How Amazon Took Away my Will to Live

 It has taken every part of me not to give up on Amazon altogether and simply throw away the possibility of shopping online.  Sadly, pandemic makes online shopping difficult to avoid. Have you ever had impossibly unsatisfying customer service? I have. And then Amazon came along. Suddenly all previous experiences seemed like a walk in a sunny park. Let me take you back.

 

At the beginning of August, there I was bright eyed and bushy tailed and filled with hope for the world.  Amazon would soon shatter this hope.

I decided to voluntarily contact customer service.

I was calling on behalf of my mom and was inquiring about closing down my deceased dad’s account. I explained to them that though I have proper log in information, I cannot cancel the account as it always sends confirmation code to my dad’s cell phone, which has long been disconnected. Easy enough right? Amazon is a global company that surely has a system in place.

 

Phone call #1: Yes; no problem. We have a system in place. We will send an email to your dad’s email address, you simply click the link to confirm you want the account cancelled and it’s done.

 

I hang up, open the email and click the link. Guess what? They have sent a confirmation code to my dad’s cell phone.

 

Phone call #2: I explain the situation. This customer service rep is far ruder than the first. He gives me the run-around and requests last several purchases my dad made, the credit card info that was on the account and – get this – an item he saved but never purchased. I don’t even know that for myself, much less for someone else. I explain the impossibility of getting said information and he concludes: That’s your only chance. Fine. I hang up and call my mom so we start somehow gathering this information at least partially.

 

Phone call #3: Me and my mom call back. Explain situation. This person tells me Amazon doesn’t need anything from us and they will cancel it on their end no problem! Perfect. Confusing that everyone is operating under different beliefs, but fine. They then ask for my email address to which they will send a confirmation when my dad’s account is closed.

I say – and this is important – “Just to be clear, I do not want you to close my account that’s associated to my email address.”

She chuckles at the improbability of this mistake “of course not! We would never cancel your account.”

 

….

 

Two weeks go by and I receive an email from Amazon, asking for a copy of my dad’s death certificate. This seems intense for Amazon. Calm down. You’re an internet store.

I reply, saying I’m confused because last time we spoke with someone, she told us no further action is needed from us.

 

Couple minutes later, I receive a response.

 

“We have cancelled your account.”

 

You read that right, my account. Not my dad’s.

 

Call #4: Once again I explain the situation. But guess what, my account is nowhere to be found. Whoever closed my account deleted it from existence on the server. Puzzled, David W. tells me he’s never seen this before! Me neither, David W. Me neither. After an hour, he tells me he will escalate the issue and that yes, they will close my dad’s account. 

“Someone will get back to you,” he lies through his teeth cheerfully.

 

Weeks go by with no communication from Amazon.

 

Call #5: I explain the situation. I tell the dude I’m frustrated.

“I care!” he fibs loudly.

Turns out, indeed, no one has attempted to cancel my dad’s account and yep, still, no one knows where my account went. He puts me on hold, but jk, actually just passes me onto someone else to whom once again I explain the situation. She can’t help on either front. Says my dad has to call.

….

Well, Rhonda. No. I explain the situation. And she says they can’t “just close someone’s account.” I counter with “Well, how the heck did whichever intern you got to delete my account do it without my knowledge?”

 Rhonda doesn’t know. Me neither. Jeff Bezos doesn’t know.

 

Rhonda says I have to open a new account. But here’s the catch: I can’t because it says an account with that email already exists! But it doesn’t. But it does?

Fine, I start a new email address and create an account while Rhonda puts me on hold.

 

A new person with no knowledge of my situation picks up. (Where did Rhonda go?) I explain the situation. 

She sympathizes and prays. Promises me a solution is on the way: they will cancel my dad’s account AND give me credit on my new account. “Hurray,” I thought prematurely and foolishly.

 

Today, folks. I try to make a purchase with my new account. It is blocked. Why? No one knows. 

 

Call #6: Why is my account blocked? She doesn’t know. Will never know; hopes someone will get back to me tomorrow.

 

For the love of all that is good in the world, Amazon, I beg of you to get yourself together. Jeff – organize your people better. 

Having terrified fun in the face of an adventure

So, we thought it would be adorable to participate in what was referred to as a “sunset hike.” The idea was magical. Strangers gather in a parking lot and begin an evening hike. We hike during dusk, watch a sunset together and then descend as the sun sets, guided by the luminous glow of the full moon. Sure we will bring headlamps, but almost more as an accessory, because, after all, full moon will light our way.

When we arrived at said parking lot, our anticipated crowd of 20 or so fellow hikers turned into more than 80. My friend and I looked at each other with confidence.

“Well, we don’t really need guidance, do we now?” Not wanting to be stuck in a crowd of hikers, we decided to forge ahead on our own.

The leisurely start to our walk gave us false bravado.

We sat on a rock and looked over at the hillside that spread out below us. Magical, we thought. But sunset was nowhere to be seen. The promise of woods and hills covered in soft orange glow was not meant to be, because it was cloudy. This might wreak havoc with our descent plans lit by the soft glow of the full moon. Never mind, we thought.

We were committed to both fun and survival of the activity.

Darkness was falling and the moon or - other hikers - were nowhere to be seen. We donned our headlamps and that’s when I realized some items simply shouldn’t be purchased from a dollar store. I I assume condoms, pregnancy tests and - as I learned - headlamps.
At first glance, my lamp was competitive enough. But upon even the subtlest glance down at my feet, the lamp aggressively swung into my face, blinding me. I embraced the challenge, vowing to invest into a better lamp immediately upon my return, should I survive. One added element of danger was my friend’s walking sticks. She was ahead of me, swinging her walking sticks wildly with abandon and in her enthusiasm forgot my presence behind her. This led to a couple of near-misses wherein the sticks nearly got my eye, which was already partially blinded by the poorly designed headlamp. Our walk was elevated to an adventure.

We quickly realized why this was not the trail to take during the dark. As we semi-blindly scrambled down the hill, through a creek bed, skipping across slick stones to traverse across a full-on brook, while climbing over muddied fallen logs….we knew we had chosen the path less traveled.

Covered in mud and dirt with bruises that have yet to blossom, we at last spotted the end. From the other end of the forest, we saw the group we were trying outrun.

Like a cult on their way to a sacrifice, 80 headlamps emerged from the forest.
They seemed perfectly clean.

How peeping led to marriage

The other day I was regaling someone with a dating mishap from a couple of years ago. She was amused by my misfortune, and giggled gleefully, as I sipped my beer dejectedly.

But I thought – heck why not amuse more of you?

In this story, I played a key role in reuniting a previously crumbled relationship. Am I a hero? Perhaps. Let’s go back a couple of years. A mutual friend had suggested she set me up on a date. He sounded great. For one, he could spell. I was in.

Following some intriguing texting, we decided to go strawberry picking. It was delightful. But that’s where I should’ve started to pay attention.

You see, it hasn’t even been a year since he broke up with his girlfriend of 10+ years when she rejected his proposal. Ok, I thought, that might not be as final as one might think, but let’s give it a shot. He then told me he wrote a song about their breakup, and would like to tattoo the lyrics onto his body.

Alright, that’s a bit of a sign he may not be over it, I thought, but let’s keep giving him the benefit of the doubt here.

The last droplet of information that should have just forced the red flag right in my face was when he revealed to me that while he no longer lives with his ex, he did move into an apartment immediately next door to hers.

Now it did strike me as peculiar that you would want to run into your ex that frequently. Also, did Ottawa run out of other apartment buildings? But I guess at least he didn’t have to drag his bindle of sadness and memories too far. Once again, however, I shoved that red flag far into the depths of the pockets that represent denial. That was probably the absolutely only apartment available in this city of a million.

On one date, that lasted 14 hours, we got caught in the rain ended up at his apartment.

What I didn’t know at the time was that his ex was peeking through the peephole – presumably not creepily at all – and keeping an eye out on her man. Sure she didn’t want him, but god help anyone else who might! Like a predator watching his prey, she stood silent against the door of her apartment.

 “He left so early this morning,” she likely thought , “why isn’t he back yet to write more breakup songs about me?”

And alas she spotted me. This is when the sheer power of potential loneliness overtook her. What if he won’t mourn her forever? What if he moves on? What if she eventually has to change apartments? This cannot stand. She took a swig of …herbal tea probably (she was a vegan) …and decided to pen a love letter.

The next day, he reveals to me receipt of this letter.

“well…that’s looking real promising for me,” I mused.

“No, no …I’m only meeting with her to talk. Nothing more,” he assured me.

“Yeah, no, that sounds really great  and chats with exes are usually pretty unemotional and easy and I will definitely continue to be the person you date. I can feel it.”

He was meeting with her on Sunday. Our dinner date was set for Monday. Well long story short - they are now married and have me to thank for it. Well, me and a functioning peephole.

Just when I thought I had it.

Since it’s Valentine’s Day and all that I thought I would share an amusing story that just goes to show what the true priorities in any loving relationship should be. Take note.

This conversation happened almost a year ago while I was visiting a lovely friend of mine. Now, my friend is a stay-at-home mom to two little girls. This will matter to you shortly.

Let me set the scene. It was a beautiful sunny, Hawaiian morning and it was a good time for me to just enjoy the fact that I’m kinda just killing it and hanging out in Hawaii. I don’t need no relationship! (this is what I thought before a pint-sized relationship expert drew me in for a quick dish session.)

I was re-packing my backpack. A backpack that, I should add, had a little pink flower keychain on it. This. This goddamn flower is what started the talk.

“Do you have this pink flower on there because you’re a girl?” asked my friend’s 4-year-old.

Here’s where I thought I had my chance to impart modern-day wisdom.

“Well, a boy can have a pink flower keychain too if he likes it.”

And here it came.

“Ok. So then your husband has a keychain like this too then?”

Fair conclusion.
“Well, I don’t have a husband.”
Her little face tried to hide shock and disappointment in my life.

“….a boyfriend?” she asked hopefully.

“Well, no, I don’t have a boyfriend now,” I answered. This didn’t sit well with her though and you could tell shit just wasn’t adding up.

“But does that mean YOU have to go to work?”

Now, I was disappointed in my life too.
“Yes, yes I do,” I nodded sadly.
Still, more questions were brewing.

“So, what if you want to have kids?” Ah. The question every 30-some-year-old single girl loves to hear. Should I tell her that a kid can be had after just a couple of glasses of wine and zero marriage ceremony? No. I can’t shatter her view just yet.

“Well, I have cute nieces so I can always play with them.”

She gave me a sympathetic look and sat there in silence. After some time, the real bombshell of a question shot out.

“But what if you want to play board games?”
I can’t say I haven’t considered this key element of a relationship in the past, but slamming it out there like that really makes you think. Board games. How do I play board games alone? In a matter of minutes, the attitude I started the day with - one where I was a confident, independent, traveling woman with a good job - was shattered.

“Well,” I said, trying to save my failing image, “I have friends I can play with.”

I think at this point she questioned whether I even had friends. I’ve let her down so much already.

“True,” she conceded, “but you have to leave your house for that.”

 

The one where I realize I was a soul-less child.

Children are strange. They have priorities in life that seem to escape logic and as adults the oddest pieces of childhood are remembered.
The other day, I shared one of those memories with my mom, who looked at me quizzically as if to confirm that I was still hers.

What I had recalled, you see, was my first brush with crime. But it was a crime that I had clearly willfully forgotten about because it was proof that as a child, I did not have a soul or indeed empathy for any other human being. Think pulling kitten’s tail, but worse. Think throwing someone’s prosthetic leg in the fire, but worse.

It’s time to come clean and share the moment that separated me from a loveable child and a heartless criminal.

“Oh, what did you take someone’s crayon?” you’re likely thinking with a forgiving wink in your eye.

“Did you purposefully muddy up your sister’s shirt because she and your cousin had the same one and you didn’t and you were jealous?"

Yes, that happened also, but this was worse.

I stole from an orphan. Nay - multiple orphans.

You hope I am exaggerating or using fanciful terminology, but you’re wrong.

Let me take you back to the years that formed me into a human being.

My mom worked at an orphanage. Now that makes it sound like I grew up at the turn of the 19^th century and she took a buggy to work right after she beat our laundry on the rock, but nope. That’s a thing.

Now, we would go there sometimes to hang out with fellow children, but – let that sink in – you know, they were orphans, while I had parents.

But here’s what you don’t understand. These children had the coolest toy ever and I wanted it. Was it a Barbie? No, you fools. Barbies were owned by capitalist wannabes. Was it Lego? Also no. It was a tennis ball with a slit in it on a stick.

This sort of gives you an idea of the barometer of coolness against which  I was judging life’s luxuries. And while the parentless children looked on, I took this toy home.

It was not until later on in life (some might say, shockingly later) that my conscience alterted me that stealing from orphans is uncouth.

Did every child NOT clean a gas mask?

Let me preface this by saying that by all accounts, I had a really awesome childhood.

But, every time I speak with someone who was born and raised in Canada, I am reminded of how different my own experience was. When I mention the main colour of my childhood was beige, I’m not exaggerating. For some reason, most of the outfits you could buy behind the ol’ Iron Curtain seemed to be beige in colour.

I remember the excitement I felt when our exotic Canadian uncle sent us purple jackets.

I was all like “daaaamn son, I’ve got it made now!” I was almost blinded by the colour of capitalism.

Yet another reminder came a few months ago when we were all getting ready for a Halloween outing and one girl came by with a gas mask clipped to her belt, claiming to be a Russian Spy.

Everyone was amazed at the ludicrousness of such a realistic accessory. To me it just seemed like a fond childhood memory.

“Oh! That looks just like the ones we cleaned as kids during our exercises!” I squealed with the delight of a child who just spotted his/her favourite childhood snack.

Blank faces turned to me in horror.

“…Pardon?”

“Well, I mean we had to be ready, right? So we each had a gas mask – sometimes had to share one among a couple of us – and we cleaned them and made sure they still fit!”

I mean, I’m not suggesting everyone needs to clean a gas mask to have a happy childhood memory, but then what DID you people do in school?

Yet another thing that made me a tough kid, I think, were the regular camp games that we all participated in.

Sure, there was colouring and all of that safe stuff. But we also participated in something called the grenade toss. That’s right, give your kids what – I assume now in retrospect were inactive – grenades and we competed to see who can throw it farther. No biggie. This I thought was yet another childhood activity that everyone could relate to. Turns out, not so. Again, what DID you people toss if not a grenade?

I’m still grappling with my ability to relate to other children as they quote their experiences of day camps without grenade toss, colourful outfits and masks they wore for fun rather than as a prepper.

Damnit,Meredith - you're ruining my ER expecations!

I realize that I’m about a decade too late on my diatribe about Grey’s Anatomy. But I only recently started watching Grey’s Anatomy and it has left me with some pretty strong feelings. And I just need to get it out of me. Much like an aneurism might explode on Derek’s table, so too do my emotions in this blog.

First of all, can we just talk about unrealistic expectations this show sets up for us in terms of healthcare? Now, I’ve been to an ER once or twice but my experience was vastly different from that of the emergent patients riding on up to the doors of Seattle Grace/Mercy West/Grey Sloan Memorial hospital.
Generally speaking there is never a welcome parade of ridiculously good looking doctors just waiting outside the emergency entrance, ready to fight over who gets to give you better service.

Here’s what my latest ER experience was:

You walk in and are immediately hopeful that perhaps this time it will not take 6 hours to be seen. But that’s where you’re wrong. You’re shuffled from one waiting room to the next, your hope slowly fading into nothingness with each step you take towards the mirage of health. Once you’ve been there for good 2 or 3 hours, you start to question the severity of your injury. Could I just maybe go home and die quietly? Is this worth it? But then your sense of commitment kicks in and like a girl at the end of a never-ending bathroom line, you are determined to see it through. You’ve put in too much time to give up now. You will not give them the satisfaction.

Though there are some weak ones out there who just can’t take the pressure. While I was stoically in my 4^th hour of wait time, a sickly looking gal was brought in. She was supported by two of her friends and barely mobile. She looked on the verge of death and the human side of me wanted her to go ahead of me. But then also, I was all like: she should’ve gotten sick sooner. This spot is MINE.

But also, she looked like she only had a couple of hours left. They even brought out a gurney so she could await the sweet release of death in comfort. That’s when she whispered:

“How long before I can be seen?”
And the nurse answered, “Probably in 2.5 hours.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the sickly girl shouted, hopped off the gurney and marched out the door.

 

But this side is never seen on Grey’s Anatomy. And it just hurts my expectations. One episode should just be from the point of view of someone in the waiting room. Just 45 minutes of waiting. The episode would end with “to be continued.”

 

Netflix support: From reset to meeting each other's parents

Just to prove further that Netflix customer service is great....this is a transcript of my convo with one of their support staff. Keep in mind that I have spoken to this particular support dude once before...Anyway, enjoy the read!




Netflix Trevor

Hello my name is Trevor and i'll be your Netflix expert today. Who am I speaking with ?

You

Marketa

Netflix Trevor

Hey Marketa :) It's nice to talk to you again.

Netflix Trevor

What's going on ?

You

Well, Netflix on my smarttv is not at all recognizing my new account info

Netflix Trevor

Aaa gotcha, well you came to the right person for help ! one moment while I get your account pulled up.

Netflix Trevor

Alright, can you sign into other devices with the same log in info ?

You

yeah my computer seems fine

Netflix Trevor

Okay cool, so this means that there is some backed up data going through the Netflix app on the TV. But don't worry, let's go through some steps to get this working for ya Marketa :) Could I have you unplug the TV from the power outlet for 1 min. Then press the power button on the TV before plugging it back in. This will fully discharge the TV from any stuck electrical currents.

You

ok

Netflix Trevor

Let me know if you can sign in after.

You

nope

Netflix Trevor

Alright, no problem. Could I now have you press Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, Up, Up, Up, Up. on the TV's remote while on the sign in screen. Let me know if you get a different screen.

You

just a sec

Netflix Trevor

Take your time :)

You

so i still press sign-in on the home page right>

Netflix Trevor

No, you will need to press those buttons on the remote in that order and a second screen should pop up.

Netflix Trevor

It might take a couple times.

You

ah ok

Netflix Trevor

:)

You

nothing's happening

Netflix Trevor

Alright, no problem. There is one more way to get you signed out of the app and get rid of that backed up data. We will need to reset the TV. Don't worry, this won't harm the TV at all either. Let me grab those steps really quick.

You

ok

Netflix Trevor

Thank you for all of your patience Marketa. You having a good morning so far ?

You

well sure ! how come you're the only one working for Netflix?

You

seemingly

Netflix Trevor

LOL It's just a luck of the draw I guess. I have only had a few people that I have talked to more than once :)

You

ok i thought the whole enterprise was run by you and your pet cat named Theodor

You

anyway - carry on

Netflix Trevor

LOL Theodor is pretty skilled, but not very friendly :)

Netflix Trevor

Thank you.

Netflix Trevor

Alright, here are the steps to reset the TV. Let me know if you have any questions on them.

Netflix Trevor

Press the Home button on your remote. Select Setup. Select TV Settings. Select General. Select Reinstall TV.

You

hmm i have no tv settings

You

i see picture, sound, features, installation, software

Netflix Trevor

Interesting... And you are out of the Netlfix app in the TV's main menu ?

You

yeah

Netflix Trevor

Okay one moment.

You

would restoring default settings do the trick?

Netflix Trevor

Yes that is what we're looking for :)

You

no man, this isn't happening at all. it wants a pin from me that i never actually set

You

oy vey

Netflix Trevor

Try 0000

Netflix Trevor

It's usually the default password.

You

ah winner!

Netflix Trevor

SWEETT !! haha

You

now everything is dark and the tv's off...

Netflix Trevor

Ya it will restart itself during the reset.

You

what have we done?? this tv was my only friend.

Netflix Trevor

LOL don't worry it will come back up :) If not, then let's go ahead and press the power button to bring it back up.

You

ok so it's been quiet for a while now...turn it on?

Netflix Trevor

Yes

Netflix Trevor

It should have you set it back up after it comes on.

You

despite how i come across i'm not actually 89 and usually grasp technology

Netflix Trevor

OH I know the feeling all to well Marketa :)

You

ok it's just looking for channels and such

Netflix Trevor

Okay no problem at all, I'm a pretty patient guy haha.

You

unlike theodor

You

do you get to watch netflix at work as part of training?

Netflix Trevor

Ya, he would be pretty rude lol No unfortunately not :/ But I love the job so I guess I am fine with not watching at work lol

You

oh well, i guess you and your coworkers can at least re-enact your favourite scenes for one another

Netflix Trevor

Ya we have a lot of fun at work haha We are laughing constantly and cracking jokes. it makes the day a lot better.

You

oh that's nice :) it sounds like a magical land

You

(ps. still looking for channels...)

Netflix Trevor

Ya kind of like stumbling into Narnia :) Oh gotcha, no worries. You were in the main smart TV's settings right ?

You

yep...so resetting everything that my tv knew about me.

You

like language and where it's sittign and all that jazz

Netflix Trevor

Oh gotcha, if you want to set that back up, I would be more than happy to wait with you :) Is it still going through channels ?

You

yes it is...apparently i'm baller and have many channels

Netflix Trevor

Ya I was just thinking that !! You must be pretty popular haha What do you usually do for fun in Canada ? Isn't it pretty cold all year round ? I don't know much about it.

You

clearly! it's actually 12 degrees right now...Celsius that is.

You

not sure what that is in your made-up temperature degrees

You

i'm just heading off to a Xmas market actually to sell my pottery

Netflix Trevor

LOL I am not sure. Oh you make pottery ? It get's pretty cold here too during the winter.

You

where are you?

Netflix Trevor

I am in Utah, in the US. Great snowboarding powder though :)

You

see? you know what winter's all about. everyone's just imagining all of Canada to be a frozen tundra. But it ain't.

Netflix Trevor

I just looked at some pictures :) It looks beautiful ! What part are you in ?

You

Ottawa

You

it's pretty

Netflix Trevor

Looking at a couple pictures :)

Netflix Trevor

Are there a lot of castles there ?

You

hahah

You

yes i live in the biggest one

You

right beside our hunky new Prime Minister

Netflix Trevor

THATS AWESOME !!! Yes I am a little gulible haha I have always wanted to tour around in a well known castle.

Netflix Trevor

Oooh do you go borrow sugar from him every now and again ?

You

he doesn't eat sugar. he's naturally sweet ;)

You

bahaha

Netflix Trevor

LOL I think someone has a crush ?

You

well have you SEEN him?

You

i mean no offense, but compare him to your Trump...and well...you'll want to move here ;)

Netflix Trevor

Ya I just looked at a picture of him haha I don't swing that way, but he's not a bad looking guy. Ya I am not sure what's going on with that, but I might have to move over that way after all of this.

Netflix Trevor

How's that TV coming ? any progress haha ?

You

OMG I think it worked!! huzzah!

You

well, Trevor I feel like after this chat I just need to introduce you to my parents.

Netflix Trevor

Oh professor farnsworth lol LOL Name the time and place and i'm there :)

You

hahah

Netflix Trevor

So it let you sign in and everything ? The anticipation is killing me !

You

yes I did. I know I kept you on the edge of your seat...but it's over. We won.

Netflix Trevor

The war against the machines is over !!! Now to go out and celebrate lol I am so happy you can get back to watching some good ol shows :) Was there anything else I can help out with today Marketa ?

You

No sir. I am good. The only thing you can do to help yourself is visit Ottawa.

Netflix Trevor

Ya it's on my list now ! I actually just made a memo of it :) Maybe we will bump into eachother haha. Alright, well I really hope you have a great day and a great weekend ! Thank you for the convo, it's nice to talk to someone every once in a while haha. See ya Marketa. And one more thing, if you wouldn't mind, please stay online for a one question survey.

How to be basic: a guide to yoga

Yoga. It’s one of those things that us white folk just adopted as one of our own and pretend like it was our culture all along. I can’t really think of another example from history of this, but it will come to me. Yoga brings forth images of tight pants, wrist infinity tattoos and water bottles that are actually just mason jars, because bringing along glassware with an awkward lid just seems downright practical, rather than inner peace.

But, I won’t lie. I too tried to welcome yoga into my life. And I mean more than just the occasional downward dog on the Hill. (You see, I got the lingo down.)
My voyage into the land of Namaste started with a class that was basically a feel-good afternoon, where you lay still as someone tells you that you are awesome and really should just keep being awesome. I agreed. So I came back every week. Then, however, the class was extended to an hour and half. And let’s face it: I got things to do. I can’t be zenning out for 90 minutes at a time. Just give me my emotional high-five and let’s move on.

So then came Tantric Yoga. “Ooh, you vixen, you!” you might be thinking. “What sexy time that must have been,” you might ponder with a mason jar of kombucha in your hand. You are mistaken. Images of said three-hour exercise in awkwardness still haunt my dreams. They promised us we would find our soulmates there. They promised! Yet, my soul never felt darker or lonelier afterwards. The man who looked like a 1920s strongman left little doubt in my mind why he was still looking for love. And so, after three hours of giving strangers back rubs and feeding each other bananas, I went home.

Yet, even that didn’t deter me from yoga; though it did deter me from bananas for a while. And so came time for Acroyoga. This here is a magical thing that turns you into a circus performer in an instant, if you are ok with diving headfirst into a stranger’s crotch. And for a while, I was. I sat atop strangers’ feet, I dove into crotches and I balanced others. But every good thing must come to an end.

For me, it was time for Hot Yoga. Ahh, sweating profusely in the company of others – nothing gets my motor revving more than that. You develop sweat spots in places you didn’t know could sweat and soon abandon all hope of ever feeling desirable again. I longed for the 1920s strongman. I wanted to feel pretty.

But last week, I found the right yoga for me. This was Aerial Yoga. At last, I felt, I found my calling. No more holding downward dog poses that others make look like sleek triangles, while I resembled an old woman with a hump. Tree poses that make me question whether I would ever pass the drunk balance test sober shall be no more. No more! The hammock does it all for you. Nestled in the sweet, sweet cocoon of a hammock, you are free to pretend you did something good for your health. Next time, I’m bringing a Corona.  

The Polite Baby and the Rebel youth

Public transit is like a party, for which no one was in charge of curbing the guest list.

“Gary, why is your accountant here? Did you invite her?”
“No man, did you invite the homeless man?”
“Why is there a clown riding a llama?”

Literally, anyone can and will show up. Sometimes, these are just belligerent old men who loudly proclaim the demise of society as damn women started to get education.

Sometimes, it’s a rebellious youth who didn’t consider nasal needs when getting his awkwardly placed piercing and thus sits there sniffling, just trying to free that trapped booger that’s hanging onto his piercing.

He’s probably thinking: “Damnit, I won’t let my parents get the better of me. Sure, it’s uncomfortable and sure the sniffles have cost me many a romantic possibility, but goddamnit, I’m keeping these!” And he sniffles.

But sometimes, babies load up.

There were two of these passengers today. Now, not being a mother myself, I can’t really give an age estimate on these two babes. All I can pretty well guarantee is that they were out of the womb but not yet in college. If pressed, I would guess less than a year.

One was a thug life show-off baby. The other was a polite baby.

At first, the interaction between these two was limited as neither had noticed the other across the aisle. And so we sat there and watched.

The polite baby, free of her pesky gloves, stretched out her fingers and with gratitude, she smiled at her mom who had liberated her from the entrapment of her pink gloves.

The show-off baby started reaching into the cup holders for stale Cheerios and humblebragging to the whole bus. His speech was limited to undecipherable baby noises, so allow me to translate.

“Yo, look at all these Cheerios I could have if I wanted to. But I won’t. I can just toss this one into the aisle, because I will get more.”

Polite baby smiles.

Show-off baby starts belligerently babbling on and bragging, presumably, about his cool shoes that had dogs on them. I would brag too, truthfully, had I had shoes like that.

At this point, the two babies locked eyes. It was on.

Show-off baby leaned back all casual-like in his stroller. He ain’t got to impress nobody.

Polite baby shot out enormous snot out of her delicate nose.

The bus audience froze with faces of horror.

We watched in silence as the snot hang on her porcelain face, threatening to continue its journey elsewhere.

The mom reacted quickly and cleaned her off. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

Polite baby turned around and audibly thanked her mom. She knew what could’ve happened.

As the bus pulled into the stop, both babies had to get off. You know, baby stuff to do.

Polite baby waved at everyone, gently cooing “bye” as she was wheeled off the bus.

The show-off baby continued to babble loudly, probably still bragging about Cheerios he can soon consume.

Squirrels: Thug Life

Squirrels. In most parts of the world, these are adorable petite creatures, whose bushy tails complete idyllic folkloric paintings. Not so in Ontario. Here, we have thugged out black squirrels who could probably take you out quite easily.

Recently, I had two unpleasant encounters with these bushy-tailed gangsters and both had left me feeling like a black bear encounter would've been preferable.
So first, there's this black squirrel who has claimed my balcony as his lair. In my mind, his name is Slasher.

Artistic rendition of what I think Slasher looks like when I'm absent.

Slasher dominates my balcony and goes on destruction sprees from time to time.
As if to start a turf war with me, Slasher pushes planters around, knocks over plants and digs out my flowers. After he's done with my balcony, he probably goes on to kick a puppy. That's the kind of asshole this squirrel is.

The other day, I was feeling extra brave and decided to sit on my balcony. Without any fear that fables tell us these cute fuzz balls should have, my scraggly thug of a squirrel hopped right beside me and was staring me down. This was it. Slasher was moving around my balcony with the confidence of a school bully. Any minute, I thought, he's going to break another planter and shank me with the shard and end this.

But no. He came merely to intimidate me. But I stood my ground.

But this didn't seem to satiate Slasher's appetite for fear and intimidation. Looks like the ruffian had connections downtown.

A few days after my stand-off, I was minding my own business on an otherwise picturesque café patio. I could tell there was a sniper squirrel tracking my moves from above. Suddenly, it leapt. Without so much as a warning, it crawled under my seat and grabbed my leg.

I shook it off to shocked looks of bystanders who took me for an animal abuser.

Damn you, Slasher.
Now it's on.

#TreatYoSelf birthday

Birthday is the one day of the year when people celebrate you for something you had absolutely nothing to do with. It's great. There you are and all you had to do was be born. Just imagine if you were walking down the street and someone congratulated you on sunshine. It'd be great.

And what's an extra little bonus to all the love you get from family and friends?( if you have friends, that is. If you don't, then this blog will do you double duty because you have many opportunities to eat your emotions - keep reading, champ!) Free stuff.

As you may know, a number of companies offer fun birthday deals. But I don't know about you, but I never really paid much attention to it. I always just looked on in jealousy and self-pity when others were sang to by someone dressed as a moose and presented with a free cupcake on THEIR birthday. But not this year. I took the day to wander and really get my deals on. The Queen I suppose gets two freebie days. Oh, Liz, you clever minx. Is one free Frappuccino not enough for you?? I digress.

Keep in mind, these deals are specific to Ottawa, so don't go shaking your head in sadness if you live in Zealandia, SK. I can't help you. In any way. Treat yourself to a postcard of the Rockies, I guess. Anyway, here are the deals I did:

1. Get yer hair did. During the month of your birthday, you get $20 off at Salon Rouge. Bam, now you got yourself a sweet new 'do. Not to mention, you get fancy-pants coffee drinks there like a king.

So, ok, you now have Fabio hair. Let's just say you got your hair did the day before your birthday. So in your mind just watch the night turn into day in a poetic fashion.

2. Now start the day right. Go to Denny's for your well-deserved Original Grand Slam.

3. In true birthday fashion, I considered doing the rest of the day in my birthday suit. But the closest I could get to this legally was going to a free hot yoga class at Yogatown. Work off that bacon.

4. Your steps then must naturally take you to Sephora. After all, you just did somethin' somethin' for your health, surely a little beauty treat is in order. Do it. You get a sweet birthday gift. Boys, you can probably get some manly cosmetics too, or else you can finally get that perfect shade of red for your moonlighting career as a boyesque performer. It's a thing. Go Bing that shit.

5. Ok. Now it's time to cash in on your Starbucks love. You've been buying tall brewed coffees for months so you can finally roll into the store and with the boisterousness of a drunken uncle at a wedding, yell out: "Make me the creamiest, sweetest, biggest beverage you can, barista! Don't be cheap on the whipped cream and if it comes in anything other than a trough, try again." Huzzah!

6. If you'd like to shake off the fat before heading over to your next free feast, you animal, you can partake in another free yoga class, offered by Elevate Yoga.

7. Now, you're ready to take on the feast of all feasts. Put on your stretchy pants, put on your game face and head over to the buffet at Tucker's Marketplace. Just do it. If you start feeling full, don't give up. Go for a jog around the food stations and get back to it, tiger. This is your time to shine.

If you really want to squeeze in one more tasty beverage, Booster Juice has you covered with one regular bevvie.

And there you have your free day. Now it's time to  finally look yourself in the mirror and ponder the depths of getting older. Until next year, giant tubs of Starbucks and never-ending plates of food. Until next year. #Treatyoself

A post-dated Czech.

This here post is more of a "let's sit back, grab a tissue and ponder" type of a blog. It's really a blog post for posterity rather than hilarity. So this is  just a warning. This one's a thoughtful one.

It's about how it feels to be an immigrant. I know I know...tired cliche of a topic, isn't it? But I can't help it. It's really the kind of topic that only a fellow immigrant kid can grasp. And I don't mean one of those "Oh, I'm an immigrant because my grandma moved here from Scotland when she was four" kind of immigrants. I mean, good on you for being able to phase haggis out of your systems through the generations and having some kilt pride, but this one's for the immigrant kids who moved to Canada at an impressionable age....but with plenty of motherland memories to shape and confuse their current existence.

Why am I thinking of this topic now and not at any other time? Well, because, earlier this year a new law was passed. This law amended an existing Czech law that prevented some of us from holding a dual citizenship. So, for the past 15 years, I pretended to be only Canadian. Well, on paper, anyway. Inside, I, of course, was Czech but it somehow troubled me that I had to give up who I am because of a law. It seemed unfair that some Canadian hussy who's never set a foot on the cobbled streets of Prague, but happened to marry a Czech dude could have a Czech citizenship by marriage, but not me. Heck, I lived in Prague before Prague was deemed cool by the rest of the world. I was a pioneer! Back when it was still shrouded in the foreboding cloud of communism. Yep, that's when I lived there. So, what the heck, I ask you?

And so, last week I went to the Czech Embassy here in Ottawa to properly apply for my citizenship. It's like a secret code, this Czech language.

I mean, who but a Czech person could speak it and understand it? If you hear Spanish, really, that person could be from anywhere! They could be Spanish, Mexican, Nicaraguan....or just someone who took Spanish in University. But when I hear Czech, there's a secret bond immediately. They know; I know. We both know the secret tongue. And even now, fifteen years into my life in Canada, I still find myself to have a far more intimate relationship with Czech as a language than English. I'll give you an example. The word "Summer" to me just means warm weather, possibility of camping and maybe a harkening back to the days of summer jobs.

But its Czech equivalent, "Léto" holds a far deeper meaning. When I hear or say that word, I immediately think of the lazy bright sun drowning our one-bedroom apartment in Prague. I immediately imagine the smell of it all. I imagine us returning home from camp or our grandparents' cottage. The smell of pool toys somehow lingers in the air and the apartment welcomes us with its familiar smell and light.

The Czech language just has a sense of familiarity to me when every word not only holds a literal meaning and its English equivalent, but also a collection of senses that complete its full and complete meaning.  While the word "Christmas" to me means vacation and shopping and gift exchanges, its Czech equivalent "Vánoce" brings with it a whole atmosphere. When I hear that word, my mind fills with memories of town squares speckled with artisans, the smell of mulled wine and just an overall feeling of unexplained magic. The word smells like frankincense and sounds of bells. That's that word for me.

And so, this one goes out to all the immigrant kids who had to reshape their understandings of words and meanings and culture to fit in. But in a way, this one also goes out to born-and-raised Canadians. Imagine your brain having a second layer of a completely different life and memories and knowledge. Imagine your brain having a clear-cut separation between "Christmas" and "Vánoce" - the day you moved from a place that understood the latter and moved to a place that understood the former. It's not easy and so on behalf of all of us immigrant kids : have patience! Have patience when you hear an immigrant struggle with pronunciation of certain words or when he says something silly. It's not because he or she is silly; it's because he or she is working from a new script. A script they are not yet familiar with. So, have patience. 

Scrabbling "Tsunami"

It's been a while since I put a pen to this blog...or rather keystrokes. The whole Sharpie on my screen thing was just too awkward.
Regardless. A couple of months ago I found myself in Nicaragua, because why not? The trip was sprinkled with many an adventure.
Today, I shall share a tale of abandonment, sickness, a serious gangsta grill and tsunami. Sure, you might think " this sure sounds like a hell of a life you've led." But no, this was all in a day.
The day started fairly usually: hassling a random unmarked "taxi driver" for a good deal on a trip. The three amigas (that being me, a friend we shall call Sol, and K) all shuffled into the back seat of the car, no longer even pretending to  look for a seat belt and off we went. It was a hot Nica morning, with the side of the roads only sporadically sprinkled with morning folk.
"Why so early?" you ask.
 "Why you so foolish?"you inquire.
Because we had a 3-hour trip ahead of us to our final destination, Ometepe, where we intended to kayak for 3 hours. This was ill-planned, to be sure, but under the influence of Nicaraguan rum, anything seems like a good idea.
I digress.

As we were in the cab, I realized I forgot some rather key feminine products at home. So, the kind taxi driver pulled over to the side of the road by some inconspicuous pharmacy that could've been a front and I slipped out.
This is where the story gained Hollywood-like plot twist. This would be when Liam Neeson would start narrating it.
Before I continue, let me ask you this: "Have you ever felt abandoned?" You have? Well, take a look around ....if there is in fact no one there, then it's not a feeling. You have in fact been abandoned. This was the realization  I came to when I stepped outside of the pharmacy to find zero cabs waiting for me. My friends were gone. My mind skipped to the awkward conversation when I would have to explain to Sol's parents she's been kidnapped. But before I could get too carried away with the demise that surely befell my friends, I realized that I too could be sold for parts.
I asked the one person in the street if he'd seen the cab.
"Hmm yeah, but no problem! They probably just went ahead to the beach." Hmmm that would be a problem. That was not our destination. In panic, I paced back and forth for a good 10-15 minutes, pondering my abandonment and the fate that had befallen my friends.
Suddenly around a corner comes a cab zipping through. It's them. I will concede that my first words upon opening the cab door were not ones of welcome, but rather of shocked profanity.
The excuses were eyebrow raising. Sol was on the phone, trying to get us a good deal on a taxi on the return trip. In the heat of the Spanish exchange, she hadn't noticed the cabbie was driving off.
The other excuse from K made me feel like a puppy with a water balloon: confused and unable to grasp it.

She hadn't alerted the driver to my absence because she thought he was just turning around....for 15 km! The cab driver's excuse was devilishly simple: he hadn't noticed there were 2 of us rather than 3.
Uncertain, shaken and confused, I sat back in my seat and we continued our journey. The harbour greeted us with a sketchy hustler who suggested we pay him $30 (big chunk of change in Nicaragua) and then, you know, trust him that he will call his friend, the cabbie, on the island to pick us up. We had no choice. So we handed our sweaty cash to the stranger and ascended the rickety ladder that threatened to drop us into the unruly waves below with every calculated step we took and made ourselves comfortable.
An hour later ,we shook ourselves off the ferry onto the sandy harbour of Ometepe. We didn't have much faith in the hustling taxi pimp but lo and behold, there he was, proudly holding up a sign with our names. We inched closer only to notice he was bedazzled with the kind of a grill that any rapper would be proud of. But who are we to judge the teeth by their cover? We became more alarmed when he led us to an SUV, in which was a second guy. So, to recap: three girls, two men (one with an intimidating grill), an unmarked SUV and an hour-long trip to our destination.
Bitterness over being abandoned was long forgotten. We had to stick together on this one.
"Psst," I whispered casually to Sol, our translator-in-arms, "listen carefully to their conversation. If they start discussing where they bury us, just tap me on the shoulder and we'll roll out of the moving car." She nodded.
But once again, this was an empty threat. We arrived at our destination unscathed! Sure, the internet would lead you to believe that we would end up at an established kayaking place rather than a hut with by-standing cattle and people beating their laundry on the rocks in nearby lake Nicaragua, but whatevs. We've already come so far!
We boarded our kayaks, put our valuables into the grocery bags we were given in lieu of wet bags and paddled off ! The island was magical and filled with all sorts of quaint flora and fauna; random horses frolicking about; a caiman giving us a friendly wink and a unicorn leaping over our kayak. Just magic.
Sure we had to pull our kayak on foot through a part of it, but as Sol inquired " Isn't mud supposed to be good for our skin anyway?"
It was hard to break it to that childlike face, "Hmm well, I don't think it's any old mud filled with fish shit and horse manure, though...."
"Oh," she conceded deflated and continue to drag her feet through crap collective below.
Perhaps the only blemish was my severe sunburn. I was debilitated. My legs, it turns out, took on a bright hue of red that burnt when you just looked at it warmly. Sol, who is Latina and doesn't burn ever, was intrigued by what she saw and gleefully poked at my searing red skin. My eyes filled with tears and my soul with sadness.
Let this day end, I thought. I need aloe vera, water and food. Maybe alcohol.
After another ferry trip and a cab ride, we finally arrived home.
Only to find out there is a tsunami warning.
In my state of poor well-being, I simply suggested to my comrades that we stay put and wait for the wave to come and get us.
"I'm tired and frankly, the cool water would feel nice on my sunburn," I reasoned.
They were on board.
"Yeah, we should just stay here and...like...swim if it comes down to it."
Still, we thought, we should find out the emergency plan should we be asked to evacuate. It was charmingly simple: errr run to the hills. Like that fancy pants hotel up on the hill. Run there. Yeah.
Done and done.
We made ourselves a pitcher of pina colada, pulled out Scrabble and waited for a)death to come b)warning to be lifted.
The latter came true.