. She started crying and crying and still didn't apologize.

Bitch said I was MEAN. Why? I said her hygiene wasn't up to snuff because mould was growing in her personal bathroom and she'd never picked up her loose hairs from the floor. This ain't no third world beauty parlour! Your rent doesn't include maid service!

I also hate it when people cry when I confront them. Am I supposed to comfort you now? The asshole who started slamming cupboards at midnight and told me she didn't care about my "beauty sleep"? I got two words for you: See ya! (*sidenote: 6 more days before her lease expires. Victory.)

Anyway, even with that rant, I still believe I have a drama-less life. I resolve problems after one encounter and those who aren't comfortable with the subsequent quietude stay away from me. (I shut my mouth to restrict their ammo.) My sister says though she loves me, I can come off too intimidating (especially her because she's a heart-on-her-sleeve type o' gal). She says it's the way I inject office parlance even in private matters. (I once broke up with a guy by telling him that it was "unfortunate that we were incompatible," but I wished him "all the best in finding a more suitable partner with more in common.")

I explain myself this way: Honesty hurts so that the sting of embarrassment will remind you not to fuck up next time. I've taken hits to the face and haven't looked back.

Or as Judge Judy likes to put it: Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

We belong to a clandestine, global network

2011-04-20T15:30:00.008-04:00

Okay, not really. But executive assistants do get to be pretty tight. We know the hottest spots in town, we're tight with political aides, and deal with corporate secrets on a daily basis. One of them invited me to Los Angeles to hang out. I might take him up on his offer; the weather in Toronto has been hella shitty. It was sunny, cloudy, windy, and SNOWY all on the same day. Like, remember how Hugh Grant walked through a bazaar in Notting Hill and he experienced all four seasons? It's like that, except REAL.

Anyway, I contracted a cold from my colleague, who had been sneezing and sniffling up a storm all of last week. Not only does she not believe in taking time off work (because she's a keener), but she also doesn't believe in using hand sanitizer.

When I told her I was sick, she assured me that it was the wonky weather's fault.

"I don't think so," I shot back. "You were coughing all over me. I'm pretty sure it was you."

Did I mention that she doesn't "believe" in hand sanitizer; the bottle she has on her desk is for other people to use so they can stand around long enough to chat. What's there to not believe? She says superbugs are spawned that way. Say what? Alcohol doesn't work the same way as antibiotics!

She also believes the earth is going to end because of polar shifts and tried to get me to eat granola bars with her because they were healthy and she's a vegetarian, so she's an authority on what's healthy. "This has 13 grams of sugar!" I admonished. "It's just a candy bar."

Well, now that I'm on track to vent about her, I might as well keep going. She has this extremely annoying habit of thinking out loud. Every minor thought that pops into her head is verbalized to me. From the steps in which she'd take to lock up an office ("I'm going to get the key, open the door, turn on the lights ...") to the cute emails her boyfriend sends her that I told her I found "revolting".

"He says he's going to buy groceries. Isn't that sweet?"

Who cares?!

Even when I told her it would be helpful to distinguish what to say out loud so I'd know what was important and pay attention, she told me to ignore her. The problem? It's not easy! "What are you reading?" None of your business!

Or the way she rushes to get water for the executives and takes credit for other people's work. I mean, really?

Today, she had to arrange a conference call for the execs. She called me three times when all I wanted to do was rest (I had taken a sick day). I always find myself asking her what exactly she's calling about because she loses track of what she called to ask.

In one insignificant conversation, I said, "Look, I already told you he was free for the time you stated so go ahead and organize it." I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know what he does at home with his family and whether the call might be intrusive to him? Am I a psychic?

That's what's truly annoying about her. She factors in every single possible scenario including completely hypothetical ones before taking action. Just do it and if it doesn't work, we'll notify you! Everything has to be an ordeal with her.

And she takes it personally if you tell her to back off. Why do I need to explain to her that she's not necessarily a bad person, but her behaviour is overbearing. Since assistants are by nature discreet, you'd think she'd understand that I can't tell her everything just to make her life easier. Not to mention her constant yakking regularly gives away the whereabouts of her bosses. "Oh, so-and-so isn't in the office right now. He's in LA." Why would you tell strangers this?

She's 28 and acts like she has no worldly experience. Even the girl who picked her as her replacement is irritated. But what can we do? She's not evil, just simple and insecure.

Thin Red Line

2011-04-05T19:21:00.019-04:00

I knew I would get myself into trouble sooner or later.

A guy at work has a clear case of the crushes. On me. I'll call him "M".

Now, I believe the office has a hierarchy of attraction understood to be distinct from sexual harassment. There's a) the Casual Glancer, b) the Lunchroom Mingler, and then there's c) the Excessive Flirter.

Currently, I've concluded that there's been some As (but that's inevitable given the high ratio of women), a few Bs (one of whom will happily break the ice with me about anything, including microwave popcorn), and then there's M.

M is in the third category. Here's the twist: He doesn't remember me. We'd met before. Years ago. Spent hours in each other's presence at the Toronto International Film Festival. Except rather than tight skirts and cardigans, I was wearing a polo shirt and a fanny pack because I was a dirty photography assistant (and he was an arrogant prick). In fact, Paul was even in M's department when he was an intern at the same company. He used to pepper Paul with questions, like whether Asian pussy was tight. (Answer: Yes, but only when it hasn't encountered much of a challenge.)

So it's quite amusing seeing him sweat from this side of the cubicle divider.

Like this time by the elevators. He asked me where I was headed.

"Eating," I said.

"I thought you'd be going out. Having a tryst. No tryst?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied, nonchalantly. "Eating cock."

He was stammering all the way down the shaft (no pun intended).

In another series of expected occurrences, M's been walking past my desk and checking me out. I look straight ahead at my screen and pretend not to notice. Which, of course, leads him to chat me up wherever he thinks he could bump into me.

"Hi Lily!" he shouted just as I neared the kitchen door. "Just wanted to say hi," he smirked.

I winked at his coworker: "This guy has ulterior motives."

She laughed: "Likely!"

My neighbour even commented on how he talks and acts around me, adding: "I've always wanted to see what workplace flirtations were all about. Now I know." She thinks he's offensive due to his very un-PC/racist/sexist conversation nuggets. I, in contrast, find him endearingly obnoxious and enjoy taking swipes at his manhood. He is also in his mid-30s, but, tellingly, acts much younger.

Paul is aware of all this, of course; I tell him everything. The tension I create with a variety of men gets channeled into our sex life, so that's a perk. I'm also honest about my relationship status. And when I sense the conversation veering off to more intimate territories, I bail and limit interaction indefinitely.

It's quite stimulating sharing tête-à-têtes with new people every now and then, but I don't mistake their enthusiasm for sincere interest. Lord knows Paul still gives me butterflies (just not over the phone; he has atrocious phone manners). But I'm young and the daily grind can be tedious, so I allow these brief encounters to continue. And bluntly speaking, it's too fun to stop.

Domesticity

2011-04-04T13:44:00.009-04:00

Paul and I went furniture shopping last weekend. He's the president and lone member of the domestic design committee. I merely exist as a peripheral sidekick because, frankly, he has better taste when it comes to all things interior.

I pointed out a small shop on King Street last Friday and we ended up chatting with the employee there for a good chunk of the night. We shared our devotion to Love It or List It and Flipping Out ("Jeff Lewis is ah-mazing") and discovered he was a part-time actor to boot.

At one point, he noted conspiratorially that the owner does free consulting work on the weekends: You supply the floorplans and he'll spin around like a whirling dirvish, smothering you with colour schemes, fabric swatches, and furniture possibilities.

Could it be true? Was this a dream? I was intrigued. Free advice that would normally run $300/hr? I'm in! So come Saturday, Paul and I visited the store again and lo and behold, the designer sat with us for over an hour, teaching us the basics of design. And though he never mentioned his own pieces in conversation, we picked up three things from his collection anyway. The price wasn't bad as far as made in Canada custom furniture goes, but it sure as hell wasn't cheap either.

Anyway, Paul and I chose this beautiful black fabric with a contrasting cherry blossom motif for the two chairs to go with the slate-grey sofa. It's being made to our specifications and we're really excited to see the results in 6-8 weeks.

Today, I was driving Paul to school and he asked me what I thought about "plants". "What?" I replied. "You know," he said. "Plants. Do you want them?"

Like I said, he's the design maven, I'm just along for the ride.

Speechless

2011-03-30T23:39:00.002-04:00

Paul's grandma offered him (us?) a large cash endowment to start our life together. I was taken aback when he told me. He said he had kept her money in a savings account and helped her maintain it over the years, but last night, she told him he could keep the entire balance.

She is a frugal woman, like my own grandma. They both lived under the Soviet system and still re-use plastic milk bags meant to be thrown away. So when I say this is no small amount, I mean it's no small amount even by our (inflated) standards.

I can't quite wrap my mind around it. When I told my parents, my dad was borderline emotional. This woman resides in a tiny bachelor apartment and stores Paul's childhood drawings beneath her mattress (along with photos of her late husband). So she quite literally lives for her grandchildren. And the fact that the gift is intended to be shared between me and Paul? Let's just say her kindness is not lost on me.

Granted, there are strings attached. Both Paul and I believe she expects us to eventually get married. Good thing we're on the same page regarding that or we would be in deep doo-doo.

We plan to use half of it to furnish and decorate the new place, but have yet to decide what to do with the rest. (If I had it my way, I'd use it to pay off the house sooner.)

Everything has been moving along rather quickly and uncharacteristically smoothly. I went to see the mortgage lender yesterday ... and felt super naked. He looked over my financial history and told me it would be difficult to get approval from the top due to my reliance on freelance assignments in the course of MY ENTIRE ADULT LIFE. I brought along stacks of contracts and T4 forms that attested to my consistent employment in the film and news industries, but they were deemed useless. But when my broker joined me at the office, he said I forgot to mention my time spent working at my parents' store. I'd been there since early high school and didn't think it would count.

That sealed the deal though. Funny how my boring job as a retail salesgirl was more readily acknowledged by lending institutions than all my other job titles. I guess that's why my film colleagues regularly advise newbies to marry rich.

House hunting, home found

2011-03-27T16:41:00.005-04:00

Starting May 20, I will be a new homeowner. The negotiating process was a real doozy. My dad brought down the last $3000 by suggesting that all three parties (the sellers and both brokers) surrender a grand each. That worked and we ended up getting it for $12K below the listing price (which was above market value anyway).

The sellers were really stubborn. They even bragged that their south-east view was worth $20K more than anything similar in the building. We called their bluff after only one other (lower) offer came in after the second open house and while they still tried to play hardball, we knew they wouldn't be calling us unless we were the best they could get. So we leveraged that and I got my house.

The mortgage payments will be tolerable on my salary because my parents are gifting me with a down payment worth a third of the total price. For that, I am exceedingly grateful. Paul will be helping me out with the maintenance fees once he starts working, but I can still manage without him.

We're so excited to start our life together. This summer is starting to look up.

For your consideration

2011-03-13T11:58:00.004-04:00

People send me film and TV pitches at work. This one fell into my inbox recently, which I will summarize thusly:

Guy tries to get over his ex by finding another woman to sleep with. So he travels down to the Mexican-Arizona border, falls in love with a local living in a "beautiful hacienda," but she mistakes him for the man who killed her father, so she tries to kill him with a plate of poisoned chicken mole, but she has a change of heart, only to find out the drug lord wants her dead and is now out to snuff out both of them.

This story was predictably binned. Unfortunate because I can probably dedicate a blog entirely to failed scripts (if they weren't such a pain to slog through).

Almost perfect

2011-03-12T21:54:00.010-05:00

Paul and I have been house hunting with the help of my parents. We're preparing to make an offer on a place we saw today. Out of all the properties we've visited, this one satisfies every one of our requirements ... except one: the location. It's about a 15-minute walk from the fashionable district we'd be searching in, but it has stuff we'd never be able to afford otherwise: two full bedrooms and two full bathrooms; open concept kitchen and dining space; unobstructed view of the skyline and leafy surroundings; corner unit, south-facing windows; hardwood floors and granite countertops; stainless steel appliances; balcony; parking spot and locker, etc. The asking price is also on the high end of our budget without surpassing it.

The caveat is, of course, that we'd be living a couple of blocks from a men's hostel. I wouldn't say it's a rough neighbourhood. While the area would hardly give Yorkville a run for its money, the condo we're considering is predictably gentrified. And considering the historic buildings and mom n' pop shops nearby, what it lacks in sterility, it makes up for in crazy people.

I know architecture students will probably bemoan my choice for contributing to the displacement of the less-than-fortunate. (Gentrification is a hip term for serious, widening economic disparities.) But it's hard for me to justify plopping down cash for a place I'd only be comfortable describing for politically correct reasons.

Paul is worried that we might get sucked into a bidding war. Fingers crossed.

Keeps getting better

2011-03-07T09:46:00.012-05:00

I had a meeting with the co-president of our film division and he was receptive to involving me in long-term projects. After listening to a summary of my experiences, he thought I would be a good fit as a script reader, scouring for creative and commercial potential among the trash. Other duties to follow.

I had been hoping to do something like this since I applied for the job. Who knew all I had to do was ask? Knowing my boss travels a lot on business, I think getting involved in the nitty-gritty will be a challenging, yet, ultimately, worthwhile endeavour. While my loyalties will still lie with him, he's encouraging me to take a gander at other parts of the company; I'm going to see if TV and music might have a need for me in the future. Granted, I know I am in a privileged position to ask for favours, but I still feel quite lucky to be given these chances to prove myself among colleagues of a different circle (i.e. media marketers versus corporate hotshots).

Our company was involved in the distribution of a mega-release that grossed over $700 million worldwide, so I am looking forward to the movies coming my way. (On the other hand, I recently read a pitch for a feature film that contains poisoned chicken mole as a key plot point.)

Familiar Territory

2011-03-01T15:31:00.003-05:00

The communications director resurrected the company's internal newsletter and put me in charge as the editor after checking out my online writing portfolio. I'm responsible for collecting articles from all the global offices, editing them, and publishing the final copy. He says he's open to any ideas I might have that could improve the publication.

I will be working with a graphic designer to update the look and feel of the whole thing, something more akin to an industry magazine. Super excited and pleased with the amount of freedom he's giving me. My boss knows I don't have much to do when he's flying off to the four corners of the earth so he thought it would be a good idea for me to get involved in some long-term projects in film and TV. He plans to consult with the executives overlooking those departments. Works for me!

It's like being a salaried intern on a rotating curriculum. Better than school!

House Hunting

2011-03-01T00:38:00.006-05:00

I never thought I'd see the day when I've become that friend, you know that friend, who slips in market value, home equity, interest rates, and mortgages into casual conversations. Except, I've become that friend.

Paul and I went house hunting on Sunday. None of the places we saw fit my criteria. Paul is even pickier. The properties were all decent, but as an investment, they were far from tempting.

My mom and I agreed that it might be better to look downtown. While the prices are steeper for less living space, these properties aren't as vulnerable to market fluctuations as their suburban counterparts. Furthermore, it's far easier to rent out or sell a one-bedroom to young professionals than it is to growing families in a trendy region of the city.

I spoke to a broker today for half an hour, discussing the pros and cons of Toronto's real estate environment. We discussed the factors that determine maintenance fee hikes under various conditions, seasonal trends, price gouging, etc. It was really quite fascinating.

My main dilemma is this: Should I purchase a 1 bedroom/1 bathroom and pay if off myself or purchase a 2 bedroom/2 bathroom and rent out the extra room?

Although I would be able to afford both scenarios (the latter with the help of the renter), I'm weary about investing in a property that Paul and I will easily outgrow. Granted, my salary might change and Paul will have entered the job market by then, but those are (in)variables I can't consider when I'm looking for a place right now. I also don't want to depend on Paul, knowing his job prospects will be unpredictable in his field. (I have, however, unwavering faith in his abilities to succeed.)

Patience might work out in my favour to an extent. But time is a-tickin' and the prices, overall, are still relatively affordable (at least, for this city). I just don't know how long it will last. A property I had my eye on 2 years ago has already gone up by 200k.

What to do? There are so many things to consider, minor as they are. The location of the property will determine whether or not I can rent out an extra parking spot, which can net me an extra $150-$200 a month. Its distance from my job will determine whether I will have to shell out the $120 for a public transit pass (extortionist to TTC: "Girl, that's a bit much!"). Will I be able to cover utilities? Have I made allowances for food, entertainment, and emergencies? Will I make sure to have enough money in my account to pay off my mortgage on a bi-weekly basis in order to save thousands on interest? (That last one was mostly rhetorical.)

And yet, I feel pretty good about my life. I've had some great adventures in my 24 years and while it may appear that I'm settling down hardcore, I believe I am providing a solid foundation to help usher me into the next phase of my life. While re-tracing Audrey Hepburn's steps in Roman Holiday and walking past throngs of paparazzi were fun, these experiences (and those like them) were fuelled by the need for novelty. I know now that a trip to the Amazon will not help me discover more about myself nor will I suddenly feel the urge to change my values because wherever you go, there you are.

In other words, I believe the next few years will involve developing strong professional relationships so that I may (collaboratively) contribute something tangible and positive to the world. Or maybe, it's my mind at 2:00am speaking ...

Yawnfest 2011

2011-02-28T00:01:00.009-05:00

*UPDATE*
Everyone at work thought the same (except the girl from HR who thought the pair of hosts were the highlight of the night. Count me confused!). It was, hands down, the worst Oscar in ... forever.

Don't even get me started on Kirk Douglas's Dirty Ol' Man schtick. It was uncomfortable to watch (and I am well aware that he'd suffered a stroke). And Melissa Leo's histrionics were too, too much. It was beyond irritating, especially when she paid for full-page "For Your Consideration" ads to persuade Academy voters to give her a statue, but she didn't have anything prepared for her speech? It was like witnessing a desperate barfly swinging on a stripper pole at closing time.

Next time, the Academy should hire industry insiders because the best jokes were the ones that revealed Hollywood's guarded machinations. I stayed up for this crap?

*sidenote: My colleague grew up and went to school with the guy who was handing out the Oscar statues and playing "grab the stick" with Mr. Douglas. (Her friends nicknamed him Miss Golden Globes last night.) He's Omar Sharif's grandson and his Facebook page plays out like a Jersey Shore slideshow.

***

The Oscars came and went and even though the Academy has been trying to attract a younger demographic by hiring a pair of young stars, both Paul and I just wished Billy Crystal would come back. I mean, his minute-long monologue trumped the entire telecast. Even with that ghastly face lift and Anne Hathaway's gajillion costume changes, he still managed to stand out. (Natural charm, I suppose.) James Franco looked like a distracted gerbil after snorting an 8-ball backstage. And he couldn't do anything with those dark circles? He looked so over this shit, it was like he was simultaneously cranking out the introductory paragraph of his next big essay while humouring Anne's girlish giggles.

Even Hugh Jackman's stint topped this! C'mon! Why don't the Academy realize that hiring young hosts won't solve the dying ratings? They need to nominate relevant actors (who aren't getting pregnant for sympathy votes, ahem) and respect their oeuvre, not simply their status. Paul and I were both perplexed by Hailee Steinfeld's nomination in the supporting actress category. She carried True Grit. It could've been an Anna Paquin moment! Now that would've dredged up viewers.

Anyway, Paul's disappointed that his hero, Roger Deakins, lost again for the best cinematography Oscar. However, he was rooting for Danny Cohen for The King's Speech because, in his words, the movie took more risks and sidestepped lighting conventions for a mainstream release. I thought The Social Network looked like a typical Fincher flick: muted yellowed tones anchored by dark shadows, little to no use of natural light, a modern take on Gothic broodiness.

Three of our company's releases were nominated this year as well, but none of them won. Boo! Probably gonna get an earful about how we were robbed tomorrow :P

Weekend fun

2011-02-15T23:04:00.009-05:00

Someone took this picture of me when I was visiting Paul on set. He says I play the part of the annoyed movie producer very well. Agreed. If I was on any of his shoots as an actual investor, I'd be hemorrhaging millions a minute.

It's a bit difficult for me to resist playing assistant director whenever I'm around cables and craft. Luckily for me, I've worked with the majority of the crew before so my directions were graciously welcomed.

"Why don't you conduct a rehearsal while the lights are being set up?" I'd say to the director. Or, "Let's block the scene," when I sensed that the talent was getting anxious.

It feels good coming back to do this once in awhile. I miss running the show and calling out, "Quiet on set!" and readying everyone for the shot. Paul is always tempting me to return, too, if only to work side-by-side with me (he's a bit of a romantic that way). He also knows that being an assistant director is just something I happen to do well rather than a profession I'd seriously depend on for income.

Which reminds me: Maybe it's time to quit the Directors Guild now that I'm receiving benefits from my current job?

Love doesn't blossom in a vacuum

2011-02-12T11:41:00.006-05:00

The Globe published Naomi Powell's blog entry confirming the widely held belief that people don't marry across income brackets. I also jumped into the fray (now deleted):

I think the majority of the commenters are missing the key point of the article. That is, the focus of the study is on the income bracket of the parents and how that affects the marriages of their offspring (who may not be in the same income bracket themselves).

From a purely anecdotal standpoint, I can attest to the study's findings. My partner is, like me, a 1.5 generation immigrant, but from a divergent part of the world. Our parents came to Canada with next to nothing and worked to become upper-middle-class. However, my partner and I work in the film industry, which is notoriously low-paying.

Compare him to a friend of mine whom I've known since we attended elementary school. He and I frequently visited the prospect of dating right into our adult years, but never made the leap. Although we still get along very well, his family background always deterred me from presenting myself as a serious romantic contender. His family would be considered, with no disrespect, lower to lower-middle-class/income.

Although a child prodigy, his family did not encourage him academically and failed to be involved in his life. He was on his own after high school and did odd jobs for years until I finally convinced him to attend university to widen his social circle (as he was dissatisfied with his life). However, during this time, he also bonded with those from similar family backgrounds.

So while the public school system no doubt allowed me to meet him, his family's values do not jibe with mine as we differ in terms of how we prioritize education, our knowledge base (eg. my family vs. his family's ability to fund trips abroad), and our philosophies in child-rearing (his is more passive, mine is more active). Whereas, my partner and I not only have chemistry, but due to our families' relative financial stability, we are able to ride out trying economic times without huge repercussions whereas my friend's family would not be able to contribute financially and is, thus, less obligated to preserve active family ties (extended and otherwise).

Family legacy shapes the way we see the world, not necessarily with money, but it is an important factor. So while my friends and I are technically in the same income bracket, I chose a partner whose family is similar to my own (which now only leaves the language barrier a problem :)

And it begins ...

2011-02-10T19:10:00.009-05:00

I started some loco shit today and didn't even know it.

Every quarter, the president of our company gives an update on the business and, as his assistant, I organize the event. Multiple offices dial in and he eventually opens it up to questions. He specified to me earlier that he'd like to encourage people to be more proactive in expressing interest and curiosity in regards to company activities. So today, after another employee asked a question, I went ahead and asked mine because, as usual, no one from any of the other cities had the courage to do so (which I will soon find out why).

I basically asked him if there was a possibility of expanding to a certain part of the world because I had read in the newspaper that he was in the process of acquiring a couple of companies in that direction.

He answered me straight, made a couple of cracks, and was completely at ease.

Later in the day, I get a phone call from an executive assistant with whom I work nearly exclusively. To sum it up, she said I was out of line, that I have not been with the company long enough to ask questions without first having them approved, that 20 some odd people were concerned that I was revealing company secrets, that rumours are now being spread about my ability to keep my job, and finally, that it's surprising the boss hasn't reprimanded me yet.

Oh boy, where to start? It was a Q&A! I'm not allowed to Q in the Q&A? What sort of fucked up logic was this?!

She lectured me for 15-minutes and told me she didn't want to hear my explanations. "What compelled you to ask a question? You could've easily asked him in person!"

I told her the boss was encouraging that kind of environment during the conference and I just went with it. There was no "strategic motivation" behind my intentions.

After more babbling from her part (while I silently banged my head against the receiver), I heard a momentary pause and said, "Is there anything else you'd like to speak to me about? If not, then I'd like to thank you for bringing this to my attention, it was very much appreciated. I will definitely watch what I say next time, but I need to get back to work."

And hung up.

I brought this to my boss's attention. I was concerned that my job was at risk. He said he received a few emails about the same thing, but he told me not to worry too much about it. "Actually, don't worry about it at all," he clarified.

He said the information I brought up was public knowledge, he's discussed the same things in media interviews, and nothing I said or he elaborated on was confidential in any way. I mean, my question was based on information released in a newspaper article published last year! It's not like I told everyone I came across an email detailing a deal, how it'll going down, and when money will exchange hands.

So basically, these complainers haven't been reading up on the company and think that whatever I say must be a result of my privileged position. It's called Google, look it up!

Ugh, corporate culture. You'd have to be at the very bottom or top to survive it unscathed.

Year of the Rabbit

2011-02-03T09:25:00.003-05:00

On efficient communication
Mom texts me: "Happy chinse new year. Did you call me."

I text back: "Happy Chinese New Year. I didn't call you."

***

Snowpocalypse my ass. Yesterday's newspaper headline was something akin to, "From Snowtorious B.I.G. to Snowbigdeal." Toronto received about half the snow originally predicted by meteorologists. Seriously? Now it's -16 degrees Celsius and super sunny. Not great, but also not the literal freezing over of hell.

Remind me what sort of qualifications you need to be a weatherman again? A diploma in Staring Out Your Window? A double certificate in Being Outside?

Job, Work, Life

2011-01-31T12:49:00.011-05:00

The HR Generalist gave me a positive evaluation. She said she's been asking around the office and received a terrific response with regards to my performance. I didn't immediately tell my dad about this, so being the worrywart that he is, interrogated his friend about the "meaning" of the probation period. He frantically called my cell and left a harried message: "Lily! It's baba. Call me!"

So I pull up to my garage and dial his number without bothering to exit the vehicle. "What's going on?" I ask him.

He proceeds to give me a 15-minute long lecture about how his friend ("who's worked in corporate environments for 9 years!") told him that by month's end, someone from human resources will approach me to discuss my progress (or lack thereof) and if they're happy with me, then it is implied that the candidate should stop sending out resumes.

"Uh," I respond. "Why are you so anxious for me? Someone already spoke to me about it last week. I thought I told you. I know I told mom."

He peppers me with questions: What did HR tell you? What were their exact words? What did they mean by that?!

O-M-G, dad! He is clearly terrified that I will end up as a freelancer again. You'd think he'd be used to the ups and downs after seven years, the pattern acting as a vaccine for his heart attacks (of child-rearing origin).

***

Paul and I have been discussing the possibility of marriage. The situation is surprisingly not dire. He is graduating in April and if all goes as planned, I will have my own place soon. My parents and I are in search of a condo downtown. Housing prices are ridiculous and don't even bring up the TTC (hint: I loathe it).

There are, happily, some new offerings on the market that don't demand diamonds for a cubby hole. We'll see where that goes.

Paul has been receptive to the idea of being a House Husband. I mean, he already cooks, cleans, and does the laundry (sort of. I believe Dr. King said, "[We] will be able to speed up that day when all of God's sartorial choices, darks, whites, delicates and wool, denim and silk, will be able to tumble to the words of the old Tide jingle: 'Now that's my kind of clean!'").

"I don't mind being a House Husband," he's been telling people recently. A friend of ours thought he was kidding, but due to his insistence on pursuing cinematography, the heart might really have to be where the hearth is. Gender roles aside, Paul knows that, whether famine or feast, he'll end up being the main caretaker of the home and that's all right by me. Strangely enough, both sets of parents are supportive of our planned co-habitation. "Strange" because of the uproar it set off the first time I did it (granted, on strictly pragmatic terms in a relationship of convenience) and "strange" because both our parents simply accept that we'll be exchanging vows. If not now, then in the definite future.

Dilemma

2011-01-26T10:18:00.009-05:00

What am I going to do with my roommates? I hardly spend any substantial time at home, yet I have gripes that won't go away. Maybe it's because I don't have prior experience, but that hardly qualifies me as a miserable twit. Here's a list of their bothersome habits:

1. Both girls have their boyfriends over on a regular basis. To the point where they might as well be full-time tenants. If I wanted strange men sleeping over daily, I would've advertised thusly.

I hear their sweet nothings through my bedroom wall and heating vent when I'm trying to sleep. It's torture. Not to mention the house parties and the snappy attitude I get when I gently remind them to clean up the booze bottles and muddy lobby afterwards: "Of course we'll clean it up; we had people over!"

Well, excuuuuuse me, but I'm your damn landlord and you girls are naaaaasty.

2. Both my sister and I would take out their trash when they first moved in to help them transition into the new schedule. It's been three months now and they've simply come to expect that their garbage will be thrown out in time. But neither of them lift a finger and don't like me reminding them that, Oh hey, the truck is around the corner, do you mind putting your stuff on the curb?

3. Four people live in the house, yet the roommates' belongings outnumber ours (myself and my sister's) 3:1. There are still unpacked boxes in the living room and furniture in our backyard. They take up the entire fridge, they don't throw out their rotten food, and even after my sister designated our shelves, they migrate to our area when convenient. This means, I've been buying food at work for the past month because I have no room in the fridge to put my groceries. The cupboards are also full of their shit because they've monopolized that too. Did I mention dirty dishes for days?

4. The roommates never turn off the lights and washroom fan. I'm not talking about the porch light, but nearly every light in the house. They pay rent inclusive of utilities, which means my sister and I have to pay for unexpected increases in the bill and I already pay an equal amount of rent to live here.

That's pretty much it. This can't just be me sounding petty, right? When my sister mentioned to them about bringing guys home, they had the audacity to say, "If we had known we weren't allowed to bring people home, we wouldn't have moved here."

My sister said it was okay to have friends over, but their boyfriends are around way too much. "Besides," she told me later, "they never told us they even had boyfriends."

It makes me wonder if people feel shame anymore? I mean, don't they get ashamed when they know other people are picking up after them? Don't they get embarrassed that other people have to parent them? Don't people take responsibility for themselves anymore?

I remember growing up, my mom used to tell me not to do anything that would embarrass her. And putting your feet up while those around you cooked and cleaned was definitely something she'd be mortified by.

If they do decide to move out after we've discussed the issues, my sister is going to advertise the rooms for urban professionals only. Students are the scum of the earth. At least this whole experience has taught my sister how grating her bad habits make me feel. Who knew she'd meet her match and lose?

Operation Emma

2011-01-24T12:42:00.007-05:00

*UPDATE*
Ooh! I emailed him and he expressed interest in meeting her too. Told me my request was totally random, but he's up for it. Nice! I'm the best motherfucking amateur matchmaker in the WORLD! (Don't ruin it for me, I need this, okay?!)

***

A couple of months ago, I went on a casting run with a guy from an ad agency. (The company subsequently hired my baby cousin on a handful of TV spots, thanks to yours truly.) We had terrific chemistry and he was photogenically handsome. A former radio DJ back in Hong Kong, he'd come to Canada to further his studies.

Last week, I had breakfast with an old friend. She hasn't had a decent date (or relationship) in years even though she's pretty as all get out. So I'm watching her poke at her yogurt-granola-monster parfait and an idea hit me.

"Let me set you up," I said. "I worked with this guy. He lives nearby, really cute, and close to our age."

She was intrigued. "Hook me up, hook me up!" she said, beaming, startlingly even me with her enthusiasm. (I must've underestimated her dryspell; it was the Serengeti.)

Now here I am, at my work station, calling up contacts to find a potential lead beacause he likely doesn't work there anymore. (Did I mention I have a verifiable waiting list of potential matches I hope to get through?)

In other words: I have become the Yenta of the East (or Northern Hempisphere, but that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue). It feels nice to spread the love around.

Dadisms

2011-01-22T21:35:00.004-05:00

On my sister
"You have book smart, you no have road smart."

On Hilary Duff's pregnancy
"Who pregnant? Dog pregnant?"

On white people who act Asian
"You're so egg!"

On the song Lady Marmalade
"Who is this, Lady Mama?"

Treasure or trash?

2011-01-19T23:49:00.009-05:00

I just stumbled onto all my correspondences with my ex-boyfriend during the period when we were dating. It's weird reading how much someone misses you and loves you and longs for you with a name that is not Paul's. (Not to mention the dirty sex descriptions; it's like being molested by Father Time.)

I can speak now about my former relationship with a clarity I didn't used to possess, but I've also forgotten that I'd actually had a different life altogether with someone else. In a different city. Under different circumstances. With a social circle now disbanded.

We'd lived together, spent two years together, bickered, fought, and broke each other's belongings together. And yet, I can't recall the visceral force of the near-daily rage that passed between us. Like the River Styx, crossing it meant death and ironically, the only escape. So then, what's there to reclaim by reading them?

But read them I did.

A few passages in and I could already feel the discomfort creep up on me. Like the skin that develops when you boil milk, it appears when you momentarily stop paying attention to what you had intended to do. What scares me is how similar my ex's frequent romantic proclamations are to Paul's (at least on paper) and that parallel blows my mind, knowing how different this relationship is compared to the last. (The difference, of course, is that this time, I return those feelings.)

But I suppose we can only dissect the veridity of love in hindsight.

Dinner at Paul's house

2011-01-17T22:39:00.014-05:00

Paul's parents recently celebrated their 20th-anniversary as immigrants in Canada. They invited a couple who generously supported them until they settled in, months after emigrating from Russia. The woman, L, was old and very brusque:

"When you two getting married?" she asked. Paul's mom told her to stop embarrassing us.

Earlier in the evening, Paul sat beside me at the corner of the table. His mother shooed him to the side: "Sitting in corner means six years you don't get married."

Paul rolled his eyes and held my hand. I laughed and asked him if he'd sit there if the saying was true.

"No" came the emphatic answer.

Now here we were, the entire table watching, as I earnestly pondered L's question. I spoke slowly: "I think it would be prudent once Paul and I are settled in our careers." Then quickly added, "... so we can have healthy, stable lives."

L scoffed. "Everyone want healthy, stable life. Why not get engaged now?"

"Because we don't have any money," Paul interjected. The guests chuckled.

L was unmoved:

"Why you need money? For wedding? How much?"

"As much as you want," I said.

Listen, I continued, money will help us build a healthy, stable life together. I don't want a wedding, I don't need a dress, and I don't care for rings. But I want our finances to be in order before jumping into anything.

Paul's father said it was a good answer and settled the matter. The guests clinked wine glasses and the discussion slid back into the comfortable tides of the Slavic language.

Updates from the job and other thoughts

2011-01-17T21:28:00.011-05:00

I am ploughing through my second week of work. So far, so good. Very busy. I really enjoy the flexible hours and the challenging atmosphere. It's not a very orthodox position, which is partly why it fits my personality.

Unfortunately, as much as I would love to divulge secrets from the inner sanctum of the global entertainment and financial industries, I am bound to a confidentiality contract. (Literally.)

I will say that I've been blessed with a patient and undemanding boss, who has given me a lot of rope to discover the most efficient way to achieve various goals. He has neither nagged nor prodded me and so far, it's been working out fine (with some minor adjustments here and there).

One of the highlights of last week was the moment I received my newly-printed box of business cards. I checked out the colour and font (eggshell, Helvetica) and a thought occurred to me: "Fuck freelance, corporate rocks!"

Okay, clearly, it was in jest. But wow, after seven (7!) years of working gig to gig, paycheque to no-cheque, it's nice to take a break from scouring job listings for awhile.

Scanning my resume, you could easily mistake me for someone older, a seasoned flake:

Retail sales associate
TV and newspaper reporter
Magazine contributor
Editor-in-Chief of a business publication
Piano teacher
TV News Producer
Photography Assistant
Assistant Director

(I think that's it. I might be missing a couple.)

Anyway, overall, if I had to assess my experiences up to this point, I think I've lived a pretty fulfilling life at the ripe old age of 24.

My mom says I've always got along with old(er) people, even as a kid. I enjoyed hanging out with grandmas and grandpas (my own and other people's), had conversations with chemistry professors at buffet lines, and even now, I have a hard time retaining friendships that don't stimulate me intellectually. I don't know how this fits into what I was saying, but maybe the meandering way my life has gone is a reflection of my curiosity and appetite for the novel and unknown. Or maybe they are choices I've made because I've stopped giving a shit about where I'd wind up as long as it got my mom off my back about being unemployed. Yeah, that sounds more like it.

So here's to another 7 years of hopes, anxieties, and professional suicide. All in a year's work =)

My parents will probably stop hinting at grad school

2011-01-07T20:04:00.012-05:00

I was just offered a full-time job as the Executive Assistant to the President and CEO of the largest independent media distribution company in North America. Naturally, I accepted.

I went in for the initial interview Tuesday, was called back to speak with The Boss Thursday, and by Friday, I was given the good news. Work starts Monday.

The online ad had been intentionally vague for, I suppose, discretionary reasons. However, once I arrived for the interview, HR personnel revealed who I would actually be supporting. Crazy!

The Boss asked me about my ambitions and I told him I'd like to eventually be a film producer. He told me this would be a wonderful place to meet potential contacts since the company has offices all over the world with plans to acquire more businesses in Eastern Europe this year.

Paul says we should go to City Hall to get a marriage license so he can take advantage of the provided spousal benefits. He's kidding, I think. ("Or until I need those benefits," he added.)

Must go celebrate ...

Paulisms: Music Edition

2011-01-03T20:20:00.005-05:00

Paul, like me, came to Canada at a young age. We made do learning the songs of the natives by ear. The results were not always consistent in his case.

In the car
"Boo-yah Lady Marmalade ..."

After a holiday party
"On the first day of Christmas, Marsula gave to me ..."

In the shower
"If you want a happy life/ You should marry an ugly wife."

Before sex
"OP-EN THE KINGDOOOOM!" [Philip Glass would not approve.]

Nostalgia lane

2010-12-29T00:07:00.010-05:00

Here's a tiny sampling of photos of me and Paul over the course of 2010:

Yu Yuan Garden in Shanghai.

Myself and a friend at a recent wedding.

Paul pouting. Must be the potatoes.

Drunk, Drunker, Drunkest.

Things to do

2010-12-28T22:13:00.025-05:00

This winter's been pretty mild in comparison to the city's northern and southern cousins. It's like we've been protected by an alien energy shield, barricading us from the worst mother nature has to offer. I mean, a hundred kilometres outside of Toronto, towns have been hit with a meter or more of snow and Paul's all, "I wish it was colder; I miss the twinkles."

I hate winter. It's nearly always overcast and the "ain't no sunshine" days give me the SADs. Paul's dad was sent one of those therapy lamps that's supposed to ease the seasonal blues, but as a psychiatrist, I don't think he's totally sold on the idea.

Anyway, since I'm currently unemployed (again), Paul is encouraging me to work on my screenplay. It's partly based on this blog or more precisely, the parts of this blog where I mention my mother. Write what you know, right? One of the most irritating things about reading other people's scripts is the lack of a distinct voice. These authors avoid potentially controversial portraits in exchange for "serious" subjects with which they are unfamiliar and end up with neither insight nor vision. Just dull, humourless writing with a heaping of pretension.

I call it the Yoda Effect. In other words, "Inspired dialogue, it is not. Encouraged they are to use misplaced modifiers. An air of sophistication split infinitives give. In real life, not so good idea."

Paul's giving me until next March to complete the first draft. Fingers crossed.

***

Sunday's party was pretty good. Caught up with some old friends, made new ones. As we made our way home, Paul said the girl he'd been talking to on the couch was flirting with him. He said she kept putting her hand on his thigh as they conversed. I thought it was cute and it gave me a sense of pride knowing Paul's attractiveness is recognized by others.

The funny thing is, he'd been tipsy and was complaining about all the bad directors he had to put up with these last couple of months. Hardly sexy talk. Yet, she seemed to get a kick out of his rant and embraced his enthusiasm as if it was her own. Which goes to show you, there really aren't any tricks to picking up women. If she thinks you have the right stuff, you can talk about your job as a sanitation engineer and she'll still offer to clean your jumpsuit to get you in the sack.

The heart wants what it wants.

Pretty lights and slippery snow

2010-12-23T21:09:00.018-05:00

I went in for a job interview last week to be the director's assistant on Silent Hill 3D: Revelation. Didn't think it would pan out the moment I stepped out of his office. We didn't have much chemistry and while the perks of seeing a production through from conception to actualization would be eye-opening, there must be other ways.

I have another interview somewhere two weeks from now. Paul interned at the distribution conglomerate this summer and didn't like it, but then again, he's destined to be running around on set. I, by contrast, want to be challenged and be paid well. (For both our sakes.)

Let's see how this one turns out. Who knows? Maybe the assistant directors who'd taken a shine to me will follow through on their offers once the industry starts picking up next month. I don't give a shit at this point. I'm happy swimming around, testing out all bodies of water in this vast (and glorified) field.

***

My good friend invited me and Paul to the annual Christmas party he co-hosts with his flamboyant and artsy roommates. They all reside in this beautiful mansion with original mouldings and silk wallpaper. Last year, they had a 1920s theme and I was amazed by the impressive verisimilitude. It was noticeable the moment you stepped into their house. The mahogany banister and gilded mirrors weren't the half of it. There was a Victorian-style Christmas tree, twice the size of anything I'd ever seen in a domestic setting. The furniture and upholstery were time-specific, the menu was of the era, and music was cranked out through a phonograph. Now get this: They even had a photo studio with one of those cameras that requires a hood and a 10-minute exposure time, a novelty most of the guests gladly explored.

All of them dressed to the nines in tuxedo tails and my friend even slicked back his hair, à la Jake Gatsby. I grin while writing this because it was definitely a dreamy, boozy, wonderful night.

This year, they plan to host a formal masquerade ball. Paul was so embarrassed for being under-dressed last year that he's actually going to put in some effort for this Sunday's fête. (I'm not complaining, he looks ultra fine when he's all done up.) I'll be donning the bunny gear seen above while for 2 bucks, Paul's wearing a moulded eye-piece lined with sequins. I'm excited!

The only snafu (hidden to all but myself) will be the potential meeting with my former fuck buddy and his significant other. I haven't seen him in two years (after a series of coincidental bump-ins), so I guess I will have to dig out the gracious pantomime I'd perfected after each of our postcoital encounters and get on with it.

I'm also hoping to bring two of my gorgeous friends in the hopes of igniting a spark between them =)

Christmas Booty

2010-12-15T01:34:00.005-05:00

"You know what I want? A man who drops in once a year and goes away. Like Santa Claus."

Paul tried to stifle a chuckle. I continued listening in on the conversation between the black girls.

As we all exited the elevator, I called out to one of them: "That's a good idea because you'd get presents whether you were naughty or nice."

One of them turned around and smiled at me: "That's right! You a smart girl."

As the group prepared to cross the street, the original commenter said, "He better be in and out 'cause I don't want to be handling him the rest of the year."

"You know what you call that?" I cried out as Paul and I walked in the opposite direction. "A conjugal visit."

They all burst out laughing, repeating the punchline as they sashayed away.

If you want to make bank, start with your offspring

2010-12-11T23:27:00.009-05:00

Paul is the cinematographer on his friend's film and they were conducting auditions last week.

One kid, about 8- or 9-years-old, stood out to the crew. The producer sat opposite him and read the part of "Anna." She handed him the script and asked him to do a cold reading. He played "Luke," a young boy who keeps re-enacting the glorified death of his soldier father.

The exchange went something like this:

"Luke": My dad's a hero, you know.

"Anna": How?

"Luke": He died in the war. I eleven show you. Look, I eleven be my dad.

(...)

"Anna": Why am I the enemy?

"Luke": I eleven show you. Just stand over there, OK?

The director tried to follow the conversation, flipping over the script pages front and back to figure out what the kid was saying. They asked him to re-read the part and again, it didn't make any sense.

Confused, they asked him why he keeps saying "eleven."

"Because," he said, flustered, "the number 11 is after the letter 'i'."

Everyone looked at each other. The kid couldn't read contractions. In fact, many of the child actors they'd been encountering couldn't read and needed their parents to help them memorize their lines.

I don't want to judge the education system too harshly, but I distinctly remember being the kid's age and reading at (above) grade level. And why are parents taking the time to help them cheat rather than making sure they are literate? My mom used to stay up until past midnight so I could master long division in grade 2; she definitely wouldn't have asked me to give her a 10-percent cut of my earnings. Granted, there are some smart kids in the business: I met one who would do her homework between takes. But that little girl's family could afford to enroll her in a special arts school that accommodated her work schedule.

Anyway, I'm trailing off. The point is, I find it disappointing when parents use their children as cash cows and forsake their intellectual development. But I suppose that's showbiz: Where narcissists go to shine.

It's just business

2010-12-07T17:55:00.005-05:00

The New York Times published an article in the Style section about Trevor Neilson, philanthropic advisor to the stars.

My best friend currently works at the UN offices for human trafficking in New York. She said when she met Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore, she got a sense that neither of them were very smart. While Mr. Kutcher was clearly very chatty, she observed that Ms. Moore was mousy and frail, as if intimidated by the superior intellect of all those around her.

"But they got us into the papers. No one would even care if they didn't show up," she said, dryly.

What especially amazed her was the couple's ability to repeat talking points as if they were delivering them for the first time. They never trailed off, memorized sentences word for word, and held up their enthusiasm during every interview.

I used to think that proper organizations were cheapened by celebrity spokespeople. Now, I feel as if actors were born for the job. They're beautiful, they bring with them an enviable social cache, they adore attention (and by extension, attract attention to their causes), they say what they're told, and question nothing.

Factoring in those reasons, the synthetic bargain starts looking better and better for whomever hires them.

Paul-was-thereisms

2010-12-07T05:10:00.008-05:00

My teenaged sister, Vee, joined me and Paul to watch Desperate Housewives last night (his favourite show after Rich Bride, Poor Bride).

I overheard this conversation during the commercial break:

Vee: "Do you remember when in Austin Powers, I forget which one, where Dr. Evil's looking for his balls and says, '1, 2, 3, I'm good'?"

Paul: "Yeah."

Vee: "I saw that movie with my friend. After that scene, he looked down at his pants and said, 'Vee, I only have two. Am I not normal?'"

Paul: "..."

Thisclose to being on Santa's naughty list

2010-12-06T17:06:00.011-05:00

I was searching for stockings at The Bay's flagship store one chilly day. The selection was intimidating: merino wool, cashmere-blend, buy one get one half.

As I stood there skimming the wall, a woman (who looked to be in her 50s) kept nudging me. Rather than push back, I'd step to one side, reasoning that it would signal to her that we can both share the space.

Undeterred, she continued to push me as she felt for rainbow socks and the like. Annoyed, I shot her an icy glare.

No response.

So I found a place squarely in the middle of the towering racks and stood there, promising myself that I wouldn't budge.

Well, wouldn't you know it, the woman returned with her friend and knocked into me again. Tilting her head towards the ceiling, she said:

"Darling, I think I am walking into someone."

And with that, the mystery was solved.

I was throwing shade at a blind woman.

What the ...?

2010-12-03T21:46:00.018-05:00

Have you ever encountered comments so bizarre and tactless that it felt like you were making a cameo appearance on the Twilight Zone?

Ever since I went back on the Pill last year, I've struggled to control annoying blemishes. Going off it isn't an option since I'm sexually active and, besides, I'm not bothered enough to discontinue using it for the superficial side-effects. (I'd choose that over a baby any day.)

Luckily, Paul's mom introduced me to a skincare regimen that's been working wonders, to the point that even he mentioned the dramatic difference. (FYI: Russian women really know how to keep their shit looking good.)

So my best girlfriend was visiting from NYC and we popped by her parents' house after a day of shopping.

"Hi Auntie," I said.

"Hi Lily," she responded. "What happened to your face? It's gotten uglier."

I froze, taken aback. But she was insistent, asking me if it was a medical condition, whether my skin was itchy. I told her that it was a bit dry from the weather, so I might have a few dry patches, but other than that, I didn't know what else to say.

"That can't just be from dryness, everyone's face gets dry in the winter. No, this is something more serious. Have you tried Chinese herbs?"

Chinese herbs? Up until that point, I didn't even know I had a problem.

"Have you been to the doctor? I bought this great cream in Japan that makes my face glow. You're young, you have to take better care of yourself."

I nodded. This was getting awkward. My friend silently sat beside me, smiling politely.

Her mother then asked me if I had a boyfriend; I answered in the affirmative.

"That's good," she commented. "It means you don't have to impress men and your boyfriend already knows what you look like before."

"Fortunately," she continued, "my girls never had it that bad, so I'm not familiar with your condition."

At this point, I was curious to see what she was talking about. I excused myself to go to the washroom and checked myself in the mirror.

It was a revelation: I looked fine.

Sure, I had some flakiness around my temples and shine on my forehead. Other than that, my complexion was clear. Not a single pimple.

I met up with Paul afterward at a wrap party and told him the story. He was confused and was also perplexed by her observations. "Chinese people need to stop being so blunt," he said.

In her defense, I believe she meant well, but the whole incident was just ... strange.

Never thought I'd be promoting materialism

2010-12-03T01:51:00.008-05:00

Backstory: My mom never splurges on anything for herself. She skips vacations and hasn't gone clothes shopping in 20-years. Needless to say, I encourage her to let loose once in awhile. This recent incident illustrates that, perhaps, she still has some ways to go in adjusting ...

Mom: "You like purse? I get from Coach outlet."

me: "It's nice, really nice."

Mom: "You know how much I pay?"

me: "20 bucks?"

Mom: "That what I pay last time. I wish. Guess again."

me: "$50?"

Mom: "One-hundred twenty dollar. It the most I ever spend."

me: "Wow, it's sold for at least $300-something at retail."

Mom: "You right. I get discount then use '20-percent off' card. You like? It nice bag for fake leather."

me: "Ma, it's real leather."

Mom: "Oh really? Why it no smell?"

me: "Ma, you paid 120 bucks for a bag you thought was fake leather?"

Mom: "I no check. Now it very good deal."

On the one hand, I think it was ridiculous of her to have paid that much for a designer purse of supposed inferior quality. (The leather was in fact very soft and supple.) On the other, I'm glad she's embracing her own happiness. I know she has a soft spot for bags, but she's always spent every penny on her three children. It's nice to see her pampering herself after 12+ hour days at work.

What's in the store?

2010-11-30T08:59:00.002-05:00

I attended the assistant directors' caucus meeting at Guild headquarters last week and had beers with the top ADs working in the city right now. A former mentor of mine said a few of them expressed interest in working with me, nudging me to touch base (which I did). In fact, David Cronenberg's go-to AD since his Videodrome days even offered to edit any screenplays I plan on writing. One of the clearest things I came away with from that get-together was the disparity of their backgrounds. The aforementioned AD had been an electrician of some sort, employed at a factory. Another got his psychology degree and divides his time as a mystic guru (think: leather pants, flowing beard, and tie-dyed tee). My former mentor was manager in the restaurant business for over a decade. And the trainee who worked with me on Being Erica has an interest in oil painting on the side.

While a handful of them expressed frustration with the business, it was clear that they all shared a passion for filmmaking. They even gave advice to the junior members on how to cope during the down season.

So apparently, 2011 is supposed to be a good year for Toronto's film and television industry: Six major features and an increase in hour-long TV series. We were told by the staff that as long as the dollar is on par or lower than its American counterpart and new mayor Rob Ford treats the Guild like a business, we're golden.

Second Round of Interviews

2010-11-09T13:51:00.004-05:00

"So the producer's assistant position was filled," the woman on the line called to say, "but we'd like to have you back to meet the director and the executive producer."

I was expecting this after last week's interview with the ABC producer when his parting words rang loud and clear: "This meeting was definitely fruitful. Now I know who to bring back if I don't end up picking you."

Why, thank you?

No sooner had I hung up, someone else calls to offer me work on a movie set on the same day.

I spoke to a former classmate of mine at the Directors Guild while I was waiting to hear back from the production coordinator about allowing me to leave for the job interview mid-day. (It was approved.) Peter said if I had to choose between the two things, I'd have to decide what I wanted to do in the industry first.

Something "above the line," I replied, knowing that much. Ideally, I'd have a hand in facilitating communication between the studio bosses and the crew. This way, I'd be paid well, still be close to the action, and achieve a semblance of stability in a notoriously fickle field.

Above all, I'd be able to support Paul as he labours away as a budding cinematographer. He knows so much about his craft that I would hate to see him have to compromise his passion to make a life with me.

Okay, enough with the sentimentalism. I'm going to edit Peter's film script (which he plans to shoot some time around Christmas) and print out more business cards. 'Tis the life of a runt!

What I'd pay for a life plan

2010-11-04T22:59:00.011-04:00

I met with an ABC network producer today for a job interview. In addition to himself, he was also scouting assistants for the executive producer, director, and a former A-list, now B-list, television star back with a new leading role.

We talked for nearly 2-hours, but the likelihood of a callback appears slim considering he had met with five other candidates only yesterday and told me there was more to come. It requires no explanation: the competition is, uh, sorta, kinda, stiff. (Also, if I were to get the job, I'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement, which means no blog entries divulging anyone's diva demands.)

There might be another TAD gig in my future though. An assistant director with whom I worked on two projects flew back from Germany looking to crew up a show and asked for my availabilities. I am (*drumroll*) free indefinitely! Pick me, pick me, pick me!

Not that I'm desperate or anything. I applied for E.I. last week to prevent that stuff from oozing out of my every pore. (Fooled you! I'm aware I sound pretty desperate.) But you know what I resent? That I continue to apply for writing/editing gigs whenever the film industry experiences a slowdown even though writing for other people sucks balls. What's more aggravating is that there's still a part of me that thinks writing is a realistic back-up plan. I mean, it's comparable to trading in a car with no wheels for one with no windshield. Hmm, decisions, decisions ...

The cycle of regular unemployment does get tiresome sometimes. Other times, it's a friggin' relief: Forget decades, I can't imagine doing the same work with the same people year after year. I spoke to my career counsellor the other day about my ambivalence and she said to embrace these cycles for what they are: An acceptance of an unorthodox lifestyle. She said rather than get anxious about not knowing where my next paycheque will be coming from, I should have confidence that it will come due to the nature of the business combined with my "unique" chutzpah.

That means I need to get a pair of Lindsay Lohan's knee-pad leggings, right?

*Note: Can you believe I've only been in this industry since last year and I've made more head room than I ever had in journalism, which I'd been doing since I was 17 and was the main focus of my university education? That's some crazy Harrison-Ford-was-a-carpenter-type shit.

Me worry?

2010-11-02T04:55:00.023-04:00

Paul and I were at a Hallowe'en party this weekend hosted by a pair of newlywed eccentrics who announced they would conclude the night with a screening of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), which was cue for us to leave. As we were layering coats and scarves, a friend of his tip-toed her way over to wave us off at the door. She was tipsily reciting niceties when she was reminded of another party she had attended with him where the guests were memorably mean.

"One of them had a crush on him," she said. "Paul's coworkers from ..." she trailed off.

The name she mentioned was not foreign to me as I'd met the woman on quite a few occasions. I remember distinctly enjoying her company and sharing a lot of laughs. In the past, I've shared my thoughts about Paul's numerous female friends and I've taken part in surveys defending cross-gender friendships. And to be perfectly honest, Paul's a wonderful boyfriend, so it would be absurd if I'd been proven to be the only one to have ever spotted his potential as an awesome mate.

Here's what bothers me though: some of these women act like he's a surrogate boyfriend.

For instance: Paul welcomed his friend H from Saskatchewan at the airport and drove her, her luggage, her colleague, and her colleague's daughter to wherever they needed to go. The next time we saw H, she had decided to move to Toronto for school and expected Paul to pick her up from the airport, show her city attractions, and do errands with her without really considering whether Paul had other responsibilities to which to tend or the funds to accompany her.

Another one, M, required Paul's assistance to book train tickets (which I ended up doing) and failed to make any living arrangements in Toronto, assuming Paul would have a place for her to stay. Due to her poor planning upon a second return, she ended up wandering the streets for six hours before knocking on his door at 7 a.m. for a place to sleep.

Then there are the women who are just a smidge too affectionate in their written communications, voicing how they "love" him, "miss" him, and "can't wait to see him" again. These are, albeit, strictly platonic friends, but I'm getting a little weary.

In my defense, not once have I ever harboured any jealousy; Paul is utterly devoted and smitten (and vice versa). It's the collective neediness that annoys me (as some of these women already have boyfriends and others came out of the woodwork).

Granted, Paul is the sensitive sort who also says what's on his mind so clearly, that's a great combo. But c'mon! Text messages at all hours of the night asking for help about this and his opinion about that? I mean, yeesh! We're trying to sleep here! He now habitually puts his phone on airplane mode to prevent the dings! from waking us.

What's perplexing is that we receive plenty of comments, some from these very same women, describing us as being well-matched, compatible, and effortlessly happy together. Funny thing is, Paul, in turn, suggests to them that if they have any romantic enquiries, they should talk to me as I have casually counselled countless women on the matter.

Maybe Paul is more like a surrogate brother to them? I know I've morphed into a little kid when I've visited my older cousin in the past. But mid-twenties? That's a little much.

Sisterly Failings

2010-11-02T00:26:00.010-04:00

My parents purchased a townhouse a few months ago for me and my younger sister so she can be close to the university campus and I can be close to town.

Now mind you, when I first moved away from home, I had to learn to take care of my apartment as well. Dishes were, admittedly, forgotten in the sink for days and the contents of my closet would be carelessly strewn across the floor.

My sister, though, is on a whole 'nother level of "Hygiene? What's that?" Her slob tendencies were apparent long before I found a melted popsicle wobbling in its package on her desk. From junior high onward, her crap would wiggle its way to every nook, corner, and buttcrack. The living room couch was her makeshift bed when her belongings overflowed into adjacent bedrooms. It took her an excruciating amount of time to get ready for school because she'd put something on, check the mirror, then decide to change. But instead of putting away her initial outfit, she'd just undo her pants and shirts and release them like bird droppings. I'd frequently see her stuff hanging off the banister, on the kitchen table, and on top of the toilet.

Markers, books, painting supplies, baking supplies, curling iron, laptop, shoes: nothing was sacred. Akin to Midas's cursed hand, everything she touched turned to dirt.

Generally, I'm with Paul for four days and return home for the other three. Last week, my sister promised she'd sweep the first-level floor and, silly me, I believed her. I came home and the kitchen, not very big to begin with, was covered in a layer of flour. She was making pizza (or something vaguely resembling one) and I flipped out.

Her half-hearted attempt at cleaning was completely overshadowed by the mess she created afterward. It's like she thinks onion skins help tiles keep their sparkle and dried fruit juice is beneficial to wood. Then I find dirty plates on the sofa cushion:

"What the hell is this?! I told you not to eat on the couch!"

"When did you say that?"

"There's a goddamned table less than a foot away, why couldn't you eat there? Now there's sauce on the cover!"

"So I'll wash it!"

I looked at her skeptically.

"When have you washed anything?" I shot back.

It went on like this, back and forth, until I grabbed my cell phone and dialled home. Or at least tried to, because in my rage, I had completely forgotten the number and yelled into the receiver at complete strangers who hung up on me repeatedly. I eventually had to call Paul to get me the right number to give my mother an earful.

She told me she was old and probably ill and to stop bothering her with trivial matters.

And that's the real crux of the story, isn't it? It's about my embarrassing habit of reverting to a child in my sister's presence. Our sibling rivalry is so deeply entrenched in my psyche that I not only lose control of my emotions, but my ability to reason and treat another with respect. My mom says whatever mistakes she made in raising us, she did the best she could and I should try to let it go. But it's difficult and, frankly, I retain my resentment to punish her belatedly and protect myself from past hurts.

Paul thinks I need to see a psychiatrist about this (his dad happens to be one) because he hears me talking to my sister like she's sub-human. Once, after one of our legendary confrontations, he listened as I called her "revolting," "disgusting," and "stupid". Worse still is that I nearly meant it.

Believe me, I know my behaviour is barbaric and infantile. And yet, and yet, and yet ...

I wonder if perhaps my ability to endear myself to other people's parents is a reaction to avoiding my own? These surrogates, whether out of propriety or genuine affection, seem to have more faith in me. And while they have no vested interest in my well-being, the deception inoculates against the strain (pain?).

I do tell myself that time will heal all as long as I distance myself from my family, but as weeks turn into months, it becomes easier to escape their existence and, in turn, forget that there are problems at all.

I am, however, taking steps to relax and take more precautions in regards to disciplining my toxic tongue. I had a premonition that revealed to me a likely scenario if I continued on this way: a wedding attended by only half the guests, the other half kept out by the internal murmurs of the bride's pride and ignorance.

I don't want to be that person anymore. And yet,

and yet,

and yet.

To whom am I speaking?

2010-10-27T00:25:00.003-04:00

Wow, has it already been 7 years since I began writing into the ether? That's what you call time not well spent.

Underemployment

2010-10-26T22:26:00.003-04:00

How many ways can my mother express her disappointment in my entire existence?

A lot, apparently.

a) She suggests going back to school

"What am I supposed to do? Get a degree in chemistry?"

"I laugh. Ha ha ha. They no accept you if you try!"

b) She reminds me about that loan I owe her

"Insurance woman call. She say, this year, more money. I ask you, where my money?"

c) She calls me for no reason

"So ... what you doing?"

"I'm working."

"Oh, but you no work anymore next week. So ... what you do after?"

d) She thinks I'm avoiding her

"You come back home this weekend?"

"No, I'm busy."

"Then you never come back forever! I no want you!" *dial tone*

e) She asks me about my successful med school/law school/professional school friends

"He do that? So good! He tall one, yes? You no like him?"

"Ma!"

"You, Paul, think like artist. What you do? Draw people, fun animal picture, doing the dancing outside the mall?"

Why, why, why?

2010-10-26T14:59:00.010-04:00

Not 10-minutes ago, I got into a confrontation with a delivery van driver. I had to take something down to the offices of the Directors' Guild and quickly found a parking spot (a notoriously rare occurrence) soon after driving onto the street. I flipped on my signal to show my intention to back up, but the truck behind me gets thisclose to my bumper. So I rolled down my window and swung my hand back to gesture to the driver to "move back!" But he didn't budge. In fact, he shouted back that he was behind me. No shit, dickhead!

So I drove to the end of the street to do a 3-point turn. The trucker sticks his head out of his window and called me "the worst driver in Toronto!" I stared him down and in response, explained that "I had signalled to park, but you drove up behind me, so you can go fuck yourself!"

A few pedestrians stopped to look, while the meter maid from way out back surveyed the scene. The trucker drove away speechless, while I savoured my victory.

Why is it that some people have the courage to talk smack once they see that I'm a tiny Asian girl and can't beat them up? Do they assume I'd just take the abuse and serve them spring rolls?

*Note: Paul says I drop the prim-n'-proper-cashmere-cardigan act whenever I'm agitated or exuberant. In either case, I pull out my inner chola. Hold the eyebrows.

Worn Out

2010-10-18T12:37:00.011-04:00

Slate published Maud Lavin's analysis of female aggression, as enacted by Helen Mirren, last Friday. I was reading the article, trying to come up with comparable characters, when I reached the third last paragraph and nodded emphatically. The author describes a scene in the series Prime Suspects, where Mirren plays Detective Jane Tennison reacting to a slight by a show antagonist:

In Prime Suspect's second episode of its first year, for instance, there is a tiny scene in an elevator in which a large male copper (who viewers already know dislikes Tennison) crowds her unnecessarily while pretending to be politely reaching for the panel of buttons. Tennison simply refuses to move or accommodate or do anything but stare—in a distinctly non-yogic, non-serene fashion—and make him reach awkwardly around her. It's these small graces of rudeness in the face of minute social plays for power that only Mirren could have pulled off so well. Source

"Minute social plays for power." My eyes lingered on those words for a beat and it occurred to me that I encountered just that at a gas station last month.

The cashier was confused about my pump card as it belongs to the production account. As he was fiddling around with the paperwork, a large man stepped behind me in the queue and waited impatiently. He looked about 6 ft 4 in, was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, and his face was lined and pockmarked like James Hetfield.

His hand nudged my shoulder as he put down a small bag of chips and a carton of milk on the counter in front of me.

I looked up at him. "Don't touch me," I said.

He said his hands were full.

I glanced at the two items, now fully aware what he was doing as there was plenty of space around me.

"Ask me nicely," I continued, sternly, "but don't touch me."

Well, he stammered, he said excuse me, but I gave him a dirty look.

"You can ask me nicely," I repeated coolly, "but don't touch me." I then proceeded to say good night to the cashier and walked out.

The cashier had been watching this play out and grimaced nervously the entire time. "Minute social plays for power" is right. Just because you're impatient doesn't mean you can punish me for holding you up. It's the small humiliations of daily life that grind us down and people like him lack the discipline to behave otherwise.

These people can kiss my ass.

Culture Clash

2010-10-16T14:49:00.007-04:00

Paul's cousins are visiting from Russia. One of them, Boris, developed a huge blistery cold sore on his lower lip. We were all at dinner last week when everyone thought it would be a good idea to swap drinks to try out the different variety of beers the pub brewed on-premise.

Boris, arm outstretched, motioned for Paul. Paul, drink in hand, raised his eyebrow in confusion. Boris continued motioning for him.

"What do you want?" Paul asked.

"Your drink," came the answer.

Paul froze, looked down at his glass, then up at the crusty red wound on his cousin's lip.

"But you have the herpes!" Paul exclaimed, pointing at Boris with an accustory finger. A strange silence swept across the table.

His cousin's expression fell and waved his hand to attract the waitress's attention. "Can I have ... a straw?" he inquired.

"For what?" asked Paul.

Boris shrugged: "To drink your beer."

When the straw came, he plopped it in Paul's glass, and got to drink the raspberry concoction he'd wanted.

As we were lying in bed that night, he explained how blasé Russian people are in regards to contracting these things. "Even with the straw, I'm worried he might've given it to me."

And by proxy, ME! Crapppppp!

Don't you hate people like this?

2010-10-06T00:14:00.014-04:00

Paul's parents and a family friend invited us to see Banana Shpeel by Cirque du Soleil.

From the opening number until the intermission, three women sitting behind me would not stop talking. They would pepper every act with their nuanced observations, like, "She's petite!" "That's a sexy dress she has on," "Ouch, that must hurt!" "They used a trap door," "It's funny because he was about to walk that way. Wait, no, he's changed his mind."

On and on it went. Their "conversation" (in name, not content) was as tedious as it was agitating. Medically-speaking, I should have no molars by now.

During the break, Paul's mom gently requested that they refrain from speaking during the second half. She was met with indignation and mild racism. Paul's mom has, albeit, a strong Russian accent, but bitch please, she did not need a lecture on proper word usage when addressing strangers. A self-satisfied smirk was glued on the woman's face when Paul's mom left to spend the rest of the break in the lobby.

Once she was out of sight, I turned around and reaffirmed what had been previously said, explaining that her actions and those of her companions' were distracting to me and Paul as well.

This really riled them up and all three of them got in my face, their Jamaican Patois slipping ever more casually into the conversation. They said the show was a "circus" (even though we were all sitting on velvet seats near crystal chandeliers) and part of the "circus" atmosphere involved talking with no restrictions.

"There's no plot," one said, "so you don't need to concentrate that hard."

"We're theatre people," another added. "Do your research: It's how people behave everywhere else!"

"Anyway," she said, grimacing, "if you were paying attention to the show, you wouldn't even hear us talking."

WTF?! I told her she had every right to enjoy herself but she didn't have to narrate everything she saw as "we're all watching it at the same time."

This back and forth lasted another minute or two until Paul told me to cool off before I lose my point. He gave me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder and whispered that he'd talk to them instead. In a calm, clear voice, he explained why having conversations would be distracting to audience members sitting near them (many of whom agreed with us). Yet they yelled over him and told him it was he who was mistaken.

The Queen Bee of the bunch repeatedly interrupted him by rolling her eyes and telling him she didn't have to listen to a word he said because he wasn't her father!

These were grown ass women in their 40s and 50s! They were incredibly defensive and immature. I was absolutely fuming!

The theatre usher eventually came over to explain to them that talking during the show is unacceptable as it is a nuisance and a distraction, but their passive/aggressive cattiness continued for another 15-minutes. One of them loudly proclaimed that complaining behind someone's back is a "Canadian thing" (as she and her cohorts were from the States). She implied that we were all uncultured or we would've known better than to challenge her since live commentary is positively encouraged by the rest of the world. Alas, if only we would travel outside our national borders for once.

Jaw clenched, I barely enjoyed the second portion of the show. The chattering ceased, but I reeled from the confrontation until the overhead lights came up and Paul escorted me to the sidewalk. Rainy and wet, I drove home telling myself Paul had been right all along: ill-mannered people suck and that's why we cuddle at home :)

Here's to another year

2010-09-28T16:53:00.007-04:00

Paul and I commemorated our anniversary last week with talk of a day trip and a love letter. The love letter ended with his hopes of spending our lives together for "as long as humanly possible," while the day trip turned out to be a waste of time. The little hamlet by the waterfalls revealed itself to be an overpriced amusement strip devoid of authentic charm. Although store windows were stocked full of mountainous fudge and the smell of sticky pastries wafted through the frigid air, I found the town too commercialized and its dining culture lacking.

That and Paul whined about not visiting any of the local wineries nearby (which, I was later told, had privately-owned restaurants that were of a higher calibre than those in town). Bah!

Work fun

2010-09-26T19:30:00.021-04:00

On Friday, the 3rd assistant director organized a chili cook-off that included 15 contestants and 55 tasters. Excuse my ignorance, but it was unfathomable to me that chili could come in so many varieties. Until now, that is. I grew up eating chili from Wendy's and Tim Hortons. The kind of stuff that came in cardboard cups, hinted of raw flour, and gave you a bad case of the farts. ("Sorry, I can't help it!")

The crew was ushered into the studio, which had been hastily transformed into a country fair by the presence of giant umbrellas and tables sprawled across the paint-splattered floor. At the front door was an LCD TV playing the episode of The Simpsons where Homer eats chili that contains an ingredient grown by mental patients and meets a talking coyote during his hallucinatory trip.

So off we all went, sampling from this pot and that and marking down our likes and dislikes on a scale of 1 to 10.

Number 8 had this fantastic kick reminiscent of a simmering vat of Bacardi. The booze lent a surprising depth and bitterness to the chili. Think of a rich French onion base that's been slow cooked on low for hours and you'd only get a fraction of the complexity of that chili. It was terrific. Another one of my favourites was Number 3, which was on the sweeter side. It had this lovely cumin aftertaste that made you want to dip your spoon in for more. Dried bay leaves and potatoes also made an appearance in the saffron-coloured mixture, which highlighted the Indian influences of the dish. Number 12 was all-round Tex Mex. I liked the fresh bits of sweet corn, which countered the heat and gave the chili a great chunky texture.

There were three vegetarian submissions, but in my opinion, they were all failures. One was way too thin, another was under seasoned, and the third was so forgettable I think I mistook it for vegetable soup. I think the problem with all of them had to do with technique rather than the ingredients themselves. Had the vegetables been thoroughly sautéed, seasoned, and combined with a roux before adding the liquid, the final product would've have been much more flavourful and, frankly, less watery. Just my two cents.

Anyway, I had a lot of fun and even tasted two of the finest Caesar salads I've had in ... the past year. (Thumbs up for the mustard powder!) Definitely not looking forward to being unemployed next month once this show wraps. (No more free gas! Wahhhh!)

Paulisms

2010-08-13T11:20:00.008-04:00

On perseverance:
"Let's play a game. Think of a character and I'll try to guess it. Is it real or fictional?"

"Fictional."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

"Aw man, I don't know what else to ask!"

On longing: "I misses your kisses and nose nudges."

On apartment hunting: "Avoid artists. Seek germaphobes."

Office Schmoffice

2010-08-13T01:55:00.003-04:00

Two of the background performers ("extras") were making out in the holding area all day. We're talking, full-on bodies intertwined on the couch, sitting on chairs, face-sucking here. People even saw them Frenching by the main doors. It was, to put it mildly, very uncomfortable to witness.

I caught sight of them under the stairs when I got wind of their shenanigans and reported it back to my boss:

"They look like two Aryans trying to make the master race."

Singlehood flashback in real-time

2010-07-30T04:54:00.009-04:00

Some bespeckled stranger ran up to me as I was walking through Chinatown and wouldn't leave me alone for two city blocks.

Damn, I know I'm cute, but buddy, back-off once I've explained to you that I have a boyfriend.

He first asked me whether I was from Hong Kong. Negative. Then he proceeded to ask me if I was a fan of Cantopop singer Leon, who was also born in Beijing.

At this point, I'm thinking, Dude is really trying to make conversation if he's bringing up a middle-aged entertainer.

My sparse responses didn't hinder his persistence though. He asked me if I was a communist, religious, cultist, hated America, hated China, believed in political propaganda.

He crossed the intersection with me. That's when I shouted, "What exactly are you interested in?"

"Conversation," he smirked.

I told him I wasn't comfortable discussing my private thoughts with him as I don't even know him. Then I proceeded to say, loud enough for bystanders to hear, that I didn't want him following me to my car.

He had the balls to reply, "What's the worst I could do?"

"Jump in it."

He finally gave up talking to me but goddamn it, this asshole wouldn't quit. These creeps remind me exactly why I got the hell out of Montreal, which was full of circus fucks like him.

I told Paul about it. He said I was being too nice and perhaps wasn't clear enough. I don't think men realize how hard it is to wriggle free from people who try to strong arm you into giving out your number. What do you do when "no" means "keep trying"?

How long before I challenge former KGB to a wrestling match?

2010-07-30T04:04:00.006-04:00

The little blue icon rests on my computer dashboard. Unassuming and slightly charming, I have discovered the true extent of its menace.

I look away, but it calls after me: "Come back! There is still so much to learn."

I read crime stories, rapes and murders, to stave off its terrorizing presence. Each day, I tremble and avoid its derision. Paul eggs me on: You can do it, you can ...

Learn Russian.

The program I bought into doesn't use translation, which means I am thrown into the language feet first. The characters frighten me. They look vaguely extraterrestrial and evidently alpha-numeric.

"What sort of a sound does a '3' make?" I ask him. "And that thing that looks like pi?"

"You mean, the thing that looks like a tent?"

"No, not a tent. Like an Aztec pyramid crossed with pi."

When I first told Paul I'd be interested in taking classes, he looked at me skeptically: "You don't have to do it, you know that." I responded defensively. Of course, I do. I love languages and, like my parents before me, I believe it's important to be able to converse with your spouse in their native tongue.

Oh, I am fortune's fool!

Unlike, say, French or Spanish (the former which I am steadily losing, and the latter I dabbled in during university), Russian is like an amalgamation of the above, but further complicated with German parallels.

Sein oder Nichtsein, that is the Frage.

Okay, so it's really not that bad. I'm in a hyperbolic mood. I have a theory that the way to genuinely comprehend someone is to speak their language. To paraphrase Bismarck, nations are built with iron and blood, but words are their DNA. Coded within colloquialisms are the guarded logic of a society and sentiments are not easily translatable.

Paul, while not as enthusiastic, is feeling the pressure from his family (mother, father, grandma) to learn Mandarin Chinese. Seems ironic because his bilingualism was what he tried to impress me with when we first met.

That is, until I told him I spoke four.

Whoop Whoop!

2010-07-08T11:46:00.002-04:00

I just got a phone call to join the production staff of CBC's Being Erica, which will run until October 29. Finally, some semblance of a steady paycheck.

No sooner had I been offered the position, an assistant director from another feature film offered me work as well.

An acquaintance I met on my last show told me he sent out hundreds of resumes to production offices his first year out of art school and only worked about 5 days the entire time, supplementing his income with various dead-end jobs. It was really hard since he was also married and expected to contribute financially. Since then, he's only had a week off for the last two years, working steadily with larger circles of people.

Anyway, money's not the reason I'm in film. When the production manager asked me if I ever plan to pursue writing again, I reassured her that there would be no chance of that.

Film is my calling.

Paulisms

2010-07-08T03:25:00.013-04:00

On theft:
"Are magicians allowed in [the jewellery store]? They could wave their arms and make all these rings disappear."

On canines and baths:
"I'm a shampooch and I love you."

On N.W.A.:
"Dr. Dre's the one married to Beyoncé, right?"

On zoos and scaring children:
"Is he dead? I thought hippos were supposed to be in water?"

On the true meaning of happiness:
"Lily, quick! Rich Bride Poor Bride is on!"

Stagette Party

2010-07-05T20:12:00.011-04:00

The stagette was a roaring success. The bride wore duct tape over her nipples under a purple lace top. She fluttered in donning Chinatown-bought feather lashes while pursing her black-tarred lips.

We watched home videos, massaged the tips of vibrating dildos, and piled into the stretch Hummer to attend a drag show.

The blight on our evening was the copious amounts of straight men at the club when we eventually arrived. I was "accidentally" bumped, rubbed, and tapped by a variety of hungry horn dogs. Does my memory fail me or has there always been this many weirdos on the prowl?

My friend Nat and I walked over to Paul's car when he texted to say he was here to pick me up. A Persian dude with a precision goatee followed us.

"Who's your friend?" he cooed.

Nat turned around: "Whose friend?"

This was, apparently, his way of trying to talk to me.

"Look," she continued. "Are you gay?"

"No."

"This is a GAY club. What are you doing here if you're not gay? She," pointing to me, "is my lover. We're GAY. GAY! Go away!"

Paul, equally amused and worried, told Nat to go back in with the girls as there were "too many desperate men out here."

The night ended with him driving my drunk ass home as I recounted my day as the "Country Cuntress", peddler of bad puns.

Weekend expectations

2010-06-30T21:50:00.002-04:00

Just received an invitation to attend a renowned drag show for a stagette party. Thailand notwithstanding, the only other time I've wanted to see lady boys and queens perform was when a friend of mine visited me in Montreal. We looked up at the sign, saw a patron smoking outside in a hard hat, and quickly realized this was the kind of establishment that catered to, shall we say, straight men who enjoyed playing in the basement on occasion.

And where, we presumed, money exchanged hands beyond the stage.

Looking forward to this one though, but I don't know how comfortable I feel about prancing around in lingerie for the sex toy shindig beforehand ...

Occasional cheques don't pay for organic groceries

2010-06-29T21:44:00.014-04:00

I didn't get the job. The woman who did was a friend of someone with whom I'd worked and who had, a month earlier, been given the position for which I'd also interviewed.

Cursed luck! I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed. I called Paul and rehashed my now familiar monologue about being a perpetual loser and destined to pick choice cuts from dumpsters. He calmed me down and told me he landed a job interview at a photography studio next week. Woohoo! That cheered me up.

So on the one hand, I am saddened by yet another rejection. On the other hand, I realize I am also being called in for openings through personal recommendations. I suppose that's progress.

I know both my former work colleague and her friend are more qualified for the jobs anyway. Furthermore, while I crave the atmosphere of a film set, I'm also aware that being a celeb personal assistant (even a big shot's) isn't the ideal route to that goal either (i.e. "Look but can't touch").

Oy! Underemployment is the insistent shit stain on my life. I feel like I can't move forward with other plans, while the alternative -- that is, looking back -- would only elicit dark thoughts.

I must confess, however, that being in a relationship lessens the burden. Remember how I used to complain about relationships hindering ambition? I've changed my mind. It is, in fact, the dating game that sucks up time easily spent being focused and clear-headed.

I was hanging out with Ray last night. He's one of my best buds. (Tall, handsome, and in med school. Ladies? He's single.) We were shooting the shit and I was describing to him the opposing positions Paul and I held in regards to the G20 clashes, when I blurted something out that caught even me off guard. I said that despite venting about Paul's failings (as, ahem, a sparring partner), "I'm gonna end up marrying him."

The words sort of lingered in the air like a laundry line, squeaking back and forth in perpetuity. Ray looked at me in disbelief. The truth is, if it happens, it happens. Paul and I have occasionally addressed it during commercial breaks for Rich Bride Poor Bride (he loves the scandal) and HGTV programming (ditto house hunting). It's a topic that is approached with an air of inevitability.

And that's comforting because it makes me put less pressure on myself to be achievement-orientated. Through stretches of poverty and missed opportunity, unemployment and lay-offs, we know this is as bad as its gonna get and there's nowhere to go but up.

Yellow Blue Bus

2010-06-24T04:41:00.005-04:00

Paul in Beijing (2010)

There, I feel better now

2010-06-24T01:25:00.010-04:00

I don't know how to start this post because I am upset. For many years, my family has been the major source of friction in my life. It's not a topic I ever discuss because I'd feel, well, naked. Sex in public places? Big deal! But one question about they-who-shall-not-be-named and I'm struggling to change the subject.

My parents are, in short, a reflection of my weaknesses.

My relationship with them has, for awhile, been this side of frosty. Partly because they consider me the black sheep of the family, extended and otherwise. I'm artsy, opinionated, and read books, which is apparently enough reason to lose faith in my prospects. (Even the way I dress is dissected by nosy queens.)

I feel like my parents' frustrations are warranted in some way because I have yet to meet my own expectations. From their perspective, they are surrounded by overachieving accountants and prolific salesmen, while I, their oldest, only just figured out what I wanted to do with my life and have yet to secure steady employment.

"All you need is an office, a desk, and a computer," my mom says, inspired by my aunt's stupid philosophy.

This is a stunningly textbook example of both a generational and cultural gap. My parents are immigrants and very thrifty, so my decision to make a career out of a passion rather than the pragmatic need to earn lots and lots of money grates on them.

I generally don't take their behaviour seriously because I instinctively know that neither of them are great at communicating their internal worlds; they weren't brought up as armchair psychiatrists and don't speak the language. Additionally, both my parents and sister are extremely impulsive. This means they say hurtful things and forget all about it the next day. Unfortunately, this awareness has not prevented me from closing myself off so much that none of them have witnessed me cry in nearly a decade.

I know my mother's family has a penchant for boys, so a part of me also believes that had I been born with more obvious plumbing, things would've turned out differently. But I'll never know.

Overall, I think I've channeled these frustrations into positive experiences outside the immediate familial unit. The more they try to enlighten me with Confucian doctrine, the more confidence I gain in embracing the unknown. (My mom wonders when my teenage rebellion phase will ever end?)

If I had to be truly honest, I'd say my parents tolerate a lot of backtalk and ungratefulness on my part too. When I am home, I close the door to my room and read for a third of the day without ever joining them downstairs. I am also loud, apathetic, and easily annoyed. In fact, I can be a horror to live with.

Anyhow, I don't know how to break the cycle because at this point, even my siblings routinely call me a loser for moving back home and having no proper income. This was what ignited the argument we all had tonight. The problem in a nutshell: I'm not especially well-liked by my family and my presence is irritating them. (Although, they assure me, I am loved.) However, my avoidance tactics (i.e. staying in my room, staying over at Paul's, etc.) also come off disrespectful as it appears that I am intentionally breaking away from them.

Clearly I need my own place, but my temporary bouts of employment in film do not produce enough money to allow me to do that. Fortunately, I am staying positive and remembering that ...

... shit, I have a job interview with an A-list celeb tomorrow. Where's my A-game when I need it??

Animals

2010-06-22T02:10:00.003-04:00

Paul and I visited the Toronto Zoo last week. Manure, closed patios, and shrieking peacocks, oh my.

Neither one of us had visited the place in over a decade and overall, it is quite beautiful, but frankly, not really my thing.

Paul brought binoculars with us so we could see giraffes and bald eagles up close and personal. It was a hot day. Parents dragged along their screaming toddlers and school children made every effort to make the experience unbearable, climbing over each other to point at snakes and jibba jabba about things being "cool" or "gay".

Anyway, the highlight of the day was eating BeaverTails. Apple cinnamon with caramel sauce on a crispy fried piece of dough. Truly, a Canadian treat.

So Paul and I have a running joke about me feeling "instantly energized!" whenever he kisses my head. He does it when he sees that I'm dragging my feet. Well, let's just say, not even that made me want to see where the buffaloes roam. Not to mention, a lot of animals stayed indoors because it was just so friggin' hot.

But Paul was upbeat the whole time. He loves animals. Like, if love was measured in Sanrio plushies, he'd be the owner of the Hello Kitty theme park.

Once, before we met, he stopped his car in the middle of a two-lane road because a baby raccoon was injured. It was late. Paul made all the cars behind him go around his vehicle and called emergency animal protection services. The lady on the line told him help was on the way and that he should leave. Well, the little guy died in front of him, so he had no choice but to return home. Once there, the lady called back to inform him that everything was fine, that they had found the raccoon's body. Well, that prompted Paul to start crying, asking the operator, "How do you do it?" This, in turn, prompted the operator to cry, "I just take it one day at a time."

Surreal, innit?

The irony of shopping after losing a gig

2010-06-21T20:03:00.006-04:00

I went sunglasses shopping the other day at WINNERS and scored a pair of DEREK LAM Sabrina frames for a third of the retail price (with original leather case!). The old lady was restocking the racks before closing and I found them, in mint condition, beside a pair of sapphire YSL's that made me look like Jigsaw from the Saw series.

Cute, right? I remember reading in American Vogue that cat-eye sunglasses were in this summer. While I generally don't follow trends, I thought the classic shape would blend into my retro wardrobe nicely. It helps that I also scored this pair for 3 to 10 times less than the stuff Vogue was advertising. Paul said they were ugly, but he changed his mind after 4 separate women complimented me on the street the next day.

***

I quit the men's fashion magazine gig last week. The publisher is a scumbag. Didn't pay me what I was owed, then asked me to contribute articles voluntarily as he didn't want to lose a "talent with great ideas." Blech! As for the webisodes, he told me my budget breakdown wasn't realistic for him as he had imagined the whole project could be done for free or close to nothing. Seriously, using a rotating staff of interns and not even providing air conditioning in a stuffy office in 30+ degree weather?

CHEAPSKATE!

I'm not going to run after him, but what a seriously poor excuse for a so-called budding entrepreneur.

*sidenote: I wrote this for him when I returned from China. Enjoy!

Musings on Love

2010-06-21T19:16:00.014-04:00

Part of being in a complementary relationship means having to compensate for qualities the other lacks. For instance, Paul takes care of my daily needs (i.e. cuddles, affection, and perspective) while I try to tamp down the gut-busting urge to fight his battles for him.

Last week, Paul was working on a film shoot. It was horribly disorganized and, on one occasion, he returned home horribly disgruntled because he wasn't sent home until 5:30 am. I awoke to the sound of his cellphone vibrating in my hand, which had been there for the past 3 hours since I'd dozed off in my sweaty dress.

I had visited him earlier in the evening to make sure everything was alright on set, having just come from a tv wrap party celebrating the end of production. I rolled down the window of my car and we wiggled our noses against each other (it's our thing, okay?) and I sensed that he was frustrated.

So when he slipped into bed with me that following morning, I vowed I'd set the production straight. (I told his mom afterward that, "No one overworks my boyfriend like that!")

On the last day of shooting, I drove down to the set and handed Paul a thermos of tea and introduced myself to the crew.

"Have we shot anything yet?" I inquired.

"No," said Paul.

"So you've been setting up this scene for three hours?"

"Basically."

I walked up to the production manager and promised him that I could get everyone out by 8:30 that night. He said, he'd been trying to get everyone to hurry up since the beginning and told me this was the pace they'd been going the whole time. Paul told me not to bother meddling. I responded that I wasn't going to be sucked into a 5:30 am wrap time, especially if it wasn't designated as a night shoot. I also agreed to be their script supervisor and take notes.

The PM eventually relented and said, "Look, I've tried being the asshole, but if you can get us all out by that time, you have my permission to be the asshole as long as you don't affect morale."

Agreed.

By 9 o'clock, we were all sipping beers in the alley. I had banged out a shooting schedule and effectively gave order to the set and was thanked by all. Made some professional contacts in the process, too. (To be fair, with the exception of the AD and director, everyone else was more than competent.)

Anyway, the crux of this story is to demonstrate that I've never felt more like a "team" in my relationships; the feeling that my partner's well-being is pertinent to my own. I think in the past, it was simply assumed that a relationship would displace the effort required to build a professional career, and for that reason, must be prioritized second (if not last).

Eventually, I realized having a relationship means turning down an overseas opportunity if it means being away from each other for too long. It means having realistic expectations as to how distance and time can break up the strongest of couples. And, in our case, how one of us (mostly him) might have to seriously consider going into real estate so we're not dependent on the irregular cheques doled out by the film industry.

Petty people and petty cash

2010-06-10T00:15:00.006-04:00

We wrapped the reality series yesterday. A few of the crew, including myself, headed home, but not before ...

... a fight broke out between one of the contestants, her fiance, and her ex-boyfriend right there on the street in front of the venue. Too bad the cameras were already packed!

... I went on a midnight McDonald's run with Stacey MacKenzie, supermodel extraordinaire and, apparently, a Big Mac hound. She and I exchanged insults like we'd known each other for years. (Although, she did mention I'd "make it big in the [entertainment] industry." Uh huh, I wish.) Very fun, except for the fact that my boyfriend had been waiting to pick me up for an hour. Paul only got 3 hours of sleep before he had to operate the camera on another film. Last night also caused me to be an hour late for work at the magazine this morning (which I'm starting to lose interest in).

Fashion writing is so ridiculously boring and asinine. I mean, there are only so many ways you can say "sharp", "chic", and "seasonal". I'm justifying staying at this gig because of the web series I'm developing, which is still in the brainstorming stage. At the TV shoot this week, I met a videographer and fashion designer who want to work with me in the future. I've already contacted the former about partnering up with my boyfriend to do the web series with me.

If I'm on board to do this for the magazine, I'm going to make the editor really pay for the services I'm gathering for him. The way I see it, he can nickel and dime me, but I'm not going to be his lackey and do it to my professional and personal contacts. He has no idea how much it takes to do a show and I feel like he thinks he can complete this with Craigslist-recruited interns.

In other news, I don't think I can continue living in Toronto anymore. My aunt's toddlers are driving me nuts and everyone is always screaming in this family, which echoes through the whole house due to the high ceilings. The kids also break into my room and annoy me to no end. Actually, what really convinced me to get the hell out happened today. My grandma tells me I received a parking ticket while I was out of town.

Someone had moved my car out on the street and didn't put it back in the driveway, so I received a parking violation. She says my car had to be moved because the renovations contractor needed to have his dump truck there. I said, "Alright, so shouldn't whoever drove my car be obligated to pay for the ticket?"

She says the contractor had done it. So I said he should pay for my ticket. She told me not to give anyone trouble. I said, Fine, I'll go over to the Ministry of Transportation, explain to them the situation, and have someone revoke it.

She said, What if someone in the family moved your car?

Well then, someone in the family should be forking over the money.

At this point, I realized she was trying to save face and protect the perpetrator guilty of causing all this. (Who, I assume, was also listening in nearby.) Considering I'm living under someone else's roof, I stopped arguing, told her I'd pay for the damn ticket, finished my supper in silence, and went to my room.

Sometimes, a lesson gained is worth more than staying self-righteous. In this case, I learned that relatives, by blood or marriage, can be bigger fuckers than your boss.

Birthday

2010-06-05T23:29:00.013-04:00

Paul came to visit me for my birthday today. He gave me a Kobo eBook reader while his mom had bought me a purple pashmina encased in a fuchsia pink department store box, both elaborately wrapped in fancy ribbons. I'd already known about the eReader because he'd been anxious to get me one since we returned from our trip to China. Every time we'd go to the Indigo bookstore, he'd lead me to the display table to explain the various features to me. (The pashmina I only suspected after he asked to be reminded of my favourite colour.)

We didn't do anything particularly special by my request as I'm not big on being the center of attention. So we strolled by the lake, talked and kissed, watching families of ducks and geese play house. We saw daredevil kingfishers arise from the water clenching fish too weak to escape, their iron beaks mirroring the angular precision of nearby smokestacks hissing to life.

By nightfall, we had made it up the mountain to take in the view, witnessing the city flicker awake. So we walked, hand-in-hand, past lovers in the getting-to-know-you stage, nervously sucking on their cigarettes to prevent words from edging through their lips.

Farther and farther we ventured until we hit a grassy clearing lined by knotted trees.

I squeezed his hand and ...

Cut to: Me, leaning against a gnarled trunk. Him, with his hand up my dress. Us, breathing, fucking, panting in the dark.

To paraphrase Larry David, We respected the wood and it was prettaaay prettaaay pretty good.

***

A former AD I worked for requested that I come out to Kitchener for two days next week. It's going to be at a live stage performance to finish off the second season of a TV show. Not gonna lie: The daily rate is attractive, and hotel accommodations are included. What's not to like?

Sorry for the hiatus

2010-06-03T15:32:00.013-04:00

My friend keeps pestering me to write in this blog as it's been nearly a year since my last entry. (You know who you are!) So here's a summary:

Soon after landing my job as a television news producer, I was fired. A "lack of enthusiasm" was the formal reason, but I suspected it had to do with standing up for myself to the abusive senior producers. One yelled at me for a mistake she made during a live news broadcast. The other yelled at me to do better unprovoked. I told them both to please speak to me civilly.

"Why you so stupid?" said my mom. "When Chinese boss yell at you, you say nothing!"

Oh well. So I moved back home soon after and got in touch with a locations manager for a UFC movie being shot in the back lot of my mom's store. He flaked on me on the day of our appointment, so I walked to the set and talked my way in. At first, the third assistant director put me to work on the craft truck making sandwiches and cookies for everyone. As I got to know the crew, some of them advised me to request work as a PA so I don't get stuck serving food in the industry.

I returned the next day as a production assistant and stayed for the remainder of the movie. The assistant directors suggested that I join the Directors Guild of Canada (DGC) so I can work with benefits. I retrieved their recommendation letters, sent it in, attended 3 days worth of classes, and I was suddenly a union member a month after first setting foot on a film set.

Since then, I've AD'ed on more features, attended fashion and film festivals as a photography assistant, mingled with directors and celebrities, etc. I'm currently writing for a men's fashion/lifestyle magazine and developing and directing a web series for the publisher.

But the single most important thing that's happened to me as a result of being fired is having met the love of my life.

Paul and I met on the set of the first film I worked on. He liked the way I shook his hand and smiled to introduce myself. I thought he was beautiful-looking and his charming social gaffes tugged at my heart. He was awkward, frank, and vain and would inadvertently cock block anyone trying to hit on me. I couldn't help but be delighted to have met someone so refreshingly human.

But I behaved badly and badmouthed him on set, referring to him as a lazy shit and quipped insults to his face. He was unmoved and later confessed that he'd never sensed any malicious intent.

At the wrap party, I once again went through my schtick: "Wasn't Paul such a lazy shit?" This time, my routine was met by scorn. With liquid courage in his veins, the man said to me, "No one should be considered useless. We're all deserving of respect."

The guilt arrived fast and hard. I was ashamed of my behavior. And I left the party determined to make amends.

So I asked Paul out for drinks a week later.

On our third date, we met a middle-aged man whose parting words to Paul were, "Hold on to this one. You're a lucky man. She's a special girl, I can tell. Hold on to her tight."

He didn't know it then, but I wasn't planning on letting go either.

Unfortunately, our compatibility also prevents us from experiencing the ups and downs that would justify a self-revelatory rant. Good times just don't translate into very captivating material.

In any case, I will try to update more frequently, but I suspect the entries will be of a more benign nature.

And as for my friend who'd repeatedly requested that I write here: Thanks. It was nice :)

Spilt Milk. May Spoil.

2009-07-01T03:29:00.029-04:00

In elementary school, they laughed at me.

In high school, they wanted to be friends.

In university, they tried to get me into bed.

And now, boys just want to keep me there.

The gods are officially laughing at my expense.

Whereas some of my girlfriends are hopelessly longing for Prince Charming, I (of the "Don't Give a Shit" camp) am being inundated by men convinced they are mine.

One called me "effervescent," another tricked me to go on a date with him ("Did I say, 'film crew?' I meant, just me. By the way, I don't have a ride home. *wink, wink*"). Tonight, I decided I had to end my booty call arrangement (after fucking him in his car at 2 a.m.) because he just wasn't getting any better at, what Alex from A Clockwork Orange would call, the "old in-out." Foreplay consisted of bad puns and forcing it in. He also took direction poorly. Goddamn finance pricks.

Afterward, as I was getting dressed, I said half-jokingly, "Tell me something about economic policy."

He said people who talk about that stuff outside school are insecure. I told him I was a journalist and we like to have a shallow understanding of everything. He said I could just continue calling him, "daddy." (Altogether now: Eww.)

I knew then and there, it was sayonara forever. The only thing we have in common is our drive. Other than that, I just find him so utterly vapid. (Not to mention his constant need to be reassured that I'm not fucking other people. Which I'm not. But what's it to him? Likewise, it's not endearing to call my other suitors "losers." Buddy, they're not losers because they have a liberal arts degree; they're losers despite it.) Correction: I guess he's the best kind of fuck buddy since I can't imagine being with him longer than an hour at a time.

~~Casual sex has lost its novel edge.~~ I take back that part, too.

At this point, the only thing that truly gets me off is being a television producer. It's not that I'm a workoholic. It's that I haven't found anyone I've been distinctly in awe of. The things that impress me most tend to vary from common household skills to obtuse esoteric knowledge. My girlfriends have accused me of being too picky in the same breath as being too easy.

The barista from the last post invited me to a small get-together last week. He and his friends were in their mid-twenties. Older, yes, but still young enough to giggle in a corner and, seeing that I was stoned and assuming I couldn't hear, went about making lewd comments about my figure and what they'd like to do to it. (Not to mention the exaggerated reaction I received after licking Cheeto dust from my fingers.)

It's not like I do anything in particular to attract attention. I'm just my normal, weirdo, self. The disconnect between my personality and sartorial selections regularly lands me in situations like the one last week, where I, donning a '50s sundress and plastic pearls, purchased some rolling papers and the customer behind me snickered, "What is a girl like you want with Zig Zags? You look so proper!" To which I grinned and said, "Trust me, I ain't so proper." Although, to be fair, there is a market for Chinese girls with blow-job lips. Hmm, am I in the wrong line of business?)

Maybe this glut of attention has to do with the recession producing a glut of depressed, lonely men. I told one guy to hurry up and get to the point after he called me under the pretense of a field assignment: "I don't like to use the phone for talky talk. What's the plan already?"

He later confessed that I made him nervous.

"Why?" I inquired, amused. "Don't take me so seriously."

He paused. "I take girls very seriously."

Cut to him trying to hold my hand a day later, me waving him away and ordering him to stay on his side of the sidewalk. What part of, "I don't want to be in a relationship," don't they understand?

It doesn't mean, "Try harder." Nor does it mean, "Convince me otherwise."

It means exactly what I say it does: I'm too satisfied to mess with a good thing and I'm too selfish to share it with someone else.

Modern Romance 2.5

2009-06-14T01:49:00.009-04:00

I bumped into a former flame a few hours ago. He came into the coffee shop to inquire about a bicycle pump. I was there to meet a girlfriend for a drive-in movie.

I called his name after catching sight of him approaching the barista (with whom I've been carrying on a mild flirtation). He was still as adorable as I remembered him: all mussed up hair and perfect cheekbones. He asked me about my new job; I asked him about school.

I offered him a ride home. He was, after all, stranded.

"It's alright," came the unconvincing reply, "I can just take the bus."

"Listen to you, talking like Oliver Twist or something. Let me drive you," I insisted.

So he took me up on it. We walked side-by-side, like innocent teenagers; the distance between us palpable, yet serene. My girlfriend played ignorant to our history as we chatted like old times.

The chemistry was still there. He's a sweet boy, just not for me. It's a shame it didn't work out. I'm glad I saw him though. It allowed me to let bygones be bygones and deftly diffuse a potentially awkward situation with a smile.

Everything I learned, I learned from '40s screwball comedies: When life throws you curve-balls, pile on the charm.

Modern Romance 2.0

2009-06-12T17:13:00.014-04:00

I just came back from, as Oasis so succinctly put it, "fucking in the bushes." We met up at a parking lot. He moved his hand up my thigh as I peeled off my panties in the passenger seat. The whole thing felt like kids playing grown-up, a youthful pantomime at once absurd and clichéd.

After wiping the dirt from my knees, we traipsed back to his vehicle. Then he said those dreaded words, sequentially letting slip his hidden interest:

"So, how many guys have you been with?"

As we crossed a bridge, he told me he's been thinking of settling down. I don't know whether he felt obligated to say it or he was telling the truth; all I knew was I wanted to believe neither. While I'm content with our existing arrangement, however surreptitious, I am indifferent to his life because I am fully aware of our incompatibility, and by association, my contempt for him.

His excessive vanity repulses me.

His bravado forced.

His touch vulgar and unrefined.

Yet, the convenience of fucking him at indeterminate intervals overrides those qualities and allows me to unwind without the emotional ups and downs of a relationship.

In Alain de Botton's "Essays in Love," he likened the initial spark between couples to Groucho Marx's celebrated aphorism (incorrectly attributed to Woody Allen) of refusing to join a club that would have him as a member.

The paradox of the timid concludes that once mutual interest is ascertained, it cannot be sustained. For how could their beloved be perfect if they could love someone as imperfect as themselves?

But I am not timid. I am fetching, self-assured, and of sound mind. To love me is to reaffirm - rather than diminish - my attributes. I justify my promiscuity not as a response to monogamy, but proof that the arbitrariness of attraction should not be relied upon for direction. Where does it say that there must be a causal link between desirability and intercourse? Amorous feelings that encourage fucking in said bushes is as unpredictable as couples falling suddenly out of love for the same reasons they fell in. The medieval conception did not even bother associating sexual conquest with romantic love, for the latter wilts the moment the former is assuaged. In other words, I find it illogical to respond lustily only when the mood strikes when the determining factors for love and hate are capricious. Can feelings be trusted when a wisp of hair is interpreted by different individuals as both endearing and vile?

Of course, the simpler answer is always the most obvious one: It's a whole lot easier to spread my legs than pretend to be impressed with underemployed twenty-somethings eternally lost at sea.

I'm happy with how I've compartmentalized my life. I have a stimulating job to support myself, I have great friends whom I rely on for emotional sustenance, and I have men in my periphery who get me off. I wonder how long it will stay this peachy??

Bret Easton Ellis was being cryptic, right?

2009-06-07T01:31:00.006-04:00

Another day, another meaningless fuck.

I met this guy months ago through one of my best girlfriends. He's in finance and recently quit his job to start his own company. We'd chatted on and off. They had a falling out recently: She said he insulted her, he said she couldn't take a joke.

So today, after a three hour IM marathon, he challenged me to come over to his place. After some back and forth, I decided to take up his offer and drive over to his McMansion.

He opened his front door, gave me a hug, and asked if I wanted a tour.

"No thanks," I replied. "Where's your room? I have to meet my friend in an hour, so let's get down to business."

***

It was my birthday yesterday. I spent it reassuring people that I really did not care to celebrate it. I did pay a hippie dippy lady to do a tarot card reading for me. I picked out five cards and she ... reiterated everything I already knew about myself. It was fun. The woman said the primary conflict in my life involves the desire to have a "sweet" kind of love (characterized by tenderness and the feeling of being taken care of) paradoxically intertwined with my impulse to be overly competitive. She said I have a tendency to "best" my partners and then hold them in contempt for having "lost."

Her suggestion? I should take a break from men. Or in her words: "At least the ones your age."

I think the problem lies with me. When it comes to offering insight into other people's dilemmas, I am deeply empathetic. That's why I'm known as "Miss Reality Check": I'm blunt and cut straight to the issue. Some might even call it tactlessness. However, when it comes to copping to my own vulnerabilities, I clam up and will go to the ends of the earth to rationalize away those "silly" feelings.

After my boyfriend and I went our separate ways last September, I was absolutely ready to face the world alone. I could finally enjoy singlehood after two and a half years of my bickering, his nagging, and physical altercations springing from his addiction to World of Warcraft. Unbeknownst to me, I would fall hard for a man I'd meet through a friend. A boy, really. But a very clever boy. Goofy, intelligent, directionless, yet utterly irresistible. There was no way I could possibly see myself with him. I mean, What does one do with a philosophy degree anyway, I sniffed.

Despite that, he became the last thing I thought about before bed. I would replay, to nearly obsessive lengths, the last night I spent with him, reassuring him I couldn't possibly date him.

"Finding a job is my number one priority right now," I said. "I just want something casual."

When he offered to make me breakfast the morning after, I told him I couldn't stay. He said he makes a great breakfast. I told him I really couldn't stay. Why? So I could return the car to my mom before she had to go to work. But instead of just saying that, I had to act comically aloof.

So he decided we couldn't be friends. I asked for an explanation (a rookie mistake) and he said something about being afraid of what might occur due to the "residual interest" he still had for me. Needless to say, I was crushed when I discovered he was dating someone new. No one could've known, of course. If anyone asked, I said he didn't mean anything. I knew it wasn't the oxytocin talking when, bumping into him five months later, I experienced a surge of euphoria just seeing him reading on a bench as we made friendly small talk.

I hear he's pretty happy. Not that I would know. I still reminisce about his slender hands and the way he gripped my throat just before orgasm.

And here I am, in the present, picking up attractive men and dumping them the next morning. (My car definitely comes in handy for a quick getaway.) Even the most confident rogue reveals himself to be a needy mess under the unforgiving light of day. Which indicates to me that, yes, I really do need a long ass break.

***

I directed the prime time evening news last Thursday. What a rush!

The journalist and the Polaroid fiend

2009-05-31T18:56:00.034-04:00

And just like that, I had a one-night stand with a stranger. He was a former employee at the coffee shop I like to patronize. We chatted, he invited me back to his place, we watched Brazil (1985), the next thing you know, I was on him like white on rice.

His pants came off, then my dress, and for a skinny kid, I couldn't believe how big his ...

The next morning, we smoked some pot and he looked so precious with that, "Look ma, I found a girl!" smile, but I had to tell him I didn't see this going anywhere. It's amazing how well the harsh light of day defogs the mind. I said I just landed my dream job and didn't know if I could give him the proper attention he deserved. He looked really bummed. Better to nip it at the bud, I sighed.

He insisted that we stay in touch. I agreed on the condition that the friendship stays platonic with no suggestion of an ulterior motive. (My assessment: Not likely.)

I'm kind of kicking myself because he is so thoughtful and romantic, but what bad timing. Except if I had to be completely honest, I simply didn't feel sparks, the kind vital to overriding rationality. Coupled with distance and a full-time schedule, it just wasn't the sort of relationship two people could fall into comfortably. Besides, I knew these issues had to be addressed once I realized even his massive cock couldn't compensate and quiet my concerns.

Here's the kicker:

I later learn through Facebook that he's friends with the boy I was fucking last October and the boy's roommate, both of whom are acquainted with me. What kind of a hick town is this that a girl can't pass around her pussy without the risk of discovery?

Note to self: Must stop throwing myself at sensitive young artists.

First job: milestone complete

2009-05-27T21:12:00.005-04:00

And just like that, I'm a TV news producer.

***

So I dumped the boy after two dates. I went over to his place. We popped in Dr. Strangelove (I won out after a game of rock, paper, scissors), drank some wine, talked over the movie, started kissing, he stops and says, "I don't think this is a good idea," we keep talking, he invites me back to his room, lights candles, sits away from me, more talking, and then:

"Look," I said, "I know what I want. If you don't know what you want, I'm not going to wait around."

"What's wrong with just hanging out?" he asked, sheepishly.

"There's nothing wrong with hanging out, but I have enough guy friends."

So I walked out. When a man says he's not "relationship material" and "can't imagine ever having a mortgage," and then invites you back to his room to "listen to music," he's not giving out mixed signals -- he's a douchebag. When a man tells you the last relationship he had was in senior year of high school that lasted a whole three months, it's unlikely you'll make it past that. And when a man freely dishes out compliments without acting concurrently and consistently, you've definitely got a nuclear dud on your hands. I mean, shit, I know I'm "special," I don't need him to reaffirm it!

Anyway, I should've known the night would end poorly when I stepped into the lobby of his apartment eight hours earlier and realized it was a student residence, one deeply lacking in parking spaces. (Who needs 'em when you got bikes, right?) I looked up at the fluorescent lights, took a deep breath, and said aloud, "What am I doing here? I'm too old for this shit!"

Glad I didn't need a fancy dinner and some action between my legs to figure the kid out. But if this is how it's going to be, I am dreading the rest of my 20s.

Job Hunt Update

2009-05-15T10:14:00.007-04:00

Landed two job interviews. One opening is for a news editor position overseeing seven Toronto magazines, the other as a TV producer for a Chinese cable network. I feel blessed for these opportunities considering how difficult it is to break into journalism.

A short time ago, I crashed a party an acquaintance of an acquaintance was throwing in honour of -- who knows? -- spring showers and salsa dancing. I met a woman my age with a certificate in journalism, struggling to get her foot in the door. She pays the bills as a receptionist for a painfully "boring" marketing company and is too dejected to freelance.

That's the typical story around these parts. I know less than a handful of people with whom I graduated holding reporting jobs (I'm talking three if we're lucky, two covering local sports). My friends now aspire to graduate school, law school, business school, anything to make ends meet, putting aside their ambitions in this industry.

This woman also groused about the lack of understanding she received from those around her. I sympathized. I've met a lot of unhelpful people, doling out the same tired truism: "Just put yourself out there and write!"

But then again, journalism has never been for the faint of heart (I've been doing it since I was 17). It is one of the least stable professions while being quite accommodating to enterprising individuals. Self-starters. Fast thinkers. Rule breakers. It's essentially a hardcore business and glorified paper pushers need not apply.

My resume reads like a patchwork of print and broadcast jobs with no particular pattern linking them all. I can admit that each one was strategic. I avoided repeating placements because I could only work summers and I wanted to illustrate the breadth of my skills. I also tried to flex my leadership abilities in order to extend my job description. So unlike many of my peers, I knew I couldn't rely on my degree alone to gain access to a corner office. I didn't, in other words, squander my summers because I knew it would eventually pay off.

On the flip side, I know I'm a picky fucker, having never applied for positions necessary to "pay my dues." Needless to say, I've done a lot of bullshitting. I'm ambitious and tirelessly dedicated, but I do not have the disposition for menial tasks. An arrogant proclamation, not one I'm proud of, but there you go. I'm susceptible to depressive moods when I'm stuck in a routine, either voluntarily or involuntarily, so I've learned to embrace that less-than-Protestant side of myself and tone down the pressure to conform.

So despite what everyone internalizes about the relationship between success and hard work, this recession has taught me that following the rules -- attending the right schools, knowing the right people, putting in 16-hour days -- will not protect you from the ruthless gears of change. When it's time for you to go, you're out of there.

A.D.I.D.A.S.

2009-05-14T23:21:00.004-04:00

Well, that was quick. 24 hours after blogging about my (very) recent life conversion, I get asked out on a date by a (very) cute boy.

I ordered my usual at the coffee shop I frequent, sat down, saw him, put my book down, asked him what he was typing on his computer, and 4 hours later:

"I'd like to see you again."

I'm curious to see where this leads. He later confessed that he had been staring at a blank screen, pretending to look focused, and hoping I'd notice him.

Happiness is a white kid wearing a rainbow

2009-05-13T18:55:00.018-04:00

The last few months have been a series of disappointments I don't especially want to hash out on this blog. In short, I've been unlucky in love, unlucky at finding work, culminating in a rejection letter from the University of Toronto for the Public Policy & Governance graduate program.

And yet, by all accounts, I've been remarkably resilient and optimistic under the circumstances.

I had, what you would call, an epiphany. I've decided to drop out of the rat race. What a cliché, I know. Except I'm turning 23 (therefore, barely out of the gates) and I can already feel the double-noosed temptations of prestige and power tightening around my neck.

I think I've always been secretly envious of people whose personal introductions included a professional title.

"Hi, I'm Joe, Executive VP of Big Pharma."

"Denise, Bullshit Detector."

It all seemed so fantastical, so exclusive, so adult.

When relatives bragged about their children, their education was invariably linked to a like-sounding job. What else would you do with an accounting degree besides becoming an accountant? Likewise, what else would I be doing apart from journalism?

So here I was, teaching piano part-time, reading about millionaire financiers becoming janitors and delighting in schadenfreude, when I noticed the parallels. I was also on track to basing of my entire existence on my professional job title. To borrow Simone de Beauvoir, I was defined in relation to a career whether I was frustrated, rebellious, or even indifferent to it.

Until then, a potential activity was weighed against its usefulness as a resume padder. A friend of mine, currently enrolled in medical school, described it best. He said he joined an organization that promoted cycling for the blind and, being a keen marathon rider himself, was matched accordingly. While he did eventually have fun, he confessed that he was initially motivated by how impressive it might look if he ever decided to pursue ophthalmology!

His candor was refreshing.

While I don't feel professional anxiety, especially the kind fresh graduates are encountering, is anything new, I do believe there is a greater stigma surrounding those who could care less about having respectable ambitions (for my generation, at least). Sure, it might have to do with the entitled attitude a lot of us possess, but behind the bravado is insecurity. Insecurity I can't afford to carry with me any longer.

So in one sense, these last few months have been awfully unproductive. On the other hand, I asked my dad to teach me how to change motor oil, I taught myself Photoshop and printed out some kickass calling cards (I've already received design requests), a local coffee shop offered me a baking position, and I'm starting a book club.

"You've joined the B-team," said another friend, chuckling. Maybe I have. I just don't want to live my life like some fatalistic metaphor, determined by a series of self-serving obstacle courses, always shooting forward on a predictably sterile path.

I don't want to compete with men on dates and mirror their goals, their aggression, and their nonchalance or pursue those whom I use to compensate for the values I was too ashamed to profess. I want to put my life out there, genuinely and with compassion, and discover complementary individuals willing to part from that game as well.

My best friend, a student at Harvard Law, skyped me and said: "Oh my God, you've become a total hippie!" So much insight and wisdom in so few words.

The joys of inanities

2008-10-25T19:11:00.003-04:00

The Reuters interview was a small success, although it wasn't the one I had mentioned before. I sent the editor a thank you note the following day and she immediately responded that it had been a pleasure to meet me and that I should be expecting a call from her very soon. Good sign?

Hopefully ... a great sign.

If all goes well, I'll be working as an online editor for the company, handling the news for Canada, the US, and the UK. What a treat and a dream.

My mom's been fantastic, of course. She said that if I get the job, great. If not, she's taking me to the Bahamas. Now if that's not a sign of low expectations, then I don't know what is.

***

My sister and I were supposed to go jogging today. Instead, we ran around the kid's playground, pretending to be ninjas, airplanes, and spinning tops.

I also mistook a garbage can for a homeless man.

***

My mom tends to print out employee paycheck receipts on scrap paper. The other day, I turned one over and a penis stared back at me. "Vas deferens," I read aloud. Yup, definitely a drooper. I showed my mom. "Do you know April's receipt has a ... male organ behind it?"

"What you say?"

"Ma! You printed it on a diagram of a penis!"

"Ooooh. Cut off, please!"

She had taken my brother's health ed. activity sheet and used it, absent-mindedly, for work. Luckily for everyone else, the others only contained a hint of scrotum.

Conversation continued

2008-09-13T10:33:00.005-04:00

My brother came into my room this morning to continue our conversation on oxymorons from last night.

Him: "What about a good robber?"

Me: "No."

Him: "A small tree."

Me: "No."

Him: "A short tall guy?!"

XKCD: Nerd Girls/A phantom toe in the door

2008-09-13T03:39:00.007-04:00

I'm now the new editor-in-chief of a business school paper. 15 on staff, all boys. Oh, the excitement and trepidation. I've also been given carte blanche to restructure and revamp as needed. Next stop: Reuters. Choo-choo!

No, really. It is. Meeting the VP of the Canadian division in a few short weeks.

Unemployment sucks ...

***

Conversation with my younger brother this evening:

Him: "What's an oxymoron?"

Me: "Living dead. Jumbo shrimp. Words with contradictory meaning."

Him: "You mean, like, a wooden car or an underwater bird?"

Stick to math, my adorable little genius.

And life goes on ...

2008-09-02T18:15:00.010-04:00

After all that's happened, here's hoping I don't speak in clichés.

***

MArt and I broke up. We shared a joint on the balcony of his new place as the uptight Chinese couple next door slammed their screen shut.

"I love how I can see over the tree tops," he mused.

Red from exposure with the sun pulling moisture from his knees, MArt sat there content.

This was it, I thought. After nearly 2 and a half years together, we've finally acknowledged the inevitability of our demise. It was sad, yet not unexpected. A swan song of sorts, concluding the extended public performance we both endured.

My love for him now steadfast, I wish him nothing but the best.

***

Goodbye Montreal, here I come Toronto.

Much Ado About Nothing

2008-08-15T12:02:00.011-04:00

I am neither a sports fanatic nor a jingoist, but this year's Olympics news coverage has just been godawful. I don't know what's worse: the snarky commentary or the innuendo hinting at China's "culture of cheating" and "fascistic" government. The level of condescension and arrogance seems to have risen to wartime heights, as if I was reading weeklies from 1942 preserved on microfilm.

The opening ceremonies proved to be a begrudging success until reports of lip-syncing and CGI-enhancement surfaced. (As if artificiality only happens in the realm of reality TV.) Of course, it didn't matter that the organizers openly copped to the fakery -- China's inherent deceitfulness will be entirely unveiled by the end of the games. I take issue with journalists -- and readers -- who feel that it is necessary to spin every news item as evidence of China's inferiority, a Cold War competition between an aging superpower and its century-old rival.

Martha Károlyi openly insulted the Chinese women's gymnastics team, calling the girls "half-people" and "little babies" (AP). Her husband, Béla Károlyi, spoke as an authoritative NBC commentator that he suspected foul play. Their supporters agreed: The Chinese simply looked too young, too immature, and were too "machine-like" to have deserved their gold medals. Yet, during the 1996 Atlanta Games, the Károlyis stayed uncharacteristically silent about Dominique Moceanu's under 16 status. (The gymnast would later accuse her coaches of mental and physical abuse.) Or Nadia Comaneci and her perfect 10s, drilled into the essence of her body at 14. In their defense, "Some are mature enough to handle it," said Béla at the time.

The issue has been made into a moralistic one when the use of lithe and nubile children is clearly pervasive in international competitive gymnastics (a movement the Károlyis spearheaded). When asked to comment by the NY Times, the Italian gymnastics coach Enrico Casella said, "... there will always be rumors that athletes are too young. Looks could be deceiving.

“'By looks, you could say that the United States is using doping. They are so muscular. My gymnasts in Italy aren’t that big. You begin to wonder how they got that way.'” (Link)

Now, I'm not saying passports can't be falsified, but hard work is self-evident. And for the untrained eye (which most of us possess), the decision to award the Chinese team with the gold could have easily gone either way. Both teams made mistakes, some just more glaringly so. But you try scoring with a Byzantine system averaged on a subjective scale.

Nevertheless, accusations of cheating has continued to follow China to the podium. Yang Yilin was scrutinized by Western reporters while her American gold and silver counterparts (Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson, respectively) were allowed to revel in their immediate glory. For Pete's sake, they are all supernatural beings who gave up having a normal life to compete for their country. So excuse me if I sound defensive when headlines like, "Meeting Chinese gymnast? Like jail visiting hour" (Link) are published, unheeded.

Most of all, it reminds me just how far America has fallen from its political and cultural rostrum. While its pundits accuse others of autocracy and hypocrisy, the rest of the Western world is in awe that they're still torn about putting an educated black man in power. (And don't even get me started on Canada's Pollyanna pettiness.)

Anyway, as for China's human rights record? I guess I'm a nihilist in this regard. I was born there, bred here, and arrived somewhere in the middle, so I'm equally supportive and skeptical of the universalist origins of human rights discourse. But I am especially dubious of the rhetoric attached. (Man, I sound like a prick.)

So maybe that'll be my next post: my unsolicited opinion about the ideological juggernaut that is "human rights" and the cultural assumptions that must be erected for its existence. Subtitled: Chinese people just have different rules, dude.

Shield your eyes ... then slowly open them

2008-08-05T18:15:00.006-04:00

What do two very mature, university-educated women talk about on Facebook? Let's take a look:

Lily (July 30 at 7.40pm)

Remember when we used to speak, starry-eyed, about Gary Dourdan from CSI?

Here's a recent pic of him. What the hell happened?! It was the drugggs!!!

Haitian Pride (Today at 6.13pm)

I heard that he got kicked off CSI because he's a drug addict. He was THE reason why I used to watch that show. He WAS soo hot. Now he has a beer belly.... I need a drink.

Graduation 2008

2008-05-04T04:04:00.008-04:00

After four exhilarating years, I will be taking off for lesser things in just over a month. Considering the ubiquity of useless liberal arts degrees (and my pocketing of 2 and a half), I'm starting to panic that I might be one of the unfortunate few who will be forced/coerced/drugged/volunteered for some kind of Asian prostitution ring.

Maybe I could aspire to be a Gypsy Rose Lee-type, someone who stimulates both meat and mind. Alas, the probability of that happening is zilch, not only because being Chinese means holding out for a rich husband to take care of any hooker-tendencies anyway, but because the whole Eliot Spitzer affair made me lose respect for high-class tricks in general. Who would have thought earning four-figures an hour literally came down to having a "beautiful vagina" (NYMag)? You mean, clients aren't always lonely men who need their bandages re-dressed in the company of a sympathetic topless ho, like in Dangerous Beauty (1998), starring Catherine McCormack as a Venetian courtesan whose bedroom skills changed the course of European history ... forever? Are you telling me "Girls Gone Wild" is now the equivalent of Hooker U. for the socialite set? That's just depressing. That said, does this mean anyone in it for reasons of "self-empowerment" are really delusional? Like, you're only as powerful as your pussy is in demand? In other words, it's 5 a.m. and I am putting way too much undirected energy into this thing.

So getting back to the real reason I decided to blog: My own personal schoolhouse blues. I've applied to Hong Kong and Singapore for potential editorial assistant positions, knowing Canada sucks for this sort of thing. Forbes Magazine had two openings, which I jumped on the moment they were put online, but I have yet to hear back from them.

It's been 4 days!

Then there's that Newsweek article published last December about rich kids (or more accurately, their parents) paying University of Dreams, an internship placement service, $6000 to snag competitive positions at leading American companies ($9000 for everywhere else). I've done three internships over the course of my academic career, thinking I would get a head start. But these people have no qualms about corrupting the competitive nature of a merit-based society; their clients' resumes pushed to the top of the pile because they've paid for the privilege. It worries me that some joker will be hailed as the next *rich, vilified, tabloid-friendly personality* without having lifted anything but a briefcase full of money. Of course, had I known about this service earlier, I would've totally bullied my parents into paying for it even if it meant selling off their He-and-Her Hondas and a portion of their sanity (refundable in 12 annual installments). Self-pitying aside, I'm definitely not above mentioning my ethnicity when an ad mentions that they're an "equal opportunity employer". I imagine my pride will just slowly deteriorate from there once food, health, and a budding meth addiction is suddenly compromised as I take "I'll do anything, anything!" to a whole other level.

P.S. While I realize prostitution might not be the best subject matter to be writing about in the interest of acquiring a proper job, if anyone happens to want to offer me one anyway, I'd be pretty thankful.

I had three dreams about death, and now she's gone ...

2008-04-16T03:24:00.004-04:00

My aunt died from her year-long battle with cancer. It is still all very fresh. My dad waited a full day to tell me because he didn't want me to perform poorly on my exam. I am devastated and distraught. It hurts to breathe. My now-orphaned cousin sent me a video taken from her birthday a short while ago, and I can't stop crying.

My grandma, a normally stoic pillar of strength, has been breaking down in a constant stream of tears. It pains me to see her like this. A parent should never have to bury her child.

We are all suffering, each in our own way. I cannot seem to pull myself together from the shock. My aunt went in for a check-up last week, the doctors found something in her brain, she went home, and soon deteriorated at an unprecedented rate.

She flatlined some time between my dad going to the Chinese embassy and leaving with a traveler's visa. I can't imagine what he must be feeling right now. He devoted a substantial portion of our phone call tonight comforting me, telling me there is nothing we can change now, but I know he is desperate to be with the rest of his family in Beijing. "She liked you the best," my dad told me. "She was always asking how you were doing." We were alike in myriad ways, mostly laughable traits only we could appreciate. Tactless spendthrifts, curious and naive, I have an attachment to her only family can comprehend.

I love and miss her so much.

Cynic's Paradise

2007-10-14T11:45:00.001-04:00

*UPDATE*

The bitch now wants $500,000?! Fucking white trash golddigger with a 10th grade education! Her doctor even says she's faking it! Argh!

***

My parents are going to court Monday after waiting 5 long years. As defendants. (Link to background) We had originally relented and decided to settle with the plaintiff, but the lady and her lawyer turned down the $60,000 offer. They wanted $230,000. Cash. That wasn't going to happen, so we've been fighting ever since. (We've since hired new lawyers. She has, too. The City of Burlington still wants us to shoulder everything. Piranhas!)

I received a phone call from my mom last night. She told me she wanted me to be prepared to delay plans to work in China next year because the family is going to need me until my sister turns 18 and can legally take over our finances.

I'm devastated, of course. All my plans for the future feel like they've imploded out of left field. Partly because of this lawsuit, but also partly due to my lack of ... imagination. Why didn't I have a back-up plan? Why didn't I think my parents' issues would affect me so fully? I've been asking myself these questions as I wait for the decisive sound of the judge's mallet.

Sucky Day

2007-10-01T19:15:00.001-04:00

As I headed home from the airport, my eyes welled up. I flew home last Friday to prepare for my road test only to fail it the following Monday in a spectacular display of ineptitude. Murphy's Law? Perhaps. In any case, disappointment doesn't begin to describe it. I don't know whether I was assigned the prototypical fem-bitch examiner, though it's too late to do anything about it now. The unforgiving morning traffic barreled all around me as fast-moving vehicles relentlessly charged ahead. "Why did you do that?" she'd scold before turning her lacquered finger on me. I felt like I was juggling multiple instructions at once, so I panicked and lost my confidence.

I feel like a failure, like I wasted everyone's time. I flew home for the weekend for the sole purpose of getting my full license, and instead, returned with nothing but mooncakes as a consolation prize. My parents tried to console me with various degrees of success.

"All four people ahead of you failed too," my dad reassured me.

That made me feel better.

"What's the big deal?" my mom asks me. "It's not like your livelihood depended on it. You'll just have to come back and do it again."

That made me feel worse.

It's not that I don't recognize my own disproportionate reaction to this event. But failing this test hurts so much because I feel like I wasted their money, time, and efforts. Like they misplaced their faith in me. And I hate that, completely hate it. Straight As, regular recommendations, complimentary meetings with professors, I've never really given my parents anything to lose sleep over. (Like all rebellious teens, for example, I wanted to move out. Except I worked extra hard in order to be accepted into a prestigious out-of-province program so they'd leave me alone and happily pay for tuition. Practically Keith Richards, I know.) Self-scrutiny is like a fungal outbreak: it bleeds through the walls I've erected and torments me even in miniscule amounts. I'm my absolute worst critic, perfectionism at its lowest. The pain of failure stays with me and overpowers rationale. And today, in the midst of a rather public humiliation, I cracked. KA-POW!

My parents' verdict? "You just have to grow a thicker skin."

My boyfriend's verdict? "Maybe it's because you're on your period."