Gangsta's paradise: Ottawa style

The first grown-up apartment is an exciting step in anyone’s life. It’s not an apartment you share with 3 others, it’s not your parents’ basement and it’s not a furnished sublet. No. This is an apartment you are responsible for filling with furniture and memories.

Granted, I went through phases of most of these stages.

The roommate situation was great in one sense. It provided you with instant friends. Sure, it’s a bit of a forced friendship because they live there and really have no escape from you, but let’s coax ourselves into believing they like you. The only downfall of this arrangement for me was that there were five of us sweaty humans living on a tropical island with one bathroom.

It was also tricky because our doors didn’t fully lock and we were constantly interrupted by feral cats and wild chickens roaming around. But let’s chalk that up to a true Robinson Crusoe experience.

As far as a furnished sublet, there too can be a range. I am willing to concede that not every sublet apartment comes with resident racoon with anger issues. Mine did.

It greeted me one day as I opened my squeaky door into the smoky hallway. Hallway is a rich term that would imply windows and lighting though, so take that term conservatively. This was more like an outdoor prison hall. As I peered out, a giant angry racoon growled back at me. This was when I first learned that racoons growl. Silently, I closed the door and went to my war tent. Strategy was needed. And like any modern gal, I turned to my Facebook friends.

One said: “spray it with something.”

Misunderstanding this advice, I grabbed a bottle of Febreeze. I sprayed the racoon, expecting a white flag of defeat, but instead it growled even more prominently, clearly unimpressed with its newly begotten Spring Meadow scent.

I also banged pots and pans, but again to no avail. It took two friends with hockey sticks to come to my rescue. Their initial bravado when discussing the mission on the phone was quickly squashed upon arrival.

“That thing is the size of a bear,” said one.

They retreated and planned an attack. Finally, with gentle encouragement of the hockey stick , the raccoon ran down the stairs never to be seen again.

And so finally, it came to me getting my very own apartment. And so, the collection of furniture began.   My budget mindset led me from garage sale to garage sale, in search of bits and pieces of furniture.

I am also not above wandering the streets of a nearby wealthy neighbourhood the day before garbage collection.

“A lifesaver? Sweet. How did I live without this hanging in my bathroom?” I thought as I procured one of the more eclectic pieces of home décor.

Perhaps one of the more macabre finds was my entertainment unit, which houses my tv with the screen the size of a cellphone.

Someone was offering a free entertainment unit. Who am I to say no to free furniture?

So I contacted the man. Wearing denim cut-offs and a grey rat tail, the man gave an impression of an alternative artist or a hobo from the wrong side of tracks.

I wandered into the darkened apartment.

“So, there’s the unit. The previous owner died last week.”

“Ok…” I said wearily.

I tried to proceed quickly to load the piece into my compact car, but no luck.

“Well, “ he said wetting his lips, “I could always come to your place and drop it off. Give me your address.”

He meant well, I’m sure, but I’ve seen too many Criminal Minds episodes where this kind of proposal ended with Shemar Moore picking up your remains and shaking his good looking head in despair.

“She should’ve known better,” he’d whisper, shaking his chiseled bicep toward the heavens.

Eventually, on the third visit, with the help of a friend, we were able to affix the armoire on the roof of my car.

So, piece by piece; there it was. My own furnished apartment. I’ve grown to love its quirks and charm. Some, like the constantly dripping faucet that dripped scalding hot water and turned my entire apartment into a sauna, were not quite as charming as they could’ve been. And then there was the obese mouse that made its home in one of my drawers, where over the period of two months it consumed a 1-pound bag of chocolate chips.

I have not seen it in a while and blame its disappearance on sudden onset of diabetes and/or morbid obesity that prevented it to fit into the tiny hole from whence it came.

And so I stood on my balcony, reminiscing on my quaint existence in what I maintain is the cutest apartment. I shrugged off these minor problems like a mouse.  With a knowing smile I glanced over to one side of my balcony as if to absorb why I love this place.

This is when I noticed the rotted hole in the floor, with few weak boards separating me from life and death.

 

Pickles.

-->Not every person you go on a date with will be your soulmate. This, I accept. Yet, with my childlike enthusiasm intact, I remain hopeful. But then, there are those dates that make you rethink your orientation. Yep. I said it.

Let me take you on a journey. I promise you a variety of emotions: disappointment, annoyance and finally, the feeling of "fate, you're an asshole."

Let's start with the first feeling, shall we? Disappointment. You may remember this feeling from opening a Kinder Surprise only to find 6-piece puzzle, rather than a cool mechanical toy or collectible figurine. You with me? Okay, so disappointment.

It was the evening of my second date with a particular boy. Let’s call him, Pickle Boy. The first date was average, but hey, which first date isn't awkward? So, I decided to ignore my gut feeling and agree to a second date.

And so, there we are at a comedy club, waiting for the show to start.

We ease into an awkward conversation about pickles.

"My mom doesn't like pickles," he says.

I nod, feigning interest.

"Huh," I say, doing my best to come up with segue to this statement.

" She also doesn't eat coconuts," he continues.

Suddenly, a waitress interrupted his stream of consciousnss.

"What would you like to drink?" she asks us innocently.

"Nothing," he responds matter-of-factly.

I order an iced tea. Sipping this would give me the necessary distraction I so longed for, while waiting for the comics to take the stage. Part of me wanted to simply avoid conversation, because his breath has seen better days.

We both watched the show in silence.

At the end of the show, he casually asks whether I would like to go for a drink elsewhere. This puzzled me, because he plainly rejected the bill for the whopping $3 iced tea I had ordered. I wondered what his game plan was.

So, I came up with the best excuse I could.

" I...have to phone a friend," I stuttered.

He believed me. I blocked his attempt at a kiss with a ninja-like disappearing act into my car.

The next day, he asked me out again.

I politely explained that while he seems like a nice guy, I didn't feel any romantic connection with him. He didn't believe me and suggested we do something else. I struggled to explain that the activity was not the problem.

Again, he responded with a bold "You don't even know how good a kisser I am!"

My mind wandered back to warmth of his neglected breath. I didn't want to know.

This constant back-and-forth and his inability to accept my rejection led to, you guessed it, annoyance.

This annoyance was further strengthened later that evening with a trip to Canadian Tire. Let's all agree that while they may have sick pricing on dairy and camping supplies, their customer service skills are about as present as snail's knitting skills. They're just not there. They welcome customer questions with the same attitude most welcome rashes.

And so, when I was told that my bicycle has not arrived as promised and they would not be able to honour my rain cheque even if the bicycle does possibly appear in some distant future, I was annoyed.

I requested to speak to the manager, but the staff member protected him with the determination of Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard. He would let no one near him. Part of me admired that.

I wandered off into the store, in hopes of finding another bike. As I am still fuming, unable to comprehend Canadian Tire's inability to help, fate decided to throw a curveball my way.

There stood Pickle Boy.

I once again explained that despite my three texts rejecting him, which might have led him to believe I was just playing hard to get, I was not interested in dating him.

I left him among the bicycles and wished him luck in search of something nice to ride.

When the moon hits your eye and you're stuck in the sky....

I’m like a stamp collector. But instead of stamps, I collect awkward dates. So, there I was, urged on by a fellow to go night-time skiing. Why, that sounded just dandy! And given that our last interaction was, well, another date, I felt like this invitation was going to be, well, a date.

 

He picked me up, and on the way, the ride was filled with flirty pleasantries, a giggle here and there and it seemed hopeful, all in all.

As we were skiing and snowboarding, sharing in the romance of the snowy evening, he kept bringing up the possibility of some seemingly fictional friends of his joining us. I was starting to sense this might be but a lie, because two hours into it, his friends were still nowhere to be found.

 

So, we decided to go grab hot chocolate in the lodge, to thaw and continue our innocent coquettish banter.

Just as he’s asking me about my burlesque performance, he casually mentions “the girl he’s been dating.”

 

Suddenly, I thought “Well, hold on there sailor, why am I here partaking in a snowy evening of merriment and sport with you if you have some chick somewhere out there?”

 

But before I could ponder this any longer, his friends showed up. They were two couples. Again, I thought “what screwy adventure is this?

 

Following this odd break, he and I continued to ski and snowboard solo. On the way up, I no longer sat on the inside seats of the lift. Nope, as a sign of defiance I sat on the outer seat. He chose to fill the awkward silence with questions about my dating life.

But the evening was far from over.

 As the evening wore on, my bladder finally caught up to being filled with hot chocolate. I decided to hold it for one more run. Just one last run. We got onto the chair lift, went about half-way up, still feeling sufficiently uncomfortable both physically because of the full bladder and emotionally because of the confused non-date situation.

 Suddenly the chair lift stopped.

“Do you think they forgot we’re up here?” I asked my non-date across the chair lift.

“Hmm I don’t think so,” he responded and proceeded to whistle and holler to the attendant at the top of the hill.

“See? He’s just putting down more snow for us,” he comforted me. But no. He was cleaning up his little booth, shutting her down for the night.

The skidoos zoomed down the mountain and it became painfully clear we were indeed forgotten.

So, there I was. On a date with a guy who’s dating someone else, freezing, with an increased urgency to pee and stuck on a chair lift left to die in the frosty night.

Finally, one of the rescuers, a jolly Irishman, heard our pleas and skied underneath us.

“How did you guys get up there?” he asked. This question was puzzling given that we were dangling high above ground on a ski lift. The answer seemed clear.

We left it unanswered.

“You guys had a close call there…almost had a cold night ahead of you.” This probably seemed cute to him, because he figured we could use body heat, because he, like I, thought this was a date.

“You really should watch Frozen,” he continued, “it’s a horror movie about a couple left on a chair lift over night,” he continued his light-hearted banter.

“Excuse me, sir, but you are getting help, right?” I interrupted his musings. He confirmed and 15 minutes later we were zooming down the hill.

It was the date that had all the makings for a comedy and horror, but none for romance.