Remembrance Day - 11/11/11

I always find it difficult to write about Remembrance Day, not because I don’t know what to say, but because I have so many thoughts and emotions about it and I don’t know how to convey them to show how much this day means to me.

It’s my fear that people don’t understand the magnitude of what Remembrance Day means as a Canadian. The truth is, without this day and the history behind it, our lives would be catastrophically different. Anyone who values their life, the ability to do whatever and be whoever they want, and the freedom to speak their minds can do so because of the sacrifices that our men and women have given for this great country.

My feelings on Canada’s stance towards immigration are no secret. If you come to this country and are allowed to live here, you are damn lucky and, as such, must conform to OUR ways of life. Those who abuse that right and complain about our national anthem, the focus on Christian ideology, and the perceived lack of respect for different cultures are disrespecting not only the foundation of our country, but the lives of those who fought for that very right to complain. My anger and disappointment in the Canadian government stems from the fear that those who have given their own lives, freedom, and sense of self will ultimately be in vain. It is our job to ensure that that those sacrifices will NEVER be in vain. That they will never, ever be forgotten.

The men and women of the Canadian military not only suffered physical wounds or died for their country, but they also live with the mental scars that war etches in their minds. Post traumatic stress and depression plague more service men and women than is widely known – just because physical wounds heal does not mean that the mental wounds of witnessing death and destruction heal, as well. The effect of war does not end with Armistice Day – just as we still reap the benefits of their sacrifices, so too do the military men and women feel the impact of all they saw and did. They suffered so that we don't have to.

Bravery comes in all forms. For every single person who fought and continues to fight, their families and friends are left behind to get through each day with the fear that, one day, they might hear their worst nightmare confirmed – their loved one is never coming home. To be strong in the face of that fear is a battle in itself.

I don’t know if I will ever find the words to show thankful I am to our veterans and active duty military personnel, or how proud I am to be Canadian. I can only hope that each and every Canadian never forgets the sacrifices that Canadians before them gave so that we can live free.

Lest we forget.

Love,

Bella

Hockey Night in Canada

Hockey is the sport of Canadians. Has been for years. It brings friends together and puts them at odds for a few hours when they’re cheering for opposing teams. It’s healthy competition. There are commercials showing the unity of hockey fans, and indulging in hockey and beer is basically a Canadian rite of passage.

Which is why, when I see an article in the Toronto Star about the Punjabi community being up in arms because the CBC – the CANADIAN Broadcasting Company – has ceased the production of a Punjabi broadcast of Hockey Night in Canada, my stomach rolls and I can feel anger rising in my chest.

The Star article states that the “move has South Asians across the country up in arms.” Are we in South Asia now? No? Then why the fuck should hockey – hockey! Of all things – be broadcast on a Canadian network in Punjabi?

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t actually have a problem with landed immigrants that contribute to Canadian society, and I’m honoured that they see Canada as a safe place away from the turmoil that plagues so many other countries. I know I’m very lucky to have been born here. However, I do expect that when people immigrate to my country, they learn English – I don’t care that Punjabi is “the fourth most-spoken non-official language in Canada after Chinese languages, Italian and German” – because it’s our NATIONAL language. And you’re in our nation. They’re lucky to be in a country that lets them voice their opinion, because if I were to go to THEIR country and try to enforce my beliefs on them, I would be punished. Celebrate your culture on your own, and speak your own language among your fellow people if you must. But in my country, you speak my country’s language.

Canada is so careful not to step on the toes of new immigrants that we’re losing any sense of culture that we once had. The broadcasters of this show claim that it “‘has made the community feel more Canadian,’ and helped new immigrants connect with the culture.” And it’s in Punjabi. Does no one else see what’s wrong about this? Hockey is Canadian and part of our culture, yes, but if you want to “connect” with our culture, speak our God damn language. That’s all I’m saying.

Well, right now. I could say much more. But that would be getting too far off topic.

In other news, one of my clients used cheesy pick-up lines on me. Being my client, I obviously brush them off. But I would actually implore more guys to use that type of pick-up lines in a funny yet endearing way. It’s actually rather sweet.

Or maybe that’s just me…

Love,

Bella

My Life...This Week, Anyway

Ghosts, Goblins, and Ghouls

Fearfest at Wonderland is always exciting (I guess – this is the first year I’ve been there, but it was pretty exciting). I’m not one who’s usually good with being scared – I can’t even watch scary movies without a pillow in front of my face and hyperventilating – so I’m not sure why I thought Fearfest would be a good idea for me. In any case, my friends and I ventured to this place of horror a couple of weeks ago for some good natured terrorizing.

Now, I know this stuff is fake. I know it’s all makeup on the people and that the stage of the theatre is not actually a haunted swamp. But I seemed to forget all that when I was in the dark recesses of the bayou and creepy creatures were jumping out at me. My poor buddy was so often clawed, yanked, and thrown into the people that jumped out that he was more scared of me than anything else. Apparently my survival instinct is to throw my friends in front of danger to save myself. So I learned something new about myself that night. But you try being calm when those buggers chase you out of the house. You’re never safe.

When I went back the next weekend with Rio, I was still terrified, though I didn’t push him into anything so much as I just smacked him whenever something scared me. So, basically, I’ll give up my friends for my own safety or just hit them in sheer terror. They are so lucky to be friends with me.

Rio was also delighted to have been the blatant object of affection for about 4 different girls, a fact that he took great pleasure in pointing out and also pondering aloud, “Why aren’t you being checked out by anyone?” Well I don’t know, bud, why don’t you ask someone for me? I think his favourite moment was catching a vampire chick off guard and speaking in an English accent to a ghoul (he’s special). I, however, was not up to par with his awesomeness that night, which he was not shy about stating when he told me that I needed “to get up to his level.” I may have smacked him a little harder the next time something “scared” me.

Work Isn’t Meant to Be This Fun

(This picture has nothing to do with the post below and everything to do with the fact that Alcide is damn sexy).

It’s no secret that I love the people I work with. They’re hilarious, sweet, and just overall really awesome. Today, for example, one patient screamed when she saw it was me saying hi to her, and then hugged me. Like, seriously? How does that not change someone’s day from bad to good? (While also scaring me a little, because I really wasn’t expecting her to actually scream). Another patient and I bonded at the fact that we both used to frequent an infamous bar in town - her 21 years ago, and me only about a year ago. How cool is that??

I’ve been feeling pretty blah the past few days – probably down to the weather – and whenever I go onto the units and talk to my clients, more often than not I leave feeling revitalized. That’s not to say that I don’t ever feel drained from having more challenging conversations, but even those situations make me realize how much I have to learn and how much they can teach me. Because really, as much as I’m here to help them in their recovery, they help me and teach me more than I could ever do for them.

I’m not sure where I was going with this. I still don’t. Basically, I love them. But would I try to protect them if zombies were trying to attack me? Probably not. Every person for themselves in that situation, friends.

Love,

Bella

People I Love...and Those I Don't

This picture has nothing to do with the post. I just really want to go to Arizona.

Client Interaction

Working with my clients is honestly the best job that I could ask for right now. I get paid to hang out with them.

Obviously, I can’t share too much information about my work or my clients, but I can’t NOT share the little tidbits from them that make my day – at the expense of myself.

“I like your earrings – your watch is really tacky, though.”

Client: “So, when you were depressed, was it because you didn’t have a boyfriend?”
Me: “What? No!”

Me: “You’re a really good artist.”
Client: “That makes me want to take you to my room and show you all my other pictures.”

Me: “I like your picture.”
Client: “Thanks. Wanna buy it?”
Me: “Um. No.”
Client: “Then why are you standing here wasting my time? Move along.”

Client: “Are you poisoning that again, Shelley?” (I was making her some hot chocolate).
Me: “I’m not Shelley.” (I have no idea why my first response was to correct the name and not discount her belief that I was trying to kill her).
Client: “I know who you are, Chris.”
Me: “I’m not Chris!”
Client: “I don’t give a shit who you people are, to be honest. You’re shit under my feet and I should piss on your grave for murdering my father.”
Me: “…do you still want your hot chocolate?”

Client: “I hear they’re sending you to maximum security.”
Me: “To work?”
Client: “No, as a patient.”
Me: “What?! Who have you been talking to?!”

Client: “Your hair is much better when it’s straight.”
Me: “Did it look that bad the other day?”
Client: “No, but…it looks way better now.”

Kickboxing

My mom and I decided to buy a Wagjag offer for kickboxing. Tonight was our first night. We got there when a children’s karate class was going on, and there were kids everywhere. For someone who is just now warming up to the idea of having a kid of my own (in the future! Not now. Jesus, not right now), all the little children were a tad overwhelming. Which showed when I exclaimed “my God, they’re everywhere!” Oops.

Anyway, this ladies kickboxing was full of young, tired mothers (I have no idea if they actually were; I’m just making an uninformed assumption) wearing pink shirts and pink gloves (PINK. At a fucking martial arts centre). Their stances were terrible and they hit the bag like they were afraid of breaking a nail. Look, I’m all about femininity (if you ask my friend Rio, I’m only a little bit manly – thanks buddy), but when we’re supposed to be boxing, it’s not the time. Add to the fact that the owner is a really annoying chick who needs some serious dental work and a personality overhaul, and my Mom and I were rolling our eyes and scoffing at people the entire time. It’s hard to be so perfect, but we manage.

I was standing there rolling my eyes when some guy walked into the centre. With eyes that were, seriously, icy blue. I looked at him, breathed “whoa”, and quickly hiked down my shirt. Fairly certain he was the husband of the annoying chick, so all the more reason to seduce him. Right?

Love,

Bella

I'm Back!

I didn't realize that I hadn't been online (online here, anyway) for almost 2 months. To all my fans out there, I'm so very sorry. I know how empty your lives must have been without my witty insight and intellectual conversation, and I just feel terrible that I've been the cause of that unrest.

My lack of writing hasn't been a result of a lack of anything interesting happening in my life - quite the opposite, really. I've actually been living in the real world and haven't had the chance to sit down and write anything that would be worth reading. I'm very much of the mindset that I will only write things that are funny (however subjective that might be) and insightful, and I know I wouldn't have been able to provide that. There have been many things that I've failed to mention over the summer, so I'll try to rectify that now. I just can't promise this is going to be at my usual level of hilarity - but there's plenty of that to come in the next few days.

I never mentioned anything here about my trip to England and Scotland with my mom, which was one of the most fun trips I've taken. We drank at pubs every night, were admonished for taking pictures of ourselves in fascinators in department stores, and ate ready made sandwiches at midnight in a grocery store. We slept until noon after a big breakfast and watched sleazy British talk shows. We met lots of Brits and became the most popular people in almost every pub we attended (okay, two. Small ones. But still!) But the best part was spending time with my beautiful Momma.

I got a new job at the psychiatric hospital where I'd been volunteering. I get paid to hang out with my patients and implement programs and activities for them. How cool is that? I've already had my watch been called tacky by a patient, saw one of my patients walking around with her purse strap around her head, and am only referred to as "hot chocolate" by another. The latter could be taken as quite flattering if I was actually black and not known for giving all the patients hot chocolate on Sundays. But whatever.

Hm. I really thought there was more going on than that. I guess not. I've just been really busy with making the change in jobs and attending conferences and meetings (I love saying that - makes me feel so important). I won't take so long to write again, and I promise my next post will be much better thought out and much funnier. You are welcome.

Love,

Bella

Some Important Life Lessons

Assembling an Exercise Machine Is Not Simple

I bought an elliptical for my apartment, in the probably misguided attempt to exercise more. It was sitting in my hallway all weekend, after struggling with my friend to bring it up the two flights of stairs to my floor. I decided last night that I would finally get it set up. Thought it would take maybe half an hour…that was at 8:30. By 10:00, I was sitting on my floor amidst Styrofoam, plastic bags, and parts of the elliptical that weren’t labelled with the numbers but really should have been, because how am I supposed to know what #42 looks like when the diagram is clearly much smaller than the actual machine? At one point I spent 10 minutes looking for a nut that I lost in the disarray, a fact that made me dissolve into hysterics at the amazing “that’s what she said” opportunity (yes, I was alone). When I finally succeeded in piecing the elliptical together, 2 hours and 15 minutes later, I hopped on to give it a whirl. But the little knobby things on the pedals hurt my feet and the machine itself felt weird, so I got off it pretty quickly.

This purchase may not have the effects that I intended…

Love Struck People Are Annoying

On a normal day, I’m not entirely fond of happy couples. Some may say that I’m jealous, and those people would be correct. But on early morning subway runs when it’s really crowded, and I’m exhausted and more prickly than usual about love, that last thing I want to see is a happy couple wrapped up in the throes of love – and each other – kissing rather loudly than I really think is necessary ever. And I couldn’t even move away from them because I was sandwiched in and no one would return my exasperated glances, which I thought would allow me to make a connection with someone and we could laugh about the disgustingness of this PDA, but apparently no one else seemed to care. And my husband was, like, all the way up the car so I couldn’t even use that moment to bond with him, although if I was in the position of the McKisserson’s with my husband, then I probably wouldn’t stop at kissing. But I would at least try to be a little more discreet.

Side note – there was a girl handing out frigging fliers for a bridal show on the weekend. Do I HAVE a ring on my finger, young girl? No. So move along. Thanks.

Swimming in Niagara Falls Is Not Recommended

(Does this LOOK like a place where you should challenge your balance on a frigging railing?!)

So apparently people are just dying all over the place at Niagara Falls. The latest victim being an international student from Japan or something, which…ok, it’s sad and stuff for her family because they probably thought she could get them green cards once she was over here, and also for the friend that saw her go over because you KNOW she’s going into therapy when she’s older. But come on. How the hell are you falling INTO Niagara Falls? It’s not like you can’t see them. It’s not as though you’re just walking and then all of a sudden you fall in, like “oh my, where did this HUGE 7th wonder of the WORLD come from? I did not see it whilst I was walking – I must have been distracted by the mist and the hoards of people and all the SIGNS!” There are railings for a reason. Yes, they are pretty. However, they are also there to prevent people from slipping and falling into the watery abyss below. So if you’re climbing over those safety railings to see better (because this natural phenomenon IS quite difficult to see from behind a, like, 4 foot railing), you’re sort of putting your own life at risk. Not to mention that there are signs. SIGNS. Why are those even necessary? It should be common sense that you don’t scale a railing that is designed to KEEP YOU OUT and prevent your death. And now people are saying that the railing should be bigger. WHY?! So we can accommodate the idiots that think climbing to the edge of a fucking waterfall is a smart idea? Truthfully, I think that if you’re going to do something that stupid, maybe you deserve to plunge to a watery death. Or at least a watery accident. But that’s just me.

First Impressions Are (Hopefully) Not Always Correct

I had to get my, um, everything renewed today as I was unaware that having a car and a license and, you know, HEALTH meant that I had to keep all my registrations updated. Essentially, I couldn’t drive, couldn’t go to the doctor, and had an expired vehicle. Oops. I spent the entire evening rectifying this situation at Service Ontario in Toronto, where, had I not known better, I would have thought I was at an immigration office because of all the foreign people yelling out in languages that I could neither understand nor identify. And there was a rather obnoxious smell in the air. But my questionable mood changed when I was told that I was ‘very photogenic’ by the nice man at the counter, who I know was lying because have you SEEN my pictures? And then another counter man (yes, I had to see two, that’s how screwed up my stuff was) asked if I was a singer. I could have kissed him (except not because…ew). I was feeling pretty good about myself until the security guard told me to exit the doors – right in front of me – by turning the handle and pushing. That’s when it hit me – did they think I was special?!

Love,

Bella

These Are The Best Days Of My Life?

Train Husband

(Train Husband looks like Mike Fisher. Yeah, he's sexy).

Mr. Bella’s blatant disregard for me is amazing. He literally has no idea I exist. Like…I feel like Mia in Princess Diaries when people sit on her because she’s virtually invisible. Except now, I just think his inability to notice my existence is hilarious. Instead of being upset that he isn’t falling in love with me, I’m going to find humour in the fact that he literally has no idea I’m on the train, let alone how amazing I am and how cute our babies would be. Because they would be frickin’ adorable. But that’s fine, Train Husband Man. I don’t need you.

Okay but call me.

Old People

Old people are wonderful. Really, they are. But when you’re the youngest in a group of 50 by a good, say, 30 years (and the person that is 30 years older relates to you because you’re both the “young ones”), you start to dread the day when people talk to you as though you’re a child and you feel like cattle as you’re being herded into the theatre to watch a play about a little British boy who would rather dance than box. Which, if I must say, is a bit of a kick in the teeth to the ladies in the audience that would rather box than dance. Dancing isn’t for everyone, ok?! Like…some people just aren’t good at it and like to express their feelings through punching rather than creative movement, which also leads people to believe that I can beat them up and even though that I don’t really want to give that impression, I kind of enjoy it. But anyway. There was one unbelievably good looking male ballerina (ballerino?) that was literally all muscle and whose lower region looked amazing in his tight white pants, and who I would definitely dance with if that dance happened to be the horizontal tango. And maybe if he wouldn’t wear those pants in everyday life because, truthfully, they’re pretty gay.

Where was I? Right. Old people.

So they all look the same. Like Asians. I momentarily misplaced my Grandma in the throng of the little Q-Tips and finding her was next to impossible (it’s okay, I did find her…okay, she found me). They’re all short with white hair and I swear they all wear the same clothes. They should have different hats on with identifying factors sticking from the tops or something. I’m just saying that it would help.

Classiness

I’m all class, ok? Like…maybe it doesn’t always come across because I swear and shop at Wal-Mart, but I am. It’s just…I live in a small town. We don’t have posh restaurants and stuff like that. So when I go out for drinks with work people and we go to a really nice place that they claim isn’t “really nice” but overlooks the city and everyone is wearing black and is really pretty and I have on shoes from Primark and my hair is all flat and the drinks are over $10, I’m pretty sure they can tell I don’t belong there. Not that my work friends care. They’re literally some of the best people ever (love you guys!). But the other patrons that are snobby because they spend all their time shopping in Yorkville and being all cranky because they think they’re king shit, they can probably tell that I’m faking it. I try, though. I sat on the super cool couch thing that is meant for casual relaxation, but I fell backwards on it because it was too damn soft and had to resort to sitting on a stool while trying to cross my legs, but ended up just sort of sticking out my top leg in a rather un-lady-like fashion. I also ordered a fancy drink, but I sucked it back in about 2 minutes (I also ate the pineapple garnish, which I’m thinking now isn’t something that’s done…). Eventually, I just ended up sitting with uncrossed legs and drinking Bud Light from a bottle. All class, baby.

Couples on Dates

I was not part of the couples that were on these dates, but then I don’t think that was a necessary disclaimer. Because, well, it’s me. Anyway, I went to a Thai restaurant to pick up my takeout order that I intended to enjoy on my couch as I drank wine alone (and was rather looking forward to it, actually), and as I entered the restaurant, every single person looked over to see who was walking in (which I know is a natural response, but come on people). I, as always, took a quick scan of the restaurant while praying that I didn’t know anyone there, and realized that every single god damn table was occupied by a couple on a date. And there I was, walking in with a Bulk Barn bag of chocolate going to pick up my single dinner. And all I could do was laugh. This is my life.

Love,

Bella