The Boa and the Stiletto

Man. My former employer has been in the news lately. 

A lot. And none of it good.

Air Canada took me out of school and gave me way more exposure and responsibility than anyone had ever done up until that point. I thought they were crazy, but rode with it anyway. And I don't regret it, regardless of what my last year-and-a-half at the air carrier may have done to my bowel lining. I learned a ton, and was able to work at another completely nutzoid employer that finally did my bowels in for good before I looked up this fancy term called "work-life balance" and never looked back.

And hear I am, literally 10 years (almost to the day) since I left Labour Relations at AC, and reading about illegal strikes, ramp rats making snide remarks about Ministers within earshot and getting hostile texts from friends stranded on flights to the Middle East about my former employer like I'm somehow responsible.

Its like I never left, really.

At any rate, I have no answers, for either Air Canada, my former colleagues or the people who love to hate the airline, to explain why things are the way they are. I have opinions, but they're really not the point of this blog. It's about the path not taken.

I could have stayed. What if I did? I ask myself these questions a lot whenever I read about the latest AC scuffle. It's like an ex boyfriend: what if I hadn't said, "No more?" 

Sometimes its self-doubt about my abilities, or my beliefs in my own abilities, to change things and make them better, that stands behind the question. Other times it's the closeness--or lack thereof--I have with former colleagues as I think about their harried days (and nights. No doubt about that....) and i might fare now, if I hadn't flown the coop. And sure, get a few drinks in me and I'll fix all of Air Canada's problems before the night is out, and few your own, too. (mine can wait until the morning) Everyone's got an opinion.

And as for my opinions, they may matter to me, but they don't really matter, because I left. And that's a tough thing for me, in any job I've done. My friend JF says I have serious FOMO: Fear Of Missing Out. And she's dead right. I hear about a place I used to work and it's like I never left: what's happening, who's doing what now, tell me about this or that gaffe/amazing thing they're doing. It doesn't last long, though, because along comes BC Hydro and the last 4+ years to remind me that what I think about Air Canada, or the CBC or hell the old Famous Players in Calgary where I first learned about the role of a pay cheque in establishing a really great shoe collection, is no more relevant than the guy whose luggage went South instead of East. So I sit back and read the headlines, chuckle at my friend stuck on the Tarmac in Istanbul, and hope everyone I know is doing well in spite of it all.

And if I think at all about "what if...", it generally involves a colostomy bag.

I've been taking the Skytrain a lot lately. I'm on a special project at work, and it takes me to our Burnaby office (ewwwwwwww!)(kidding!)(kinda!) twice a week.

I like the Skytrain, actually. Once I got over the fact that theyre totally automated and have no operators on board--which honestly took me a year to relax about--they grew on me. Or at least some of them have.

There are Skytrains, and then there are Skytrains, it turns out. There are the original edition, circa 1985: cramped, uncomfortable seats with far too many stains on them and no leg room to speak of. And there are the new edition: spacious while still travelling on the same track, ergonomic seating, ventilation and, most importantly, CLEAN. As an added bonus, the new trains have way more, and much-prized, single seats which don't require sharing with other members of the public.

The new trains are, obviously, my favorite. The old ones, not so much. So in the mornings, as I'm waiting on the Main Street platform and praying for the best, very often the best eludes. The same happens when I've had to go somewhere to pick up something large and heavy from a big box store (a wine fridge, for example, or a new mixer): just when I need the space of a fancy new Skytrain, I get the tightwad space of an old one. Along with snarly glances from fellow, equally cramped, travelers.

And so of course I now I look eagerly to see what's comings down the track. In my rather musical mind, I've even got a theme song for the old trains--the new ones don't have one, but then when did a hero's refrain ever really truly stay in your mind? When I see a old train, I'm my mind I hear "In The Ghetto". Preferably in the voice of South Park's Cartman, but occasionally by Elvis himself.

It keeps me going in the morning, even if the train that gets me going isn't the one that I want.

The Boy wants a maid.

Look, don't get me wrong. House cleaning isn't the most exciting thing I'll do in a day...ok, well it depends on the day, but you get my drift. I don't dream about it, or anything.

But I do love the feeling of accomplishment. It's why I love baking. You put things together, stir a little, mix a little, put it under heat and voila! Tasty goodness, made by you.

And it's kinda the same with housecleaning, only exchange tasty goodness for a clean sent and knowing the place is yours, clean and smells like lemons. Thanks to you.

Not so, for The Boy. Oh no, he'll swear like a trucker's base-born lesbian mechanic daughter on a pirate ship every SECOND he does housework. Is he happy it's over? Sure. Does he ever want to feel that way again? Never.

So the push is on to find our own private Consuela, and I'm fighting the good fight, but I'm mixed. I could do more with the free time. (Like blog, for example. Ahem.) But then there's this stranger, cleaning up your bits. Who's likely not getting a fair wage but the wage they charged everyone else, and who might be way overqualified for it but hey the local Engineers Society is in no hurry to open the gates anytime soon so off to the broom closet with them. And then there's me, handing over the FOB to my building and thinking, "this is it. I no longer pick up after myself. I guess I'll just give up on everything else and order KFCs entire menu and have at it in one night."

So, no. I'm not crazy about it. But opportunity costs being what they are, I don't know how long I can hold out for. Perhaps when I stop learning new swear words every time my boyfriend does the floors.

Today was National Sweater Day. Working for a conservation-minded utility (no, really, don't buy any more of our product...yes it's the cheapest in North America but honestly, take only what you need...) I guess I've been a bit more "aware" of these little initiatives.

The idea ring that you turned down your thermostat by two degrees in the dead of winter, and through on a big, warm, wooly and (ideally) unsightly knitted garment. We've been pushing this one for a few weeks now--I even had it placed into my Outlook Calendar by Persons Unknown But Totally Well-Intentioned (I Hope). Given that I lack any unsightly sweaters (what?) and the astonishingly high price of your average Bill Cosby number, (Really. They had one in a souvenir store on Robson near my old place and I went in out of curiosity. I  was shocked to see 3 figures.) I went with basic charcoal ribbing, with a hood for flair.

When I got to the office though, I was surprised to see NO ONE had really thought this through. Many had plain old forgot, and wore either shirt sleeves or your typical Banana Generic Merino workhorse. Others did the sweater but didn't do the requisite layering.

The impact of these faulty choices became apparent at around 10AM. Now, Vancouver's not exactly Winter Central, and we were warm today, but still two degrees on the thermostat has ended a marriage or three. There was shivering. There was the wearing of outerwear inside. There were much higher coffee sales at the Starbucks downstairs (if their lineup was any indication). Weirdly, I apparently overdressed, and so spent half the day fanning myself with the remains of an irrelevant spreadsheet, and the other half shivering from evaporation.

All in all, I guess we saved money, and will no doubt prove a point soon. But I wouldn't want to see our productivity, today. All those cups of coffee alone...

To all my friends with e-readers, may I inquire about something I've noticed in my first six months of downloading books?

Is it just me, or is there a LOT of smut on Kobo? Like, to the point where I tried to see how many shares Harlequin Romance owns in the company (if they don't, they clearly SHOULD). It's crazy. I like to buy my books on sale, and lord knows I love a deal, even when an already-cheap e-book is tempting enough on its own. So when Kobo sends me a special 20% off email, I go and look at what's out there.

And generally I find something, but not after I've gone through five dozen bawdy vampire thrillers, lusty pirate adventures, a southern bodice-ripper and at least one roll-in-the-hay involving men in kilts. (easy access, I suppose, Ms. Giabaldon?) It's funny. For years, moralists screamed about the internet being only about sex, and now, with ebooks, they are at least half about sex, and then half of...everything else.

Of course, I don't know what that "everything else" entails, but if I ever get around to reading any I'll report back.

Probably one of the worst things I've done, in terms of its impact to my day-to-day happiness, was to introduce The Boy to the show, Downton Abbey.

Yes, he finds it addictive, and now awaits Sunday nights like I do (which, for a guy who introduced me to Millionaire Matchmaker and Biggest Loser, is saying something). But this isn't a problem--hell, it's convenient.

No, it's more that The Boy is a gigantic bug. Between the various names he likes to call me, the way he can pretend to be a five year old and ask "why" 5,000 times in a row, his tendency to tickle at the least temptation are all features that make up our daily routine. To which we can now add being addressed, post-Downton, as "Lady Hallamore." 

This isnt just on show days, of course. It's every day. And in an affected accent and high-pitched voice that reminds one of Maggie Smith. If she were a giddy transvestite. 

Its all in good fun, but there isn't a day that goes by when I wonder if I shouldnt have just kept Masterpiece Theatre to myself. It would make listening to Dame Maggie a bit less unsettling.

I love gift cards. They sit in your wallet like little promises waiting to be made and fulfilled, all at once. All stimulus, all response, without the nasty waiting to see how it all pans out.

I got a couple for Christmas, and today I finally got to fulfill my last one, a nicely sized card for Williams-Sonoma. Imagine! Christmas in January! It's like I'm Polish! Or helping to celebrate The Year of the Dragon! Or Robbie Burns Day! (as they say in Vancouver, "Gung haggis fat choy!" and they say multiculturalism is dead...)

So I'm thinking I need a ladle, because mine sucks and is autocratically left-handed. And a Garlic Press, because I lost mine years ago and never think to replace it, no matter how much I've missed it. And maybe a bundt cake pan, because I have some awesome recipes that use one and I'd love to have a nice one on hand. 

So we went, The Boy in tow, to view cake pans, etc. At first I was entranced by this "Oreo cookie" cake pan which looked totally cute (the cakes come out looking like chocolate cookie wafers, and then you spread vanilla buttercream between them and voila: Giant Cookie-Shaped Cake.) But then The Boy found something else: a pan to make "Brooksters". 

And what is that? A Brownie, with a chocolate chip cookie on top. I KNOW. He's never met a brownie he didn't like, and thinks cookies are a sixth food group. (chocolate is the fifth.) It was like Christmas had come again, to hear that such a thing in the world exists.

And it is a little like Christmas, again. I didn't really pay for it (thank you, gift card!), there's fresh baking cooling on the counter, and it's raining and chilly outside. Now, if I could just find my way to a stat holiday tomorrow (Robbie Burns and dragons are worth a day of reflection, no?), then it'd really be the best time of the year.

Decisions, decisions.

Little sis' gave us cooking lessons at a local cook shop and teaching kitchen. The place looks great and offers tons of classes. It's just a matter of figuring out what to take.

 In the meantime, my folks adhered to my desire to have a big-boy set of kitchen knives (spurred, no doubt, by my mom's having to use my Costco specials from 15 years ago recently. I had no idea a 39-year old could learn knew cusses...) and provided me with an impressive set of Wusthoffs that are a joy to use and also scare the living shit out of me. (they have "ER visit" written all over them) 

So now I need to figure out what classes to take. Kitchen basics--knife skills sounds deeply useful, but not exactly glamourous. Ditto, Quick and Easy Weekday Meals. Italian could be fun, but without a pasta maker (next years list of "to buy"s includes a KitchenAid mixer with a couple of attachments) it seems wasted on me. Indian sounds awesome, but I worry about being to lazy to go out afterwards and get the real ingredients. French could be fun, and definite doable in my kitchen, but then French is closest to what I cook most days (cassoulet, cow au vin, French fries...) so it's not exactly branching out. Then there's the Wilton Cake Method course, which after my recent disaster involving a snowman cake pan, a faulty buttercream recipe and an unsteady hand could be deeply useful, but it's hugely expensive even with  gift certificates...

Suggestions? I'll cook for the winner. Or not, at your preference. 

Oh, dear.

The boy's gaming has caught up with cosmopolitan me, it seems. 

See, he's a World of Warcraft fan, WOW for short. On-line, avatar-type fantasy kill-the-crap-out-of-strangers-who-look-like-Tolkein's-mind-after-a-bad-bit-of-shellfish. 

This is fine, because he doesn't mind the fact that I'm coveting a Rick Owens skirt at the moment. Really:

Ahem. So you can imagine that I'm not exactly going to press the point when it comes to the boy's various gnomes, healers, tanks, etc. I have my own fish to fry, so to speak.

At any rate, the last few months have been a whirlwind of battlegrounds, dungeons, chatting on headsets for him, and me ignoring him while reading a book and debating what kind of a bag goes with a man's full length skirt (answer: one that costs too much)(for now)(heh heh).

And now, it seems, that this has been affecting me and my rep as a sophisticated, well-read, well-cultured, well-socialized (whilst still possibly a skirt-wearing) urban gay male. Because now, my tailored-for-me ads on my live journal site are no longer advertising for www.ssense.com, and instead are advertising for WOW. (Apparently, it's free until Level 20. From what I gather, that's the equivalent of a pair of Aldo shoes, and we all know what I think of THOSE.)

Sigh. And I said a relationship would never change me.

I'm stumped, y'all.

My niece turns one year old next month. And, because I'm a very short-term thinker, I didn't realize that when I offered to write my three nephews serial novels for their birthday and Christmas gifts (yes, they get toys, too. I'm not going to be THAT kind of uncle...) that there might be OTHER children to consider.

And so, here I sit, pondering what the hell I'm going to write for my niece in the next month. The thing is, I'm not short of ideas...it's just that my overly liberal education has given me far more social conscience than is clearly good for me. To whit:

A princess in a castle? Done before. And what would the feminists say? Plus, I can also hear my smart-alecky mom, "Princess, huh? So...project much?" Having Grandmama in the peanut gallery of your stories never bodes well.

Then there could be the school girl with special abilities "she's magic" angle, but then that's probably working at cross-purposes with the disability crowd.

I could do a great little thing about a girl, a puppy, and a magic genie, but then both the anti-enslavement folks AND PETA would be on me. 

As for a story about a girl with great party dresses, an army of boys at her side and another army double the size of girls with knives in their hands, well that could be fun but I suspect even her mother would have the locks changed on me. Plus, what's good about a novel that technically has you in it, but you end up dying in chapter three in a bizarre play school "accident" involving little Tommy from next door, Suzy from across the street and a Barbie doll Camper Van playset? (no, I haven't pursued this option at all, or given it any serious thought. Why do you ask?)

How about a story about fairies and...oh, never mind. (and not a peep out of you, Mom!) I'm going to Toys R Us...one year isn't too young to start bribing, is it?