Thoughts and musings in this altered brain of mine

I'm back...

sarcasmoqueen — Mon, 27 Jan 2020 21:55:01 GMT

... taking a chance on Second Chance Idol...

Goodbye... for now

sarcasmoqueen — Sat, 26 Oct 2019 16:02:46 GMT

Unfortunately, i will need to bow out of the competition for now. Life is just way too busy at the moment, and I am just not able to produce the work worthy of this competition. If things slow down and there is a Second Chance at some point, I'll be back.

Best of luck to all remaining competitors.

Everything looks like a nail

sarcasmoqueen — Tue, 15 Oct 2019 20:10:16 GMT

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been really hard on my feet. Played all kinds of sports, but figure skating was particularly hard, especially since I rarely wore socks or stockings. My callouses had callouses, and for years afterwards, I had scars from the cuts my feet would get from being in hard skate boots unprotected for hours on end.

I’m sure you all know that callouses are generally white or off white, but - fun fact – did you know that callouses are white or off white regardless of what colour your actual skin is? As a woman of colour, I can tell you that the contrast between the colour of my big toe and the callous right next to it is not cute. Add to that the fact that my callouses feel like a combination of broken glass and dragon’s skin, and my feet are the stuff of nightmares.

This is why I am eternally grateful to Manon and Stephanie, my estheticians. Among other things, they give the best pedicures in town. And the never complain about the state of my feet either. I’m still really rough with my feet – I play softball 2-4 times a week or more for 6 months of the year, have dance rehearsals for 1-3 hours at a time several times a week, plus wear high heels on occasion. Whenever I see Manon or Stef, I make sure my feet are clean, but I can’t do much more than that – I’m only human after all. But after an hour with them, I’ve had a leg and foot rub, and all those hard spots have been miraculously softened. Add some bright nail polish, and my feet are gorgeous!

Manon and Stef do manicures as well, but those aren’t as great for me, so I don’t do them very often. First of all, my hands are much prettier than my feet in their natural states – if I take my gloves off, I don’t scare off small children, whereas the same can’t be said if I take off my shoes and socks. When you’re getting a manicure, you can’t do anything besides stare at the wall, your hands, or the esthetician, and I feel awkward. While getting my feet pampered, I can read a book, or take a nap, or talk to the person taking care of me if I’m so inclined. Besides, there really is no point in putting colour on my fingers – within a couple of days, I’ve chipped or picked at my nails, making them look worse than before. I can’t reach my feet to absentmindedly pick at the polish or anything, so they stay pristine for a few weeks.

If money were no object, I would get a pedicure every two weeks at least, because that about how long it takes for my activities to counter the effects of all of Manon or Stef’s work. But it is, so in the summer, when my feet are exposed, I make it a point to go at least monthly, and in the winter, I make sure I go before I head south for vacation. Otherwise, I wear socks, and hope for the best.

Resolution

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 27 Sep 2019 21:27:50 GMT

This summer, I auditioned for a new theatre company. I was cast as one of five roles in a show coming up in mid-November. It’s both the smallest cast I’ve ever been part of and the largest role I’ve ever had. It’s kind of overwhelming, but it’s not stressing me out too much.

It’s a musical, so I’ve had to learn how to tap dance. It’s not easy, but I’m a dancer, so I can fake it pretty well. I am practicing and getting better every day, and I’m confident I’ll have it down pat in the next six weeks, so that’s not stressing me out too much either.

The amount of time we have to rehearse prior to opening night is much less than any other show I’ve been in. For other shows, we started rehearsing in September for a show happening in late April – that’s almost seven months! For this show, we were rehearsing once a week in August, then amped it to three times a week after Labour Day until show time. That’s only about fourteen weeks, including the once a week in August – less than half the amount of rehearsal time I’m used to. My husband, a former professional actor, tells me that his company would only rehearse for six weeks before putting on a show. So apparently the amount of time we have is an immense gift! With this knowledge, I’m sure we’ll pull off a great show, so I’m not really stressing out about that either.

But do you want to know what I AM stressed about? My headshot. My stupid freakin’ headshot.

I’m not a professional, so I have never had professional headshots done. Until last year, I was never required to have one – all of my prior shows had a program where they had group shots only. Back in March 2018, I went through a similar panic when I discovered I needed one. I pored through all of my Facebook pictures, looking for something appropriate – and I found it! It was originally a picture of my friend K and me posing together in the dressing room before our show. Since it was pre-show, our makeup was perfect, and our hair had not yet been messed up from dancing. We both looked super cute. There were a few loose items in the background, but they could easily be cropped out. Best of all, K and I were close, but not actually touching, so I could crop her out without giving myself a dented head or extra eye. I did it, used the black and white filter, and voila! I had a gorgeous headshot that looks like me, but somehow better. Perfect! It became my go-to. In both 2018 and this past spring, it was posted in the venue at Front of House with my name under it so everyone knew who I was. When this new production asked for a headshot, I immediately sent this one.

The photographer sent me an email back saying that unfortunately this picture was only 30kb, and he needed about 2MB in order to properly blow it up to an 8x10. I was literally devasted. Look, I’m not an extraordinarily vain woman. I don’t think I’m a monster, nor do I think I’m the most beautiful thing to ever grace God’s green earth. I’m fairly photogenic, but I’m very particular about what photos I want used to represent me. In this show, I’m playing a NUN for crying out loud - I won’t look like myself! Front of House photos are the audience’s first impression of us, so it’s pretty important to me that I have a good photo! I am one of those people who take 15 shots to get the perfect one. The photographer offered to take my headshot for me next Sunday before rehearsal, but it will be the day after a very large, late party, and I will not look my best. Nor will I want to spend the time applying makeup and fixing my hair so that I can try (and FAIL) to look my best. And I’m fairly certain he won’t let me look at every picture and retake them until I’m satisfied… spoiler alert, I’m NEVER satisfied!

These people don’t know me very well, and as such, I am just under the assumption that they will judge me, so I need to present myself as perfect. The night before the photo session, I have a very fancy party to go to, where I will be dressed up with full makeup and nice hair. I think I’m going to be standing in front of a plain hotel wall taking some selfies from the neck up, or making my husband take some shots of me… and that’s what these people will have to use if they aren’t able to somehow magically make my dream headshot work for their front of house. Are they still going to judge me? You betcha – but at least if it’s a picture of MY choosing, I’ll still feel cute!

hello!

sarcasmoqueen — Thu, 12 Sep 2019 19:42:06 GMT

If anyone asks, I will tell them that I am in general an animal lover, but I am totally a dog person. In my nearly 50 years on this earth, I have been the human sister, aunt or mommy to Sniffy, Sheba, Sasha, Sidney, Buddy, and Jessie. My sister has had a couple of cats over the years, but although they were cute, I never trusted them. They were sneaky little fuckers.

This is Kiki. She's one of the three cats we inherited when my mom passed away last October. The other two are named Koko and Kahuna... don't blame me, my mom named them. Growing up she knew two cats named Kiki and Koko, and when my dad passed and she decided to get some pets for company, she was determined to use those names. When she ended up with three instead of two (which is a story for another time), she wanted to keep the name alliteration, and the Big Kahuna was one of Dad's nicknames, so Kahuna became the obvious choice for the lone male.

Anyway. So yeah - I'm a cat mommy now. I never knew how obsessed I would become with these creatures. I don't know if it's because I'm used to big dogs - 70+ pounds for all the ones listed above - or what, but I find these guys teeny tiny. Kahuna is the biggest, and if he weighs seven pounds, I'd be surprised. They lie on or around me pretty much anytime I'm at home. They don't care if I'm working, they'll sit on my keyboard or in front of my monitor. When they feel especially loving, it feels as though they are trying to burrow right into my soul.

Have I mentioned that I'm allergic to cats? Not die from an asthma attack kind of allergic, but it's not pleasant. I have hives, I'm often sneezing and congested, but I don't care! I mean how am I supposed to resist this?

I've become THAT woman. I don't talk about my cats (much), but I am constantly surprised by how freakin' ADORABLE they are! I think I have about two hundred pictures of them on my phone. Do I still think they are sneaky fuckers? One hundred percent! And I'm still "meh" about all the other cats that exist. I remain always and forever a "dog" person... but my little kitties have captured my heart forever.

am I too late?

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 06 Sep 2019 20:22:30 GMT

I'd like to participate in season 11 of Idol if it's not too late!

Sucker Punch

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 14 Dec 2018 23:02:41 GMT

On Tuesday night, as I was getting ready to go to bed, I noticed that there was a message on Facebook on my iPad. I have Messenger installed on my phone, and my phone is with me all day long, so I knew it was not from one of my friends. I opened it up. It appeared to be a message from my ex sister-in-law. It was somewhat cryptic – she addressed me by my full first name (something she never did in the years that I knew her), and she asked me to call her.

I’m kind of suspicious by nature. My ex and I split up about eighteen years ago, and since that time, I have never heard a peep from any of his siblings. Why would one of them be reaching out to me now? I figured it was spam with some sort of nasty virus intent, so instead of answering the message, I looked her up on Facebook. I figured there would be a picture of her – or someone – and I would be able to see if at least it was really her before replying.

If you’re not friends with somebody on Facebook, you can’t see a lot of what they post if their profile isn’t public. So when I went her page, I immediately saw a post from that morning. It was a link to an obituary… an obituary with my ex-husband’s name on it. I couldn’t bring myself to click on it, so I scrolled down a bit more on her page. The next entry I could see was dated December 6 at 8:10PM. It said:

It is with a million broken pieces of my heart that I let you know my brother, my dearest friend is no longer with us. **my ex’s name** passed away early this morning following a massive heart attack on the highway. I cannot find the words to explain just how numb we all are at this time. We are here with his wife & children & will provide an update on arrangements once made

Um, what? My ex-husband is dead? That can’t be possible! He’s only 51 years old!

I scrolled back up to the obituary link and clicked on it. The page opened to a full colour picture of him. It was undoubtedly my ex-husband.

All thoughts of sleep left me. I didn’t know what to do, how to react. Shock was a given, but was I allowed to feel sad? My last contact with him had been via email to let him know my dad passed in the summer of 2014. After some incidents between us about 5 years before that, I blocked him on all social media, blocked his number from my phone, and didn’t let him know where I moved or where I was now working. When my mom passed in October, I felt he should know, but didn’t want to reach out to him directly, so I asked a mutual friend to pass on the message. The next day, he sent me a Facebook friend request, but I deleted it – did that mean I had given up my right to feel grief? I loved him passionately once upon a time, but did that matter? I also hated him passionately once upon a time as well. Both of those extreme feelings faded with time. His partner – the mother of his 2 sons – did not like me at all, and didn’t want him to have any contact with me, which is why, when my hatred receded, I never reached out. Now I will never be able to.

The funeral isn’t until next Friday, the 21st, and I would like to pay my respects and offer my condolences to the family I was once part of. My husband even offered to come with me for support – he understands that my wanting to go to my ex’s funeral is no reflection of my feelings for him. But, in speaking with my ex sister-in-law, although she would be fine with it, she didn’t think his partner would. And I can understand that, I guess. It’s not about me. I guess I will have to find my own way to say goodbye.

In the 72 hours since I learned of my ex’s sudden passing, thoughts of him have never been far from the surface. And every time I think of it, it takes my breath away. According to his sister, he had no health problems, didn’t smoke, and was fine the day before. He was gone by the time the family got to the hospital. I can’t wrap my brain around it. FIFTY ONE YEARS OLD. That is crazy.

Sprezzatura

sarcasmoqueen — Sun, 09 Dec 2018 16:42:25 GMT

Many of you are aware that I’ve performed in a charity show for the last 16 years or so. My main role since about 2011 has been as one of the dancers.

We were a core group of six. Over the years some have had to leave due to having babies and whatnot, and others have joined to replace them, but we honestly consider ourselves to be the original six. We are a very tight knit group, and we often hang out and do things that are not at all related to dance. Unless you’re very unlucky, that’s going to happen when you spend hours every week, for months on end, sweating into each other’s personal space.

If you’ve ever seen any type of Vegas or Broadway style dance show, you know that it looks effortless and beautiful. Everyone looks cool and collected, poised and sexy.

If you’ve ever performed or worked backstage during a production like this, you know that it’s just an illusion. Backstage is generally chaos – people rushing around to change, fix their makeup, find a missing prop. As a group, we’ve had to finish a number, wait for the lights to black out so that we can dash offstage, run the 500 feet or more (and sometimes there were stairs) to the changing area, strip off hair accessories, jewelry, a top, a bottom, tights, and shoes, put on different hair accessories, jewelry, tops, bottoms, tights, and shoes and run the 500 feet back to be ready for the next number in less time than it takes for the band to play a song. We’re talking an average of four minutes or less. Calm, cool and collected? Most definitely not.

You’d never know it looking up at us from the audience, though. From a distance, the sheen of sweat looks like we added some sparkles to our faces. The hole we ripped in our tights trying to pull them on so quickly becomes invisible when the bright theatre lights blaze down. The safety pins holding our straps onto our shoes look like a pretty buckle. Our smiles betray nothing.

Given that we are a charity group and not a Broadway show, we don’t have an unlimited costume budget. Sometimes we reuse old costumes, costumes that were worn long before we became part of the group. And the former dancers were not as varied in size as we are, which means that sometimes, someone of my size – five foot eight, size 9-ish – has to squeeze into a costume originally made for a dancer who stood five four and wore size 6. Thank goodness for spandex.

Polyester is also our friend due to its durability, but it doesn’t breathe. When you’re sweaty and trying to do a quick change, polyester sticks. It’s a good thing the six of us are close, because we often had to help each other finish getting dressed – pulling a shirt over our heads without ruining our makeup or hair, getting pants up our legs without taking off our shoes. Doing these things quickly and efficiently often involved getting up close and personal with some really intimate body parts… intimate and sweaty body parts.

During this holiday season, there are a lot of shows going on – the local ballet company’s production of The Nutcracker, a school play, or a concert at church. If you’re lucky enough to see any of the productions, you will probably be wowed by the beauty of it all. You’ll notice how cute everyone looks up front, and how easy it seems. Don’t be fooled. I guarantee you it’s a madhouse backstage.

Steadfast

sarcasmoqueen — Thu, 29 Nov 2018 21:21:30 GMT

I don’t wat to brag, but I’m a pretty great tenant. Some might say, a dream tenant. Ok, maybe I want to brag a little, but it’s true! Rent is always paid, in full and on time, every month without issue. No pets. Never have parties. Full time job and loaded activity calendar, so rarely home to be noisy. Take care of any minor repairs ourselves, and if it’s something beyond our scope, we are always very polite to the landlord. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that if there was an awards night for great tenants, we’d be invited every year. I’d wear a sparkling gown and my husband would look snazzy in a tux as we walk the red carpet and pose for a multitude of photos… reporters calling my name and shouting out “Darling, you look fabulous! Who are you wearing?”…

Erm, uh… what was I talking about? Oh, right, my self-declared title of “Super Tenant”…

All kidding aside, I do have a reason for sharing this information with you. When my mom passed, I inherited her house. Unfortunately, it’s not paid off, as my parents only moved in a little over 5 years ago.

We have always wanted to be home owners, but we planned on making that leap when we were ready, not when circumstances thrust it upon us suddenly. Our current lease is until June 30, 2019. Technically, unless we pack up all our stuff and do a runner in the dead of night, we are supposed to pay rent until then. Given that the new house is literally a two minute drive away and that to get from virtually anywhere to our old place you have to pass directly by our new place, I’m pretty sure the landlord would find us pretty quickly anyway. So we are left on the hook to pay rent AND a mortgage for the next seven months.

Or are we?

Being reliable has its advantages. Our landlord understands our situation, and given that we have not caused him a lick of trouble in the 6+ years we’ve been here, he’s letting us out of our lease early. We need some time to pack up two homes and get them arranged, but we certainly don’t need seven months. In six or seven weeks, we can be settled in. That’s only the end of January, and although it will be tight, we can cover two months of double paying.

For some, being steady and reliable can seem a bit boring. Hell, even for me, it’s sometimes boring – who wants to be responsible ALL the time?? But in the end, it paid off for us. In the midst of all this recent sadness in my life, it’s provided a bright spot.

NOT MY FIRST RODEO

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 16 Nov 2018 21:56:36 GMT

Last time I checked, we are more than eighteen years into the 21st century, right?

So perhaps someone can explain to me why, in this supposed enlightened era, my car salesman cannot talk to me, but insists on speaking to my (male) significant other about my car needs?

I’m 49 years old. I’ve had a driver’s license since I was 19. That’s 30 years of driving, and my record is pretty clean.

My first few cars were hand me downs from my parents, but I got my first new car when I was 28 with my first husband. He was 30 at the time, and had his license for about three months. I was the one who researched all the different makes and models, and who booked our appointment at the Toyota dealership AND the one who financed the car since my husband had bad credit, yet somehow, the dealer looked at me maybe twice during the time we were with him. Even if I asked a question, he directed all his answers to my husband, as if he was the all-knowing seer to all things vehicular. I had been driving for 9 years, and my husband had been driving for 9 minutes, yet the salesman deemed HIM as the expert. Back then, I was a little bit of a quiet type, and although I seethed on the outside, I smiled and said nothing.

A few years later, my husband and I split up, and I had to go back to the dealership to finance a new car. I brought my dad with me. He made it clear that he was just there as a support for me if I needed it, but wouldn’t be involved in any decision making. And why would he be? It was for a car for me, not him. Still, the salesman – a different one from last time – invited him into his office with me, without asking me first. And again he could not keep his eyes off the other man in the room. Now don’t get me wrong, my father was a very handsome man, and I can’t blame anyone for checking him out, but this was MY appointment! Talk to me! I didn't want my father to hear me yell and curse and be unladylike, so again, I remained silent while I raged internally.

I bought my next few cars alone, and didn’t run into many issues. It’s hard to be ignored when you’re the only one in the office, right? But then my current husband and I went to get a car together. I will take a moment to state that my husband got his license at the age of 35, so again, I have several more years under my belt than he does. Yet somehow, the same thing happens again. It’s as though I am invisible. But there is one big difference. I’m no longer a timid twenty something. I’m an outspoken woman in her forties, and I will not be ignored! I’m quick to tell the salesman that I am here too, and that if he wants our business, he will be so kind to speak to both of us.

After an awkward moment, the rep changed his tune and managed to address both of us when answering our questions. This was in 2015. There are still about 19 months left on our lease before we decide whether to get a new car or buy this one, and I know that, once again, it will be a new rep at the Toyota dealership. And I know that if this one dares to ignore me and my questions, I will likely punch him in the throat.

Kayfabe

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 09 Nov 2018 00:57:33 GMT

“Hey, how are you doing?” a co-worker asks.

“I’m hanging in,” I reply, plastering a small smile on my face.

Not good! I scream internally. I can’t stand people asking me that all the time! How can I be good??

My phone pings with a message from one of my many cousins: “Just checking in to see how you are – lots of love to you!”

I text back: “I’m ok, thanks for checking. Love you” while thinking - I’m not ok – I don’t feel like I’ll ever be ok again!

I’m driving home, and realize that tears are streaming down my face. By the time I get home, my eyes are puffy from crying. My husband looks at me and says, “What’s wrong?”

What the fuck do you think is wrong?? The same thing that has been wrong for the last month!!

I rub at my eyes, and just say “I’m just feeling a little blue. I’m ok. I’m just going to grab a shower before supper.”

In the shower, I turn the water as hot as possible and sob silent tears. I stay in there until the water starts to cool, then take the wash cloth and hold it to my eyes and nose to reduce the swelling.

I’m trying to act normal, whatever that means. I still have obligations to meet, and everyone else’s life is moving forward. Friends, family, and co-workers all see me as a generally happy person, and for some reason, I don’t want them to think of me differently. But when I see myself in a group photo taken at karaoke, I can see it in my eyes. My mouth is smiling, but my eyes show a world of hurt. Hurt that I’m not really sharing with anyone anymore.

One month ago today, on Thanksgiving Monday, October 8th at 5:23 AM, my mother passed away semi-unexpectedly. I say “semi” because by the time it actually happened, we were expecting it, but had you asked me 2 months earlier, when she was admitted to the hospital for two weeks in August, I would have said she had a few more good years ahead of her. But when her hematologist saw her on the morning of Tuesday, October 2nd, he knew something was seriously wrong, and I knew the end was not that far off.

But I digress.

From the day that we knew the end was coming until the funeral on the 18th, everyone knew what to expect of me. They were expecting to see a sad woman who lost her last remaining parent. They expected tears and distress. But after that, I felt as though my mourning time should be over . Or at least that my friends and family expected my mourning time to be over. Life was moving on, whether I was ready for it or not. They expected me to go back to work as though nothing happened. But my world has shifted drastically. I’m moody. I don’t want to be alone, but I can’t stand dealing with the superficial relationships that exist in the office. But I can’t expect my friends and family to drop everything for me. On some level, I know that they would, but I can’t ask that of them. I’ve always portrayed a certain image, the jokester, or the fun one, and seeing me in a different way would make other people uncomfortable. So I pretend. I pretend that my world hasn’t been shattered and that everything is ok. And I hope that someday, even though it will be different, it will be ok again.

Ghosting

sarcasmoqueen — Thu, 01 Nov 2018 18:47:12 GMT

Thank goodness for caller ID. That, along with texting, has made my life much simpler.

It’s not that I don’t *want* to talk to you, I just don’t want to talk to you right now. And I don’t want to talk to you on the phone. I mean, it’s so awkward! Silence in person is comfortable; you can enjoy people’s company without having to express it. But silences on the phone are cause for concern – did the call drop? Did the other person hang up on me? Are they ok?? What’s going on? I can’t see you!

My job entails me being on the phone for at least half of my eight hour day. When I’m off the clock, the last thing I feel like doing is listening to faceless voices droning on. If you aren’t calling for a specific purpose, I don’t need to hear it. We can shoot the breeze face to face. That’s much more satisfying.

My exception to this rule is for the age group, I semi-jokingly refer to as “real adults”. That’s the group of my parents’ generation. The family members and friends who have known me since I was a wee child and who, to my eyes, look exactly the same now in my forties as they did back then. As a rule, that generation doesn’t text, not are they as mobile as they used to be to stop by for a visit. I will talk to them happily.

So for those of you in my age group or younger, if you have been trying to call me with no success, I’m not trying to avoid you, I promise. Shoot me a message, and I’ll happily make arrangements to go out to dinner, go over, or have you visit me. And I’ll probably talk your ear off! But just not on the phone.

******

For any readers who aren't part of LJI, the contest has moved to Dreamwidth, and the poll is available here:
https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1007980.html

signing up

sarcasmoqueen — Wed, 19 Sep 2018 19:11:37 GMT

I will be particpating in this year's LJ Idol... hope the dreamwidth thing doesn't screw me up!

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

sarcasmoqueen — Mon, 27 Mar 2017 19:26:23 GMT

Being in customer service, I’m going to estimate that I get between fifty to a hundred emails every day. I try to clean up as many as possible, but at the end of every work day, I probably have, on average, about a dozen unread emails. At the beginning of this month, on my last day of work before going on vacation for two weeks, I stayed at the office until well after six, cleaning up my inbox. I set my out of office message, letting everyone know that I would be away with no access to email, and gave them an alternate address to which to send their requests. I had an hour long call with the colleague who would be covering for me during my absence, and she assured me that she would not be sending me anything in my absence. When I left the office that day, I had only eight emails in my inbox, and all of them were read.

For the record, let it be known that I have not taken two consecutive weeks off work for vacation since 1996. Furthermore, this vacation period was the first time that I did not and could not check my emails from home during the weekend. But I digress…

Fast forward seventeen days. I arrived at the office with a post-holiday glow. I’m relaxed, happy, and more tanned than I’ve ever been in my life. As my laptop booted up, I chatted briefly with a couple of colleagues, telling them about the trip. As I’m talking, I glance at my computer screen. I’ve opened Outlook, but instead of seeing my messages, I see the status is listed as “Updating inbox…” Hmm, that can’t be good. I sit down and focus on my computer screen. Finally, I see the message: “All folders are up to date” on the bottom right side of my Outlook. I glance at the bottom left, and do a double take. It says – “Items: 3479, Unread: 3471”. That’s right – on Monday, March 20th, at approximately 10:15 AM, I came in to over three thousand emails in my inbox. That averaged out to over 200 for each day I was out of the office! There must have been some major crises while I was gone for that many emails to be flying around. Feeling a little less relaxed than I had been when I first arrived at the office, I hunkered down and began the serious business of rifling through every email to see what needed to be done.

At my old job, when anyone was out of the office, we were told to state in our out of office message that any emails sent to us during our absence would be deleted. We had the option to either set an Outlook rule to auto-delete all incoming messages, or to use the Shift-Delete option on all messages when we came back. Unfortunately, at this job, that isn’t an option, and although we aren’t saving lives or anything, we are required to go through every single email to make sure everything has or will be addressed. Obviously, the longer ago that someone sent a request, the more urgent it was, so I started with my oldest emails and worked my way forward. My first day out was March 3rd.

I’m not going to lie – a lot of the emails that came through were crap – company-wide memos irrelevant to me, automated spam disguised as legitimate mail, and so many undeliverable messages in response to my automated out of office reply. But I was amazed at the number of emails I was copied on that were sent to my backup!

By about 1:30 PM, my bladder was telling me it was time to move from my desk. I answered nature’s call, stretched a bit, and grabbed a quick bite. I’d been focused and working really hard for over three hours – I was sure I had really put a big dent in my inbox. I glance at the bottom left of my Outlook screen again: “Items: 3486, Unread: 3468” What the…? I was sure I had gone through at least 250 emails, yet I only had two less unread than that morning! Obviously, more had come in that morning. I didn’t know what they were, though, because I was only up to March 6th. The MORNING of March 6th, no less. I could feel a headache coming on…

I won’t bore you with all the details of how many emails I went through every day – suffice to say that I worked late every single day to try to catch up. Now, the only remnant of my fabulous vacation is the tan. The relaxation with which I started the week was completely gone by about Wednesday. The glow has been replaced by a sheen of sweat on my upper lip as I try desperately to escape email hell.
When I left the office on Friday afternoon, I was down to a “mere” 827 unread emails. At this rate, I think I can safely say that I’ll be all caught up by about mid-May, assuming I go back to monitoring my emails at night and on weekends.

Was my two week vacation worth the months of email purgatory that I will be going through? You bet it was – it was the best vacation of my life! But I can pretty much guarantee you that it will be at least another twenty one years before I take two weeks in a row off again.

Salty

sarcasmoqueen — Sat, 18 Mar 2017 02:17:54 GMT

I just got back from 13 days in the sunny Caribbean. When we left on March 4th, the temperatures weren't too cold, only a couple of degrees below freezing. When our friends left one week later on March 11th, they were going back to temperatures of about -25 celcius. My husband and I kind of gloated, knowing that we would be basking on the beach in 30 degree heat as our friends tried to adjust to the frigidity of Montreal.

On Tuesday, we heard through the grapevine that the weather had warmed up in Montreal, but that a blizzard was on the way. If you've never lived in an extreme climate like Montreal, you may not be aware that there is ONE advantage to extreme cold (although it may not seem like it). Once the temperature drops to about -15, it's too cold to snow. And as miserable as it may be to be outside on super cold days, at least the roads are clear. When more than a couple of centimetres fall in a short period of time, it wreaks havoc on the roads. By the end of Tuesday's storm, nearly 50 centimetres (1.5 feet) had fallen. Cars were in ditches, and commutes that were usually 20 minutes took over two hours. On one highway, over 500 motorists were stranded overnight for over 8 hours. After hearing that, my husband and I were very grateful to still be in Cuba. We were sure that most of the mess would be cleared up by the time we left on Thursday night.

When we arrived at Trudeau airport in Montreal, things didn't seem too bad. As we drove further and further west towards our apartment, we could more and more remnants of the recent storm - the snow banks at the side of the highway were higher than our car! When we stepped out of the taxi, my leg brushed against the side of the vehicle. What a difference a few hours makes - that morning, we had been beachside, 30 degrees in the sun, smelling the fresh sea air, and now it was dark, -10, and I had road salt all over my pants. Welcome back to real life. Oh well, at least we only have six more weeks of cold and snow, right? RIGHT??

Take a Hike

sarcasmoqueen — Wed, 01 Mar 2017 22:06:22 GMT

It was the summer of 1982. I was 12, and my sister was 15. We were both itching to have some extra cash in our pockets, but both too young to legally work at the local fast food joint, and babysitting, while somewhat profitable, was not steady enough to rely on. You can imagine our elation when we saw a job posting on the bulletin board at the grocery store advertising work that seemed perfect for us. The sign read something like this:

*“NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY! Looking for strawberry pickers of all ages! You will be paid $2 for every basket you fill. Pickup at 6:30 AM at the following address, drop off at the end of the day. No application needed, just be ready for pick up.”
*since this happened nearly 35 years ago, obviously, I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea…

No experience needed, transportation to and from the strawberry field, and two bucks per basket? This sounded like a dream job! And those baskets were really small, we figured we’d fill at least a dozen before lunch and make an easy fifty buck a day. My sister and I were stoked.

The next morning, 6AM came pretty early. The day was a scorcher, already at about 26 degrees Celsius, and with the humidity factor, it looked like it might get as high as 38 or more. But my sister and I were excited, and we quickly ate breakfast and made the quick 5 minute walk to the end of our street to wait for the bus.

We were expecting a bus, but that’s not what came. We got a pick-up truck – that’s right, in a move that by today’s standards would have had child protective services shutting down the business and launching a full investigation, we were told to find some space in the truck’s flatbed.

There were easily a dozen people on the back of that truck, and judging by looks, my sister was one of the oldest. Nobody spoke, although thinking back on it now, I’m surprised that nobody broke out into a chorus of the old Negro spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”.

The truck made an additional stop or two before heading onto dust covered roads to take us to a farm in the middle of nowhere. The man in charge gave us quick instructions and scattered us in different rows in the field. At either end of each row were 2 stations - one with empty baskets, and one where we were to deposit our filled baskets. A lady waited at this station, checking to make sure our baskets were full enough and keeping track of home many we filled for payment at the end of the day. And it turned out that the baskets were not the cute little ones we see at the grocery store, but rather a cardboard box large enough to hold four little baskets. We were doing four times the expected work for the same measly pay.

It was miserable. Hot and humid, and the strawberries were way smaller than I expected, which meant that it took much longer to fill a basket. The strawberries were low to the ground, which meant that we were hunched over for extended periods of time. And in my eagerness to make money, I neglected to take my multitude of allergies – to grass, trees, peat moss, and yes, strawberries - into consideration, which meant that I was congested, swollen mess by the time to whistle blew (they had an honest to goodness WORK WHISTLE) to announce lunch. I found my sister a few rows away, looking almost as bad as I felt.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to her, “it HURTS.”

“I know,” she replied.

“Can we go home?”

“I think we should. Let’s go find the guy in charge.”

We found him at the lunch table, and explained that we couldn’t stay any longer. He said that it was fine, and we would get paid for what we had done that morning, which if memory serves me, was about $18 each, but that we had to find our own way home, because the truck only left at the end of the day, which was for them, 6PM.

The thought of another 5 hours in the sweltering heat doing backbreaking manual labour nearly drove me to tears. I just couldn’t do it. We asked to use the phone. There wasn’t one, or at least that’s what he said. This was in the age before cell phones were common, so we had no way to reach our parents and ask – nay, BEG them to come to pick us up. We had no choice, we had to walk.

Under normal circumstances, the walk would have been no big deal. We were at most 10 miles from home, and with no local bus service, we were used to having to walk or bike everywhere we wanted to go. It was a hot but beautiful day, and there was a pleasant breeze in the air that we couldn’t feel earlier because of the stifling strawberry bushes. But these were anything but normal circumstances. Our backs were aching, our fingers were stained and sore, and we were drenched with sweat.

But we also couldn’t stomach the idea of staying at that farm for one more minute, so off we went.

The early 80s were long before the era of GPS. My sister and I were trying to make our way home mostly by a wing and a prayer. Those farms and dirt roads all looked the same. It was a miracle that we weren’t picked up by some random stranger, and even more miraculous that we went the right way.

We finally staggered into the house at around 4:30. Dad was still on the golf course, and Mom was surprised to see us home so early. She wasn’t happy to hear that we quit on our first day, and insisted that we were exaggerating when we described the horrible conditions and the long walk home.

But we knew. Yes, we knew, and even to this day, the sight of a farmer’s field of berries makes me break out into a cold sweat.

Trolley Problem

sarcasmoqueen — Mon, 20 Feb 2017 21:45:49 GMT

I’ve never been what one could call a morning person. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always preferred nights over mornings. I used to go to sleep at 3 or 4AM, or even later, and sleep like a champ until at least lunch. I made sure my university class schedule never started before 1PM, and even then, sometimes I’d sleep in and be late.

Once I finished school and entered the job force, I worried that my erratic sleep schedule would mess me up. Surprisingly, I adjusted quite well. I always needed an alarm clock to wake up on weekdays, but I was consistently at work on time or early, before 8AM every day. After about a year or so of working, I noticed that I was even waking up early on weekends! I was amazed at what one could get done in a day when one left the bed before lunchtime.

About five or six years ago, I started to have issues with insomnia. I’d be tired, go to bed at a reasonable hour, and fall asleep fairly quickly, but then find myself inexplicably wide awake at 3AM, and unable to feel drowsy again until about 15 minutes before my alarm was about to go off. Sometimes, just to keep me on my toes, the urge to sleep would desert me altogether until the wee hours of the morning, leaving me to try to read, or watch TV to pass the time, despite burning eyes caused by – you guessed it – NEED FOR SLEEP!
For a while, I just tried to brush it off as an anomaly, thinking that it would just go away on its own. But after a while, it was taking a toll on me. It was time to see my doctor. He prescribed some sleeping pills, and told me to take half of one about an hour before bedtime. I’m not much of a pill taker, so I tend to be pretty sensitive to meds, so I waited until a Friday night to try it, just to see what would happen.

I did my nighttime routine, changed into my PJs, and took the prescribed dosage at about 10PM. I was in bed by about 10:30, and read for a little bit before turning out the light. My next conscious thought was at about 2PM on Saturday afternoon, the first time I opened my eyes for the day. My left side was completely numb because as far as I could tell, I had not moved even one inch during the night, and I had been sleeping for over fifteen hours. That’s the perfect amount of sleep for a six month old, but a tad excessive for a forty-something. To boot, when I sat up, I felt fuzzy headed and slow, as if I had been partying hard at an event I couldn’t remember attending. Obviously, sleeping pills were not a good solution for me.

I tried self-medicating for a little while by taking a couple of Benadryl allergy pills before bed, but they had the same kind of after-effects as the sleeping pills – morning cotton head. Assuming I was even able to wake myself up sufficiently to get dressed and get to work, which was only about half the time, my reaction times were significantly reduced until at least noon, making me a hazard to myself and others, especially during the morning commute. There had to be another way.

In the last couple of years, I’ve found a solution that works for me. I’m fortunate that all I need to do my job is a computer and sometimes a phone, and that my company provides me with a laptop and an RSA token that gives me the access as what I get at the office no matter where I am. I’m also fortunate that my manager lives more than 4100 kilometres (2500+ miles) away and is two or three hours behind me depending on the time of year. I no longer even make the attempt to wake up at 6AM to get to the office for 8. Instead, I sleep until 7:55 (or a little later if I really need it) and log in from home. I’ll work from my living room until I feel sufficiently alert, and then head into the office. I get to the office anywhere between 9:30 and 11, depending on how badly I slept the night before. Once I’m in the office, I don’t leave my desk, except for bathroom breaks, until 5-ish.

Some might see this as unfair or slacking off, but it’s really not. No, it’s not perfect, but in the long run it benefits both me and my employers. The nights still suck because I’m wide awake, but overall I’m more rested than I was before, and therefore much more productive. I generally miss the morning rush hour traffic, which is beneficial to my mood, and quite frankly, beneficial to those who have to deal with me. My employers are also getting much more than the 40 hours of work a week that they pay me for. Generally speaking, my drive in takes 30 minutes or less once rush hour is over. I get an hour lunch break, but I never take it if I’m in the office after 9 unless I have a work related meeting. Once I’m home for the evening, I’ll also check my email to see if there is anything urgent pending that can’t wait until morning. Time online will vary from night to night, but my company is getting at least another two hour per week out of me there. On average, I would say that I’m easily working fifty hours a week. My company is getting a pretty good deal with those numbers.

Believe it or not, I actually prefer working at the office than from home – I have two large monitors rather than a tiny laptop monitor, I have a proper desk and a headset so that I can type and talk, and I’m much more likely to stand up every once in a while to stretch at my desk than at home. But for now, this is my best solution for dealing with this insomnia. Hopefully it will correct itself eventually, and I can go back to the way things used to be.

No Comment

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 10 Feb 2017 23:53:21 GMT

When my fiancé and I started planning our wedding, we really wanted to invite no more than 50 people, so with couples on one invite, we didn’t expect to send out more than 30 or so cards. For reasons I won’t get into, but which involve a guilt trip from my mom for having to get on a plane, we ended up sending out over a hundred. Not our dream, but we could adjust.

Written boldly on all cards were the letters R.S.V.P. I’m fairly certain that everyone on earth knows that means you need to tell your hosts whether or not you will be attending. Apparently, though, my extended family doesn’t think this response applies to them.

We sent the cards out in March, and asked for some sort of acknowledgement by the end of June. When Canada Day (July 1st) came and went with only about 15 responses, we sent out a gentle reminder to everyone who hadn’t answered that they needed to let us know ASAP. That jump started a few more friends to send their responses, but from my extended family? Crickets.

We reached out multiple times, and never hear a peep from any of them officially, and it’s really annoying! To be honest, I don’t even want most of them to come, but really, how long does it take to say yes or no?

Now, here we are, 26 days away from the big day. I’m done with begging people for a response, especially given that most of these people are blood relatives! I’ve told my mom that if they decide to show up without telling me, they are welcome, but we won’t have seats for them for the beachfront ceremony, and they won’t get any food at the reception. And that’s OK with me.

Where I'm From

sarcasmoqueen — Tue, 31 Jan 2017 20:21:19 GMT

As a Canadian who often has to endure temperatures well below freezing between the months of November and April, I try to escape at least once a year. We usually head to the Caribbean for a week, because it’s not too far (usually between 3.5 and 4.5 hours), and we can fly direct. Since 2010, we’ve been to Cayo Coco, Holguin, and Varadero in Cuba, and Montego Bay and Ocho Rios in Jamaica. We still plan on eventually getting to Barbados, St. Lucia, and every other island that has a 5+ star all-inclusive.

During my travels, I’ve noticed that I am somewhat of an enigma to the locals. I’m black, but I fall on the light side of the “black-ness spectrum”. My mother tongue is English, and although my parents were born in South America, I was born and raised right here in “La Belle Province”. I am fluent in both English and French, but my accent is pure Anglo-Quebecois.

You can’t tell any of that by looking at me, though. So whenever I’m in Cuba, I’m mistaken for one of them. For those of you who have never been to a resort in Cuba, they are very friendly. As a Canadian, I am also programmed to be friendly. As a visitor to their country, it behooves me to learn a few key phrases in their native language – “Hola”, “Gracias”, “Un cervesa por favor” are a few that come to mind. Because I only know a few words, I know them really well. They roll off my tongue as though I’m a natural. That’s when I usually run into some difficulty. Upon looking at me and hearing me ask where the ladies’ room is with such ease, they will often attempt to engage me in actual conversation in rapid fire Spanish. It’s at this time that I usually blink a couple of times in rapid succession, and bust out my most used Spanish phrase: “Habla un pequito espanol solomente”.

To be honest, I don’t even know if that’s real Spanish. Spanish and French are similar, so when I’m in doubt, I’ll use a French word and put a Spanish spin on it. But the Cubans understand me, and inevitably the conversation progresses. They will switch to English, and it usually proceeds a little something like this:

Native Cuban: You don’t speak Spanish?
Candy: No, only a little bit.
NC: You’re not Cuban?
C: No, I’m Canadian.
NC: Canadian? No, no, no. Where are your parents from?
C: South America.
NC: Ah! So you DO speak Spanish!
C: No, I really don’t. They are from an English country.
NC: But you look Cuban!
C: So I’ve heard…

From that point on, whenever I see the native Cuban in question, they will, without fail, ask me if I’m sure I’m not Cuban. And if any of their co-workers happen to be around when I pass by, they will explain my story to them and be surprised all over again that a woman who looks like me can be “not Cuban”.

I don’t mind too much when this happens. In fact, it’s kind of cute. And if it’s a bartender who I’ve had the conversation with, it usually means I never have to wait long for a refill on my drink when he’s around, and that’s OK by me.

Heel Turn

sarcasmoqueen — Mon, 23 Jan 2017 20:58:45 GMT

Everyone who knows me at least a little bit is aware that I am deeply involved in a charitable organization in my community. Every spring, we put on a musical production. In addition to being one of the dancers in the show, I am also on the production team as artistic director.

We had our auditions back at the beginning of December, and ended up with a pretty good cast – one male actor, the perfect number for the type of show we are doing this year, and seven dancers, the most we’ve had in at least eight years. The band consists of a drummer, two guitarists, a bassist, and a violinist/keyboard player, so every single song in the show will sound the way it should. We also have a total of six vocalists – three lead females, one back up female, and two males.

Although our two male vocalists are phenomenal and can handle any song thrown at them, it would feel a bit more balanced if we could have found one more man. That’s why, when our vocal director Jen suggested we meet her good friend for an audition in mid-January, a few weeks into the rehearsal process, we agreed.

Jordan made a great first impression. He is handsome, with a charming and engaging smile, and a pretty good set of pipes. He seemed to be very nice – chatted pleasantly to everyone, and telling anyone who would listen how happy he was to get the chance to audition with us.

The production team met after his audition to decide whether or not we would take him, but it was more of a formality. He and Jen had been friends for years, so between her endorsement, and our favourable first impression, there really was no question. We sent him an official email, welcoming him to our cast.

The first few weeks were great – the singers were working on their songs, and Jordan appeared to fit right in.

But yesterday, Jen walked into rehearsal looking… not quite right. In addition to being in our band and being our vocal director, Jen is also a lead in another theatre company’s production happening in March. Our rehearsals often overlap, and she often goes straight from one to the other without a break. Figuring that she was probably just a little tired from being on her feet all morning, I called her over to where a small group of us were already gathered.

Without preamble, she spoke. “Jordan quit.”

I literally felt my jaw drop as I gaped at her. “What? Why?”

“I was over at his house last night, helping him with his songs. He said he wanted to change his leads…”

“You mean he wants to sing some of Dwayne or Dave’s songs instead?”

“No, he literally wants to change his songs. He wants them taken out of the show, and replaced with songs of his choosing.”

You should know that the songs in our show aren’t just chosen willy nilly. There is a purpose. The production team spends weeks deciding on a theme and choosing songs that fit that theme. We then narrow the initial choices down, making sure there is a good mix of eras, styles, and vocal ranges, and make sure that none of choices have been done in our show in at least the previous five years. It’s a pretty daunting task, and the fact that a newbie who knew nothing about our show or our process would demand that the vocal director make changes based on his whims, was pretty astounding.

“We can’t do that,” I said.

“That’s what I told him,” she replied. “And he said that I was the vocal director and could do whatever I wanted. He said that a GOOD vocal director would change the songs. Then he got personal. He said I was the worst vocal director he’s ever worked with, and that I didn’t know what I was doing. So I told him…I told him…” The tears she has probably been holding back since the night before finally burst forth, and she is unable to continue.

As we gathered Jen up on a group hug, my mind raced. From what I’d seen and heard, Jen and Jordan had been friends for nearly ten years, and according to Jen, they became pretty close friends over the last two or three. How could someone who is a supposed friend treat her with such blatant disrespect?

After a moment or two, Jen calmed down enough to continue. “He said that we either had to change the songs, or he was out. So I said thanks for nothing, and showed myself out.”

Obviously, our organization is better off without a diva like Jordan to gum up the works. None of us gets paid for this. We’re a group who likes to have fun, loves to perform, and embraces the idea that we can raise money for charity while doing something we enjoy. Because we work in such close proximity, we are bound to have the occasional disagreement. But none of us would ever resort to the level that Jordan did by insulting the actual person with whom we are disagreeing. Jordan’s behaviour didn’t just cost him his role in our production. It cost him his relationship with Jen. Having known her for close to ten years myself, I can honestly say that he is the bigger loser here – Jen is one of the best women I know, and he threw that friendship away. And all to preserve his fragile ego.

Fear is the Heart of Love

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 13 Jan 2017 20:02:54 GMT

I woke up on Monday with my stomach in knots and my nerves jangling. I didn’t quite know why. Then it dawned on me – the holiday season is officially over, and everyone is back to reality. Normally this isn’t a reason to feel anxious – I actually usually feel much better when the holidays are over and we can focus on regular life. But this year is different. As of Monday, we were only 58 days away from our destination wedding. That’s pretty fucking soon. And it feels as though nothing is ready.

I chose and put a deposit on my wedding dress back in June. I had hoped to be able get a fitting scheduled during the holidays, but when I called the salon, they told me that they would be closed during the holidays, and would call me to schedule something in the New Year. As of Monday, I had not heard from them.

My wedding coordinator at the resort sent me an email on a Tuesday in December saying that they were short staffed, but she would contact me on that Thursday. I have not heard a peep from her since that email sent on December 6th. Monday was January 9th, more than a month later.

I think I have good reason to have knots and jangly nerves.

To be clear, I am not at all apprehensive about marriage, the institution. My nerves about my dress and coordinator aren’t a misdirection of apprehension about my life partner or some other gobbledygook. No, I’m pretty confident about those choices.

The wedding itself, though? That’s a whole other story…

Before you start, I know that at the end of the day, we’ll be married and all will be good. That’s not the point. If it were the point, we would have just gone to a judge or something, and moved on with our lives. This is supposed to be a celebration, and we will be celebrating with the people we love most in the world.

And right there, we get to the root of the problem.

Dan loves me. I know that. I love Dan. He knows that. Dan thinks I’m beautiful whether I am dressed up or waking up. That’s all well and good, and I suppose even pretty sweet, but on our wedding day, I’d actually like to look beautiful for him. Walking down the aisle, all eyes will be on me, and I’d rather be looking fabulous in a properly fitting dress, well-coiffed hair, and stunning (yet natural looking) makeup than frumpy in a raggedy bathing suit and cover up. And with no answers from the coordinator or salon, that second scenario is looking more and more likely!

Our guests flew thousands of miles to be with us. We want to show them our appreciation by throwing a nice party. With no music, décor or menu confirmed, they may well just be eating from the buffet and hanging out at the resort’s karaoke bar.

I honestly don’t understand what is going on. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable when I will be paying for services to expect a response to my requests.

It’s now Friday, and the salon has called and booked my first fitting for next Thursday. The wedding coordinator remains MIA… it looks as though these knots in my stomach will be hanging around for a while…

Brushback Pitch

sarcasmoqueen — Wed, 14 Dec 2016 21:26:56 GMT

What do you do when a person can’t take a hint? When they can’t – or WON’T – acknowledge that they are the issue? Allow me to explain…

I have a friend that I’ll call Ingrid. We met a little over six years ago when she successfully auditioned to become one of the dancers in our show. Now, before I continue, I have to stress that I love Ingrid, I really do. I consider her to be a very good friend. But she can be very… intense. And laser focused. The problem is, her laser is often focused on herself, instead of the whole group.

At rehearsal, we dance in front of mirrors. That’s so we’re able to make sure that we are doing the movements the same way, and at the same time. It’s to make sure we are equally spaced, so that all of us can be seen from the audience, no matter where they are. Sounds easy enough, right? Apparently, not so much.

We don’t rehearse in a professional dance studio. We use moveable mirrors, and when all of us are dancing, we don’t all fit within the mirrors at the same time. That’s usually ok, though, because we can still see what we need to, even if we’re not directly in front of it, and, as we change positions throughout the dance, everyone ends up in front of it at some point.

Ingrid doesn’t see it the same way as the rest of us do, though. Instead of checking her position in relation to the rest of us, or whether she is doing the same move as the rest of us, she is busy checking herself out, making sure she is displaying herself at the best angle, even if that means modifying the move. No matter where she is SUPPOSED to be, she will find a space in front of the mirror, even if it means literally standing in front of, or on top of, another dancer. In her intensity, she often forgets to actually listen to the music we’re dancing to, and will be anywhere from a smidge to 2 counts ahead of the rest of us. And of course, because she’s staring at herself instead of everyone else, she never realizes that she’s off beat.

When the choreographers repeatedly tell us to watch everyone in the mirror, we all know that they are talking to Ingrid, but she is clueless. She’s also the emotional type, and can’t take criticism as anything but a personal attack, so the tears that result from anyone trying to correct her directly are just not worth it. We had to find a different way to make her see the error of her ways.

My two friends Karen and Linda, along with me, are the ones most affected by Ingrid’s self-involvement in front of the mirror. Whether by coincidence or by design, we always seemed to be the ones around her the most. We were sick of having to adjust ourselves to make up for her, so we devised a plan. For your reference, I’m 5’8”, Karen is 5’7”, and Linda is 5’6”. Ingrid, on the other hand, is a mere 4’11” (and I think she exaggerates when she says she’s that tall). A lot of damage can be done by a tall woman when she extends fully, especially when the people around her are not where they are supposed to be. The three of us decided that we were no longer going to move from our correct positions just because Ingrid was wrong.

Once we decided to do that, dance rehearsals suddenly got a lot more interesting. Ingrid’s hair would be tousled from her shoulders by a well-placed high kick from Linda. Karen’s hand stopped tantalizingly close to Ingrid’s nose on more than one occasion. As for me, I *may* have clotheslined her a couple of times…

Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, Ingrid’s fascination with herself in the mirror has not abated. We stop short of causing physical harm, although that might be just the kick in the butt (literally!) she needs to get her act together, because despite our frustration with her, we don’t want to hurt her.

I will admit, though, that her little squeals of surprise when she has a close call with one of our body parts almost make up it…

I need the struggle to feel alive

sarcasmoqueen — Fri, 18 Nov 2016 21:56:15 GMT

I went wedding dress shopping in July. Found a great dress – simple, but classic, a little blingy, but not overdone for a beach wedding. They have to place an order in my size, and then I have a couple of custom fittings so that the final product is just right. When they placed my order, I figured I had until about mid-December to get into better shape. I figured that between all my softball games, a decent eating plan, and long walks every day, I’d be down to a figure I liked in no time.

But you know what? I’m not in my twenties anymore – a fact that I often forget despite, or possibly because of, my propensity to consume alcohol like a college girl at her first frat party. Back then, getting into shape was easy! But as the years creep up, the metabolism goes way down, and as mid-December grew closer and closer, I was seeing no discernible difference in my body.

Our wedding is on a tropical island with an average daytime temperature of 25 degrees Celsius. As good as I want to look on my wedding day (and I do want to look good – in fact, I want my fiancé to sob like a baby when he gets his first glimpse of me walking down the aisle; who knew I was so petty??), I absolutely refuse to resort to modern torture devices like Spanx to get the figure I desire. Between the heat and the sand, I would be one miserable bride by the end of the night. Nope, my only option was to -gasp! – exercise harder.

I don't want to spend my life at the gym. Hell, if I'm going to be completely honest, I don't want to spend ANY time at the gym. I needed something that was fast, but effective. One day while perusing Facebook, I saw a check in from my friend S – 30-Minute Hit. Thirty minutes? Even I could squeeze that in. I asked S a few questions about it, and before I knew what was happening, I’d agreed to a free trial.

I never realized that a normal human being was capable of producing that much sweat in half an hour. I was actually sweating into my ears, something that has never happened to me before, even onstage when dancing under a pile of hot lights.

I finished that first session shaky and exhausted, but I signed up. For the first time in who knew how long, I felt like I was actually accomplishing something at a gym. I got to vent my frustrations by punching and kicking bags, and it was only 30 minutes of my life! For the first couple of weeks, I went three times a week, but this week and next I’m stepping it up to 5 or 6 times. In the little over a month that I’ve been going, I am feeling little differences. I’m a bit stronger after every hit. The scale has not moved very much, but that was never my goal. My clothes feel slightly looser, because I am developing some muscle, which takes up less room than fat. That’s making the effort worthwhile. I have a yearlong membership, and I hope to keep it up. But even if I don’t, I know I will stay motivated until the wedding at the very least, and when they call me for my first fitting in a few weeks, I won’t have to worry about not fitting into my dress.

Introduction

sarcasmoqueen — Mon, 07 Nov 2016 17:32:21 GMT

Let’s get the typical stuff out of the way- my name’s Candy, forty-something, an English Canadian from Montreal, Quebec, lover of karaoke, theatre, music and dancing, bookworm, softball player, and competition based reality tv show addict.

Huh. I look at this list, and it doesn’t REALLY describe who I am – sure, everything there is true, but it’s not me, or at least it’s not all of me. To get a better idea of who I am, you’d need to peruse my journal, or hang out with me in person. The essence of *ME* may be tinged with other elements if I’ve gone through a life-changing event – the loss of a loved one, a new career, or moving, but my strongest traits will always shine through in some way - my sense of humour, my sarcastic “wit”, and my impatience with stupidity.

I never plan what I’m going to be writing about from week to week. I don’t to serial fiction, and I haven’t ever created a character that I want to bring back. However, the old adage is “write what you know”, and I tend to follow that advice. What I know varies with what is going on in my life at any particular point in time.

That being said, y’all should prepare yourselves for what I foresee happening this season, or at least for the next eight or nine months, if I last that long in the competition.

I am in the midst of planning my destination wedding. The trip is less than four months away, so I predict many entries that will be inspired by the destination, the wedding, and the planning.

I am also about to gear up to start the 2017 production of Becket Players, something else that will take up a lot of my time until next May. Then right after that, softball season starts. Pretty sure both of these activities will pop up from time to time as well.

I am a former competitive figure skater. If all else fails, I’ll likely be drawing inspiration from those former glory days as well.

Taking inspiration from what I know is what makes me the kind of writer I am. Love me or hate me, you will get to know me through my work. Whether I’m writing fiction, reality, or augmented reality, you’ll see many facets of me – I’ll make you laugh, I’ll make you cry, I’ll make you think… sometimes even on purpose.

LJ Idol...

sarcasmoqueen — Tue, 01 Nov 2016 14:25:10 GMT

I will be playing again this season. Hoping to last a long long time...