Keep away from open flame...

The amount of suffering you undergo in a job relates directly to the amount of polyester in the uniform. I learned this the hard way.

At 14 years old, I worked the counter at McDonald's and my uniform rendered me flammable. The only natural fibers permitted to touch my body were contained in my underpants - the rest of my required uniform was durable enough to act as insulation for condominiums and or space shuttles.

I wore a green visor on my head, resplendent with the yellow golden arches. My shirt was short-sleeved (polyester of course) with green stripes and the letter 'M' for buttons. I fastened a polyester tie around my neck, which hung in the shape of the arches and required me to button my polyester shirt to the very top. The tie was green.

Dedicated McDonald's employees were permitted to demonstrate their personalities through the wearing of McDonald's issued pins on their ties, awarded for good service. Largely the pins were awarded to employees who managed to go at least three weeks without burning themselves on the fry grease and needing to take time off.

My McDonald's issue pants were black, and could double as a bra in case of some sudden boob emergency - which is to say they were high-waisted. The extra real-estate the pants provided by coming up right under my plastic name badge was made up for by the lack of pants around my ankles - which is to say they were short.

The McDonald's pants were also polyester, and I was fascinated by the fact that any liquid sloshed on my pants during the course of my shift would actually bead. I've spent a ridiculous amount of money on rain jackets that could not repel water in the same way as those pants.

In case my pants ever slipped, I had a canvas snap-on belt with a golden 'M' on the buckle. I'm still not sure on the rationale for the belt, because my pants weren't going anywhere. They were just too high. After sitting for my breaks, the buckle left a red mark in my skin, halfway between my belly button and my flat chest...which coincidentally is just as flat now. Thanks puberty, thanks for nothing.

Taking breaks were a tricky business. If the managers caught you punching your time card after using the washroom or purchasing your 50% discounted meal, there would be hell to pay. You definitely weren't earning any pins for your tie, and would have to give up most of your break for a lecture on loyalty and ethics. If you got away with it, you bought three minutes of your break back - which was well worth it.

Every manager had a reputation that precluded any gray areas to his personality. He was either good or evil, or in one case was either stoned or knocking up your 15 year-old classmate in the laundry room. To this day I have no idea how he got her pants off in the short time our breaks allowed.

I wore the visor for a year, and I vowed I would never work in food-services again. I've kept that vow. Even when all of my friends were making fabulous tips waitressing, I refused because it would have meant working in the restaurant industry and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

While wearing my polyester I was severely scalded, yelled at by drunken customers, forced to clean up puke in the parking lot and locked in the meat freezer by accident. Strangely, my despite keeping me roasting the rest of the time my polyester uniform did not retain heat as I waited for rescue.

I suffered in that job, but I took one thing away from it. I am always, always without fail, kind to the kids across the counter. I don't care how badly they screw up my order - I understand where they're coming from.

Constipation

It's been strange days. It started when I landed a new job and began my elaborate post-it note and scrap paper filing system in a completely new office. I may be the only woman whose professional success depends largely on my ability to remember what small piles not to use as a coaster for my morning tea.

My boss is fantastic. My co-workers are nice. My keyboard doesn't stick -- and this was just the beginning of the weirdness. Driving away from work today I felt...content.

Holy shit. Now I knew what the problem was. For days and days now, I couldn't think of a single thing to write about. Normally the urge to sit down and start writing is so strong that if it cost money I'd be out knocking off convenience stores just to stay on top of it. And then...nothing

It's not as if all of my urges went away. Strawberry-rhubarb crumble? Eaten. New orange purse? Purchased. Posting to blog? Do I have any of that crumble left...?

It's also not as if there is absolutely nothing wrong in my life. In fact, work may be the only thing that is going really well if I had to think about it. In no particular order...

• I discovered my former boyfriend's cat managed to piss on my favourite pair of sandals at some point before I left (read: fled). They stink, and I can't for the life of me get the smell out. I will not throw out these shoes, because I love them and I hate that cat. The cat must not win.
• I've fallen off the WeightWatchers wagon so hard, I have road rash where others have smooth thighs.
• My Mom keeps phoning me to update me on anybody and everybody she knows or has vaguely heard of who is planning a wedding and finally...
• I may have fallen very hard for a guy who is so religious he's vowed to be celibate until marriage, and we're not engaged. Frustrating. We had time to make that commitment, and I was willing. Our first date lasted eight hours, but I'm losing hope for a second. It's significantly disrupting my plans for our honeymoon.

You would think this list would be enough to inspire me to write something. Anything. Instead, I've been walking to my car every afternoon, slipping my shades on, driving home to the radio and thinking about how damned lucky I am.

Don't worry about me -- it can't possibly last. Something is going to break through my happy glaze and I'll fall atop my keyboard. It's probably going to be the cat piss that does it -- those are some powerfully toxic strappy wedges.

Cape Not Included.

I've been scarce lately, and that's because I have a new superhero identity. I am Coffee Date Girl. Unlike most superheroes however, my uniform is not spandex. It's just not flattering, and nobody wants to be Jiggly Coffee Date Girl.

Ever since switching online dating sites, I've been a dating fool. Not every guy I want to meet wants to meet with me, but I now have enough prospects I need to to double check who in the hell it is I'm running out to see before I leave the house.

Despite this sudden surge in my popularity, my superpower remains the ability to stress out about things nobody else in their right minds would consider a problem. Like this evening, and my date with the hot, shirtless cowboy.

Allow me to attempt to explain how hot the guy I'm meeting with this evening is. He is porn for gay men and straight women. His profile pictures are so...universally appealing that other men I have met who have dared to check out their competition under the Men Seeking Women section have mentioned his profile as a particular sore spot and cause for grief, not knowing that I knew perfectly well who they were talking about and in fact, had been chatting with that guy just before running out to meet them.

I'm not sure why I sent the Hot Shirtless Cowboy a message in the first place, separate from the fact I think of him in my head as the Hot Shirtless Cowboy. His profile wasn't particularly clever, and he only wrote a line or two describing himself.

His series of pictures depict him lounging against a rustic fence in half shadow, his black cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, his 8000 abdominal muscles highly visible above his low-slung jeans. Think a young Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise. With pieced nipples.

There he is straddling a motorcycle, smiling and looking away from the camera. There he is again, this time fully clothed in business attire and filling out his button-down shirt. Now he's half-naked again, soaking wet emerging from a pool. You know, as you do.

He doesn't look like a guy you'd marry. He looks like the guy you would cheat on your husband with. His pictures don't look calendar-boy fake - he just looks like that and can't help it. Poor bastard.

So no, I can't think of what possessed me to send him a message, but more importantly, I can't think of a single reason he wrote back, and this is why I'm concerned.

We are not on the same scale of hotness. This is an extremely scientific scale, and to upset the balance of this scale means upsetting the natural laws of the universe. Should we actually start to date I foresee terrible changes to the climate and earth. I mean, more so than usual.

Ever since initially exchanging email addresses he consistently messages me. I don't know why. At first I was thrilled, but soon my excitement was replaced with unease. It's been like being a religious person and having God suddenly show up in your living room to shoot the shit.

At first it's exciting, but at some point the religious person has to wonder why God is talking to her. What does God want? Has God made some sort of horrible mistake and confused her with somebody more worthy? Is God aware she listed her body type as Average for a very good reason? It's unsettling.

I suggested we meet because I had to put a stop to it. I have no sense of his personality, despite chatting with him for two weeks. He gives me one word answers and asks me very little. If it wasn't for his pictures, he would be boring me so I had to move things along. That's how hot this guy is. I don't even care if he's dumb, but it will help if he's blind.

(Confidence was never my superpower, but tonight I'll be faking it for whatever it's worth).

Eavesdropping on Americans - Part Two

"I just want some seafood - why is it so hard to find here?"
"What do they have?"
"Prawns and oysters and shit. I want seafood!"
"Well..."
"You know - fish and chips! Seafood!"

- overheard by Fisherman's Wharf


"I love Canadians. You bump into them and they apologize."

- overheard on a crowded sidewalk


"Are we still even in Canada?"

- overheard by...not even sure