Makin' It Up As I Go Along

“A heart is a lot like an umbrella:  it only works when it’s open.”

(This is the second part of the two parts.)

(You don’t have to read the first part for this part to make sense.)

(I just felt the need to express the first part before I got to this part.)

(And now I’m rambling.)

I’m trying to figure out how to put into words why I adore this phrase (next to where it came from, for which you’ll have to go back one blog and read.)

The thing is, it’s just such a lovely way to live.  Not like an umbrella.  Well, maybe like an umbrella, umbrellas are fun too.  Until the wind turns them inside out. But maybe some people like to be inside out…..I don’t know what that means.

What I mean is that many people live their lives shutting their hearts down little by little by little over time. And it’s so gradual they don’t even notice that it’s happening: something happens, and you don’t want it to ever happen again, so you shut off that little part.  And then something else happens, and you don’t want that to ever happen again, so you shut off another little part.  It can be a natural reaction.  It can be self preservation.  I went through a period like that a few years ago, despite the best of intentions and doing everything I thought needed to be done and more.  But my heart was smarter than what I was telling myself in my head.  It slowly powered down to the essentials I needed to get through my days.  And that’s really what I was doing even though I was unaware of it at the time. I just couldn’t see it.  I went about my business, I worked, I did a few shows, I went out with friends.  But part of me was completely unplugged.  I was both there and not really there at the same time.

When I found myself no longer in that situation, I knew I couldn’t live in that place anymore.  And the risk of learning how to open myself up again was an idea I did not relish.  But in a way, I knew I didn’t really have a choice; I’d been letting myself get away with not requiring more of myself for too long.  I had a lot of different reasons as to why: the relationship I was in at the time left me feeling both unbalanced and in a state of what I could only call hyper vigilance (attempting to be three steps ahead at all times was truly a losing battle).  Up to that point, the past had taught me that there were two ways of being: the shit hitting the fan or waiting for the shit to hit the fan.  But until you know something other than this, it’s just the way life is.  When I realized I could reach for something more than that, it was a little on the scary side.  I just had to keep telling myself that whatever bumps and hurdles I hit up against or fell over or that backed me into a corner, it would all be worth it if I could just scrape together enough courage to keep going forward.

And it so is. I can’t begin to describe how much better my life is today than it ever has been, but it really crystallized for me the moment that improviser opened his mouth and that line popped out. Sure, living like this opens me up the possibility of negative things forcing their way in there too. No one likes to be hurt.  And when you live with your heart open, it’s going to happen.  But the trade off is exactly what I want it to be:  it lets me laugh without warning at unexpected times (and sometimes, inappropriate times, but what are you gonna do *grin*); it moves me off my couch and onto my feet, prowling my living when I’m alone watching the LOTR trilogy; I can play the same record over and over and over and be tickled by it each time; I cry at the Muppet Show!  How brilliant is that?

Now, admittedly, there are times when I’m not good at being this way:  like when I ask you to turn off your cell phone in the theatre I work at and you refer to me as ‘little girl’.  Really, the last thing I want to do is open my heart to you.  Or when you steal my chair at the laundromat (you know, the one you saw me sitting on; the one with all of my stuff beside it; and you don’t steal it for you so much as to put your laundry bag on.).  Yeah, I really don’t want to open my heart to you.  Oh, or the time I slipped and fell at Christie Station this past summer when I was using a cane, and not a single person came over to me (save two giggly twelve year olds who asked if I needed help, then promptly vanished) and I sat sprawled on the platform for ten minutes trying to calm the panic that I’d re-injured my knee and trying to figure out how I was going to get up. My heart really didn’t want to be open to any of you people.  (Maybe the folks on the other platform, but the people on my side?  Really?  Couldn’t see me, hm?)

But I am trying.

The big thing about living like my heart is an umbrella is that it lets me be closer to my friends.

It’s not that they didn’t want to be close to me before.

I just didn’t know how to let them.

love and knishes

“A heart is a lot like an umbrella:  it only works when it’s open.”

(This blog is in two parts.)

(Because I have this aspiration of attempting to explain why this phrase shifts something in me on two levels.)

(A comedy level and a me level.)

(Let’s see if I can make this make sense.)

The thing about improv comedy is that you have no idea what it is you’re going to say until you open your mouth.  To give up that level of control can be a terrifying experience, especially since most of us in the every day are busy formulating what it is we’re going to say while the other person is still talking.  Hence, we’re not really listening.  Or, rather, we’re listening enough to follow the thread to connect it to the point we’re already waiting to say, rather than really listening. True listening could take the conversation in a whole unexpected direction.  In improv, you have to truly listen.  That’s how things can change so rapidly, and it can take a moment to digest and appreciate, for both the audience and the performer, even as a scene continues to move along.

I have a tendency to see a lovely little improv show on Wednesday nights in Toronto at the Bread and Circus called the Carnegie Hall Show.  It is one of the warmest, giving and funniest environments I’ve ever been in. And I’m lucky enough that they let me play sometimes too.

This isn’t your regular improv show: we’re talking tuxes and suits on charming boys, ladies in gowns, the occasional boa and rock glasses full of scotch onstage.  This is a classy event.  A classy event that celebrates the mundane in life:  straws; skis; zippers; where, in the first half, we are treated to the greatest improvised scenes of all time that tend to stay in the early part of the twentieth century.  They have guests who sing, who dance, who play with fire (though not really, and apparently, from what I hear, not well either), spoken word, poetry, you name it, they’ll give it a try.  I’d call it a well oiled machine, but that gives the impression of something far too slick than what it actually is.  It’s like sitting in front of a fire place on a winter night, you just want to curl up and be a part of it.  It’s like a family.

The remark quoted off the top comes from their anniversary show.  They’ve kept it going a whole year. That’s like eight years in dog years.  And forty seven in improv years. Improv shows come and go at lightening speed, and it takes time and patience to build an audience.  You need certain kinds of people, and a certain kind of atmosphere to keep them going.  The bar must be raised somehow. The challenge is to give the audience nothing less than your best, but still hope to give them more.

The second half of the show is an improvised radio play called “The Dark Room”, featuring players, a director, and musical accompaniment courtesy of a single man and a piano.  It goes off the rails very quickly, dissolving into silliness, everyone pushing everyone else’s buttons and gleefully ganging up on each other.  The suggestion from the audience on this night was ‘umbrella’, which the players were inserting in whichever way they felt, leading to loving chaos and leaving the director attempting to wrest control back from the performers.  It is a joyful tug of war to see.  There are a number of ways the director can try to calm things down and get the show back on track:  he can throw to a ‘commercial’ (which usually leads to more anarchy than was present initially); he can argue with the players ‘on air’ while they argue back full force; he can take his frustrations out on the music director.  Everyone is trying to make everyone else laugh.

At this point in this show, what he chose to do was single out one of the players who was a little quieter and didn’t seem to be getting much of a word in edgewise, by proclaiming that this performer had something important to say.  Now, in an improv setting, merely endowing what is about to be said with the fact that it is ‘important’ automatically makes whatever comes out funny, because you can hear anything from “Your mother was an octopus” to “I have nothing to say.”  Which will be treated by the other players with the utmost importance. But at that moment, in that brilliant moment, the performer opened his mouth and began with “A heart is a lot like an umbrella”. Followed by the briefest of pauses.  And at that moment, every single molecule in that room was with him, hanging on that beginning. The energy in the room was soaring to heights unknown.  Electrified, everyone, collectively, including the performer, was wondering what would come next.

And after the briefest of pauses, what followed was “It only works when it’s open.”

And the house went up.  Chaos ensued. Laughter, cheers, applause, hollering.  The performer, in his graciousness, acknowledged the audience, then grandly left the stage, leaving everyone howling with more laughter.  Because, after that, what more was left for him to say?  He could never top it.  So he removed himself from the scene.  Leaving the rest of the players in stitches, trying desperately to recover and finish the radio drama on their own.  Which was even more entertaining.

These are the moments you hope for in improv, whether you’re in the audience, or on the stage, where everything that came before it seems to have been lain like some sort of unconscious track  leading to the one thing that could capture that exact second in the most heartfelt, meaningful way, as though it was going there all along.

If that line had been written that way, it would be cheesy and predictable at best.

Because it was improv, it was pure gold.

And I am so in love with it.

I am a woman of simple pleasures.  I really am: wiener dogs can send me into fits of sparkly happiness; buy me a scratch ticket and I will spend fifteen minutes slowly scratching off each square and announcing what I’ve uncovered; right now there is sunlight pooling on my dining room table and I will probably crawl up on it and bask in it while I wait for the next part of my day to take over.

I am a total geek.

(And apparently part cat.)

I’m grateful to know that this instinct still lives with me.  For those who read my last post, you’ll know I’m struggling with something right now.  My heart hurts.  Unavoidable in life, really. From the second we’re born the chance for this to happen lurks around every corner, whether you’re two and every little thing turns into a tantrum on the floor because you don’t have the capacity to express yourself otherwise, to adulthood when—well, the same thing can happen, really. 

Thankfully I don’t do that anymore. Tho I admit I still harbor a certain wistfulness for those days.  There’s a naïve innocence wrapped up in those moments when you’re younger, where things that hurt aren’t merely bad, they’re tragic.  You hole up in your room, throw on every black piece of clothing you own and write all over your walls in magic marker.  Months later, if nothing else, you have the makings of a good Sears Drama Festival play.

But—there’s a but.  The idea of anything remotely like that anymore is so mind numbingly tiring.  I’m not saying the feeling isn’t there; I just have more control over how far I allow it to go.  And it really is a choice.  Humans are emotional creatures, but we choose how we let those emotions affect us.  I give myself those moments because I need them, but then I start doing the work of figuring out what’s behind it all.  There’s a difference between what happens and what I make it mean about myself.  Many frustrations lie in the patterns we develop for ourselves as we grow, why am I still stuck here, why does this always happen to me, why can’t I seem to insert whatever here?  And the tricksy thing is that any given pattern can work both for and against you at the same time:  the one that gets you far along in your career could also be the one that’s screwing up your relationship.  It’s a total mind fuck.  But it can also give you an incredible sense of freedom once you start figuring it out. We always know. Whatever it is, we always know.  All those things we try to keep from ourselves. If we let ourselves start separating what happens from what we make it mean (I’m a jerk, I’m not good enough, people will think ‘x’ about me), we’ll get to it.  And that’s a far better place to start building the next moment on.

Being aware of this has really started to allow me to get out of my own way and let me be who I am. I learn something every day about what works for me in my life and what doesn’t.  Sometimes it isn’t what I think it is.  Sometimes I have no idea what it is I’m doing and that’s fine.  I don’t always have to know.

But there are a few things I do know.

I know I like little things.

I like wiener dogs, scratch tickets and curling up in the sunlight.

And hugs.  Hugs are good too.

‘What now?’

There’s a phrase.  Probably one of the more loaded ones in the English language.  And it’s not a friend of mine right now.  Right now I sort of want to throw it up on Twitter with hash tags like #epicfail and #imanidiot.  I won’t.  Twitter is a little too immediate for my purposes.  On the other side, I have no idea how many people read this blog.  I’m sure there are a few, but not nearly enough to have the same impact of allowing my soul to spill out a little here and a little there and, really, not have to talk about it.

Cryptic, hm?   The desire to connect in a way that may make others say “I totally get that” without actually having to explain myself fully or, in effect, connect at all?  But I need the words to help me work through what I’m thinking, because honestly, I don’t know everything that’s in there.

What now?

I had something in my life, something I liked, something I enjoyed that made me laugh and feel relaxed. In one way it gave me a certain sense of peace that I hadn’t experienced for a long time and in another way it made me insecure and uncertain of myself because I wasn’t sure if my expectations were in line with what would be deemed ‘normal’ in the real world.  I get that there is no ‘normal’, really, but I think most people tend to get a little more, shall we say, practice earlier on in life with these things whereas I didn’t.  Which meant that when I finally started finding myself in these situations, I was so keyed up that any little thing could make me drop like a stone.  It’s not a pleasant feeling.  And not one I’m really into anymore.  So a war rages on inside my person of trying to strike a balance between keeping my guard down and somehow not doing collateral damage to myself.

And that’s what I’ve been trying to do the last little while.  I feel like it’s kind of like trying to walk a line, a line that has immediate consequences if you stray from it, but the challenge is that the person drawing the line is actually behind you and you have to just sort of guess where it will fall.  Although I felt unbalanced, I encouraged myself to walk the line.  It was kind of fun and made me smile at unexpected times during my day.

But now the something has shifted.  The ‘possibility’ is no longer what it was.  Yet in a way it never felt stronger to me than in that moment.  Which I don’t understand.  And although the shift caused me pain, I felt strangely—safe.  Which I really don’t understand.  I felt completely, 100% myself. And by ‘myself’, I mean the one you generally only feel when you’re at home, alone and you know that no one is watching.  I have no idea what to do with that. It’s so vastly different from—anything.  And it’s making the shift that much more difficult.

I’m all out of sorts:  I don’t want to lose what I had.  But I don’t know how to keep it either.

Even the guy drawing the line is gone.  I mean, I know he was behind me before, but at least he was there.

What now?

“Honestly, how often can one pick oneself up off the ground and continue to throw oneself at the wall with enthusiasm?”

That was the first line of my journal entry today.  I can’t think of a truer statement for the industry that I’m in.  Yep, it’s been one of those days.  Various circumstances have swirled around my being like an out of control toddler that has led me to today.  Today has turned into one of “those” days that finds me lying on my couch or curling up in the IKEA chair that my ex kindly left behind when he moved (read: along with anything else he didn’t want which he just left here for me to deal with), staring out the window, up at the sky, into the neighbour’s apartment, pondering every little thing there is in the hiding places of my mind.

No where but in the arts, I think, thrives such a business that requires you to carve out sections of your soul on a daily basis and pretend to be perfectly okay with offering it up to the ritual sacrifices that we go through to do what we love.  Scratch that, I’m sure those who do well in this business don’t have to pretend at all:  they work fairly often, are offered opportunities that most of us only dream of and feel it’s a fair trade.  For those of us who still slog it out in the trenches….it can be a different experience.  Being an actor, it can become difficult and confusing sometimes to separate who we are with what we do.  Because we have to use so much of who we are to do what it is we do.  Once you get some experience behind you, you learn to deal with the unknown, and put behind you the jobs you didn’t book or the callback you didn’t get, even though you thought you killed. It’s part and parcel.  You have to learn this or you won’t last.  It’s a toughness we have to develop in order to survive.  We also have to learn to drop it at a moments notice so we can be vulnerable to the camera, which captures every second of our three minute audition for the actor role that has one line that we are so unbearably grateful for because this casting director has never seen us before and who knows where it could lead.

But when there are auditions, at least there are auditions and possible callbacks.  At a time like this, during a recession, where work is drying up and everyone else’s commercials seem to get re-aired because it’s cheaper than shooting something new, the trickle down theory is seriously prevalent:  people who never do anything but film are suddenly auditioning for tv; the tv folks are auditioning for commercials; and the commercial folk are at home gnawing on their drapes.  You continue to watch TV to keep up with what’s going on and you see ‘that actor’ who’s not only in one series, but two.  Possibly three.  And while I’m genuinely still thrilled that whoever they are happens to be working, I also think “Really?  There’s no one else out there to do these roles?”

And because you have so much time to yourself to do what you will with it, you have a lot of time to think.   Because not a lot else is going on.  Even the distraction of writing can become a chore because, after all, it’s just you, alone, at home, in your apartment.  And you’re still doing it for the love of it because you’re not getting paid for it yet.  Things that normally aren’t such a big deal become a big deal because you’ve lost your compass on what to focus on. Where is the big picture?  Every little thing starts to rain down on your head and you wonder:  how much longer can I keep doing this?  How much longer can I continue to pick myself up off the ground and continue to throw myself, with my heart open, against the wall, towards a career where there is no inherent reward system?  How much longer can I hang on?  I did a catering gig today.  It was great!  I went, I did my thing, I came home.  There was no agonizing over whether I passed the Rosemary Leg of Lamb in a way that stood out, or realizing that I should have placed the linen ‘this way’ instead of ‘that’ way after the fact.  No one’s going to tell me I can’t replenish the cheese table because I’m:  too tall, too skinny, too blonde, or remind the host of the event of his ex-wife.  So simple.  So easy.  How I sometimes yearn that I could be satisfied with such simple things.

But I can’t.  And I know I can’t.  I’ve known since I was eight years old and got that first, unexpected wave of laughter over a small improv bit I did in a show.  We artists do not walk an easy path.  People don’t generally understand why it is we do what we do.  My poor father still worries over my lack of steady work, to which I respond “But I’m happy.”.  And that, he really doesn’t know what to do with.  And I’m not always happy.  I’m not terribly happy right now.  But I know it will pass.  It always passes, whether you are in the best or the worst of moods.

And then I sit and type this blog, with my glass of wine and double stuff Oreos close at hand.  Almost 11 pm.  Looking forward to bed and my book; thrilled with my recall and audition tomorrow; and seeing the gorgeous smile of the cute boy I have a crush on in my mind (you know who you are *grin*).

And the ‘possibility’ starts to seep back in on the horizon.

And I look down at the trampoline below and prepare to fire myself back at the wall.

Birthday.

There.  I’ve said it.

I’m not unlike Harry Potter, if you think about it.  For him, invoking the name of Voldemort doesn’t inspire fear in him.  (Or me.  And it shouldn’t, really.  He’s a fictional character.  I think I’d have bigger problems if the word “Voldemort” struck terror into my heart.  And my friends, at that point, would be very, very concerned.  Hopefully.)

The word ‘birthday’ doesn’t strike terror into me either.  It’s interesting to see other girls my age, who, like me, are still unattached.  They trumpet their singleness like a badge well worn, won in battle, drinking martini’s and flirting till dawn; or they trumpet their singleness, drinking martini’s while bitching about the guy that they liked who decided to go out with the 22 year old in their department instead of them.  Easier baggage, I suppose.  A mere carry on as opposed to the garment bag, computer case, fashionable duffel bag and hard cased batter proof suitcase on wheels that is prepared for almost everything because, let’s face it, we’ve learned a LOT on our way here.  A carry on doesn’t always cut it anymore.

To be honest, tho, I really don’t think about my ‘age’ much. I mean, I’m not that old.  Admittedly, most of my friends are married with kids and dogs and houses and the like.  Grown ups.  And I might feel differently if people thought I was a lot older as opposed to generally younger than I am. *grin*  But being in comedy, I just don’t really think much about anyone’s age, period.  We’re just a bunch of people doing what we love to do:  hanging out with each other making asses of ourselves and loving it.

Still, when my birthday comes around lately, I seem to find myself reflecting a lot more on my life and where I happen to find myself in it.  And lately, I seem to be walking a fascinating balance:  I can take care of myself, there’s no question about that.  I take charge of my life, my work, I pay my bills, indulge in my passions, laugh, and try to stay present to enjoy what comes my way.  Durable, adept.  Totally independent.  But—I’ve also recently discovered that I love being looked after.  In little ways.  By men, specifically.  Now, now, let’s not go there. Or go there, my filthy darlings, who am I to tell you what to do?  But what I mean is, allowing myself to let guys do little things for me like offering me their seat if there’s no where else to sit or loaning me their sweater if they think I’m cold and letting myself like it; that’s a very new thing for me. Growing up, I never really depended on anyone; I always felt that I pretty much looked after myself.  I was the strong one, the smart one.  I was certainly never the ‘pretty one’.  I wore jeans, my Data t-shirt and all color of Chuck Taylors. Boys never asked me out.  I think I just put out that vibe.  I was too scared to allow myself that openness because everyone knows that at that moment the earth would split open and launch me into my own personal circle of hell. (Which it actually did once when I let myself develop a huge crush on a guy in my high school.  I would blissfully detail all the little things I was doing to get him to notice me to a girlfriend of mine [I drove him home!  I kissed him on the cheek!  *swoon*]. I found out the two of them were dating as the three of us lay on his couch watching tv where I’d worked up the nerve to hold his hand.  And I noticed he was also holding hers.)

It never occurred to me to be anything other than completely self reliant, which meant cutting off that softer, girlier side of myself.  I mean, who needed that?  Why would I do my hair if I could just throw on a baseball cap?  What was the point of asking a guy to carry something pseudo heavy-ish if I could do it myself?

Well.  ‘cuz it turns out that I like to do my hair.  And I like a guy to carry pseudo heavy-ish things even though I can do it myself.  It’s a strange dichotomy I find myself living this past birthday of mine:  I am a consummate tomboy.  But I also like to wear pretty dresses and heels.  While reading Mental Floss or O magazine during the commercials of WWE’s Friday Night Smackdown.

I am all these things.

So, yep, I still wear jeans and my Chuck Taylors and consider myself one of the guys.  But now I can do it with my toes painted drinking raspberry margaritas.

What a great way to live.

Regardless of the fact that the government can be relatively humourless when it comes to many things, it continues to entertain me, albeit unintentionally.

I have a tax bill.  Many people have tax bills, but I am an actor. Read:  taxes are not taken off my paycheque in small bits and pieces where I don’t notice it.  Or, perhaps I could look at it as not being given the opportunity to notice it and complain loudly to my friends about my ‘bracket’ while downing my third pint at the local watering hole.  My local watering hole is the Comedy Bar.  Most of us are lucky to fall into a bracket that is not considered below the poverty line according to the CRA.  (Quick note:  I love what I do.  That’ll never change no matter how much or how little I make. *grin*)

I know I can be screwed if I don’t put money aside when I have it.  So, what I do when I get paid for a gig is I ferret it away in a savings account, accruing what I’m sure sounds like a much more glamorous amount of interest in my head than it actually turns out to be.  I shouldn’t be ungrateful: at the end of the year, I can buy myself a shiny new magazine subscription.  Many people can’t.  The point is, I save it up and when April rolls around, I cut a cheque for a ridiculous amount of money, which tends to make the normals gasp, and if there’s any left, I attempt to forget that I have it.  This leaves me to stress about the balance of my regular bank account more often, but if I run into a major problem, I do, usually, have some savings.

2009 has been a bitch of a year.  January and February are usually pretty bleak for artists.  These are the points where we usually start working on our own projects, breathing life into other ideas, maybe taking some classes, and waiting for the time when it starts to pick up again.  But the recession pretty much kicked that idea in the balls.  Things had started winding down at the end of 2008, where already commercial audition waiting rooms were filled with ‘television series’ folk who didn’t normally do commercials, but there was no work. So they bumped down many of the commercial actors, who found themselves wondering if their phones still worked.

Needless to say, I had to use what little savings I had to get through the beginning part of the year.  And then I broke my kneecap.  It was the best time for this to happen, actually.  I mean, apart from the physical pain and mental anguish, I was lucky enough to get benefits through my insurance.  Not a lot, but between that and the little I had in the bank, I managed to squeak by.  And I’d already made the decision to hold back part of the tax money I had saved until I had a chance to get back on my feet and book some work.

So naturally, when I got my notice of assessment, I was prepared for them to tell me that I still owed money on my account.  And let’s say for argument’s sake that I owed initially $5 000, to which I put down about $3 000, so I owed two thousand dollars.  As I perused my notice, I saw things I expected:  line 150, my total income was ‘x’;  line 260, my taxable income was ‘x’;  line 437, my Ontario property tax credit was….Wait.  What?  My Ontario property tax credit?  My Ontario sales tax credit??  Confused, I skimmed down to line 486, Payment on Filing.

$17, 435.32.

$17, 435.32?!?!

Total Credits: $11, 892.21

$11, 892. 21?!?!

I raced to my computer to check my account balance and lo and behold I was suddenly worth over twelve thousand dollars.  I believe I also ran to the bank at some point to take out twenty bucks so I could have the slip as proof of my new found financial status.

Now, of course, this was a mistake and I never had any notions of keeping it.  But that is only part one of what would be a second chapter of entertainment.  Being a good citizen, I called the number on the assessment to let someone know about the error.  I had a sense of humor about it.  The lady on the other end did not.  After taking some of my info, she put me on hold, then came back on the line to starkly inform me that I must return money immediately.  Yes.  Immediately.  Because if you owe the CRA money, they want it pronto and will proclaim it loudly in notice after notice.  But if they owe you money, they’ll whisper it in what may or may not be your general direction and if you don’t claim it after a certain amount of time, they get to keep it.  And I didn’t say any of that to Her Royal Uptightness.  But everyone thinks it.  And to put it on record, I’m a pretty good girl tax wise. Ask my accountant.  I claim everything because, in my opinion, I don’t need someone coming to me five years from now wanting money I don’t have.  I’d rather keep things above board and be done with it.

But part two continues with a stern giving of the address of my local tax centre and who to make my cheque out to, along with a letter pointing out the error.  Oh, yeah, and don’t forget to ask to put a trace on my measly three grand of a cheque that I sent in to cover part of my actual taxes.

Not even a thank you for making them aware of the problem.

Paper wise, that original assessment was three pages long all told, which covered general info about filing, about my RRSP limit and the incorrect notice itself.

The next assessment I got was two pages long. Ah, the correction!   It contained different dates and what happened on those dates:  my original assessment of a little over five grand, the erroneous application of the seventeen grand, them cashing my repayment cheque, etc.  The second page had big bold letters declaring my “Amount Owing” as two grand, and a little note with a puzzled air saying they hadn’t received my balance of payment.  “As we indicated before, your liability was due and payable upon receipt of your Notice of Assessment.  Please send us the full amount immediately.”  (They like that word.)  And I knew I wasn’t going to be able to pay the full balance, so I phoned and set up a schedule to pay in installments.  Cool.  Done and taken care of .  My first payment was imminent.

In the mail today, I got another envelope from the CRA.  My payment plan obviously hadn’t worked its way into the system yet, so I figured it would be another notice saying pretty much the same thing that had been said before.  But it didn’t actually say much of anything.  It was a single page.  With my name, and address, etc.  And in big bold letters:  Amount Owing:  $2 000.  That was it.  On the whole page.  No short paragraph about any calculations or to ignore the notice if I’d already paid it.  Just:  Amount Owing:  $2 000.  And a remittance voucher.

I’m not sure what to make of it.

Maybe they felt my ‘liability’ was getting lost with all the distracting paragraphs of written niceties.

I wonder what I’ll get next.

Is it odd to not buy Kleenex because you don’t like the box?

I had that thought not twenty minutes ago in the aisle at the grocery store.  I was scanning the price tabs to find the acceptable one ( 89 cents.  [And I just went to find the ‘cents’ symbol on my keyboard which means I’m old enough to know there used to be one.] ) and when I looked at the boxes….I paused.  I was literally considering not buying it because there were only two patterns that were obviously dreamed up by the guy who couldn’t make it into design college and this is now how he feeds his family.  Who knew there was such a job?  It was never something I would have ever thought of.  And now, I could very well be without Kleenex because of it.  But, thankfully, I found a third pattern somewhere in the back that must have been conceived by his assistant (you know, the spunky kid who breaks all the rules, who’ll eventually be fired for doing it and go on to create the next Family Guy. That guy.)  and hallelujah, I did not go without.

But that thought almost affected my purchasing ability.  And it made me think about what other quirks I may have. There’s at least two that I’m aware of.

First:  I have to walk on the left.  That’s the big one.  Not all the time.  Just most of the time.  I have no idea why and I couldn’t pinpoint the moment when it started or when I realized it.  Seriously, if I walk on your right, I’m just going to start listing to the left and start bumping into you so it’s just easier for me to be on the left to start with.  I feel very closed in walking on the right.  Quirk number one.

And quirk number two:  whenever I eat I have to make sure it’s…..hm, even?  If I cut something up, I have to make sure I eventually wind up with an even number of pieces.  Again, no clue where this came from.  I’ve taken a lot of dance, starting when I was around five, so maybe there’s a tie in with always doing the exercise on the right and the left the same number of times.  Evenly.  Or maybe it’s slight OCD.

I’m not even sure what other quirks I may have that I’m not aware of, though I’m sure all my friends would be willing and eager to point them out.  I mean, everyone has habits that they’ve developed over the years and not all of them are necessarily ‘quirks’.  But I’m pretty sure not wanting to buy Kleenex because of the box would be considered one.

How awesome is that?

When did K-Tel start writing copy for the Stratford Festival?

And now I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes wondering how to segue this, because how do I? How do I find a thought to connect that phrase when so many other thoughts sprang from the first one? I need some sort of professional organizer or cerebral border collie.

The Fringe Festival is going on here in Toronto, and the benefits from my accident are finished with, which means my week has been filled with shows, beer tents and giving feedback to x-ray tech students about how to deal with patients so I can go to said shows and beer tents. (That’s right folks, medical students don’t just get thrown out into hospitals and clinics, there are actors in the trenches and on the front lines who take the brunt of their mistakes as they weave their way through the learning process. I could be an integral part to your healing. I try to remember this when I hit my head on the x-ray machine and almost get dumped off of my stretcher. The $20 an hour is also good.) So last night, a girlfriend of mine and I had a sleepover with wine, dinner and cutting a rug at the Tranzac Club before stumbling home: Leesa because of the drink and me because of my cane.

Saturday mornings I get the paper. I loves me the paper. Nothing quite like sitting at my table with a cup of tea reading the Saturday Star and absorbing the sunlight. And being out late the night before always makes it that much more delicious. As I sat quietly reading and thinking about the Cute Boy from the Fringe tent, I came across an ad for the Stratford Festival. “West Side Story” it proclaimed in large letters, “with Chilina Kennedy and Paul Nolan” in slightly smaller letters, “with Hit Songs”—

Wait. What? “with Hit Songs such as: ‘America’ ‘Somewhere’ ‘Tonight’ “. The words ‘hit songs’ were larger within the phrase and the three songs were listed directly underneath it in quotation marks. And I stopped. And I scrutinized. It was a smaller ad in the Living Section of the paper (although I did find a larger one in the Insight section, which seemed wholly ironic to me.) And I wondered: when did West Side Story become a ‘Greatest Hits’ album? A vinyl compilation of songs reproduced in poor quality, and, at times, edited for space? So many thoughts flew through my head from the commercials I used to watch growing up to Eddie Murphy’s SNL Buckwheat parody. Are all of Stratford’s ad’s being presented this way? Is it a targeted campaign to get ‘the kids’ out of our alleyways where they’re smoking or their cars where they’re parking and into theatres for some good wholesome fun without their realizing it because they’ll be listening to ‘Hit Songs’? Moms and Dads everywhere will be thrilled that they’re teens are getting the culture their parents want and teens get to bop along to the music of Bernstein while retaining their coolness status. It’s a win-win situation which ends in everyone going out for frosty chocolate milkshakes afterward.

Ah, K-Tel. You’re a long way from the Mini Pops.

I am truly beginning to re-enter my world.  My crutches have been cast aside, the Immobilizer is in the witness relocation program, and I’ve moved onto my sassy borrowed cane.  C’mon!  Someone my age using a cane is definitely hot, if not quirky.  It’s unusual.  It’s hip.  It’s collapsible.  I wish that I could paint flames on the side to prove how fast I’m going, comparatively speaking, but it’s not mine and I’m too broke to repaint it when I give it back.

But the thing with the cane is—that it’s a cane.  It’s not quite as noticeable as the crutches or the leech that was once attached to my leg.  I’ve once again entered the realm where I’m ‘almost’ back into society.   With my crutches and leg brace, I had people genially opening doors, making good hearted remarks, if not leaping out of my way to make sure I had a place to sit or to just help me sit, or get the elevator or what have you.  Even when I had the crutches and no leg brace, I still had polite enquiries, encouraging words and “Did you want to sit down?”

Now, it’s all falling to the wayside.  Slowly, surely, Torontonians are testing their limits, like a child, seeing how far they can push me now that I’ve graduated to three legs instead of four.  Without, of course, appearing completely disingenuous or jerk like.  It’s like I’m being brought back into the fold of obliviousness in stages.

I get more dirty looks riding the elevator at the TTC since my cane isn’t really noticeable until the doors open.  Getting on the subway, I see everyone scramble for a seat until there aren’t any left and then the game begins.  The little voice in everyone’s head says “Is someone else going to notice her or do I have to?”.  Then the issue becomes, “If I make eye contact, I have to make a decision.”  Of course, eye contact is made, and one can hear the reverberation of a thousand silent reprimands as the others who were too chicken shit to look at me judge the lone, sad individual who made the fatal mistake.  “If they don’t give her their seat, that’s just awful.  What an asshole.  He’s got two good legs.  Wait!  I need to adjust the shopping bag sitting next to me; I can’t have my purchases on the floor, that’s disgusting.  Seriously, what’s taking him so long??  Wait until I tell Cheryl, she’ll lose her mind!”  Eventually, the sad person will slowly stand up so I can sit, but they’re kind enough to let me know through their body language that I’ve completely ruined their day.  Not for long because they’re getting off at the next stop, but the point is made.

Getting off the subway is also entertaining because I can see the people who are waiting to get on trying to decide if it would be uncouth to still charge the doors.  Many start, then stop.  Some folks will never care and fight their way on much like a salmon swimming upstream.  Others will hesitate while trying to calculate how to squeeze around me, and then proceed, flattening themselves up against the doorway, purchases flailing up and down within a millimeter of my person, again with no eye contact, ‘cuz if there’s no eye contact, it doesn’t count.  I finally made my way to my first movie in two months courtesy of the lovely Jim Kim, where I had a fabulous time watching my heroes defeat evil once again (yes, yes, it was the Transformers, I loves me the robots) and after the show, when I headed to the family washroom so I didn’t have to climb the stairs, there were two burly young men who couldn’t have been more than twenty two standing there.  One ignored me.  The other gave me a sheepish grin, then ignored me.  And on the way home, I had someone following me so closely they literally stepped on the back of my foot.

I am once again being re-normalized into society.  Where no one looks at you, where their needs are tantamount, and where I will still move too slowly for their tastes even in my top form.

Thanks heavens for comedy.  I will use you all.  And I’m grateful for my friends and the truly kind strangers who laugh along with me at the behaviour of the crowd.  We’ve got your number

And we’re gonna laugh at it.