Well, I'm going to quit my job. The drinking to hide my malcontent is over. The sleeping with coworkers to forge some sort of emotional bond is over. The constant abuse from the rich and unfamous is over. The excuses for why I am there and not working in a theatre is over. Over.

What next?

At this point, the only place to go is up.

The strangest things happen in bed

Nothing gets a better laugh with close friends than a good story about misadventures in bed. So begins my compilation of the strange things we hear and experience...

---

J. was M.'s first boyfriend. Things ended amicably and despite J.'s lack of sex and M.'s surplus, they remained just friends. Recently, M. stayed at J.'s house after a long night of partying. When M. came into the bedroom, she found J. lying naked on the bed masturbating.

M: "Well, you know, you are lucky it's just me I guess... we are comfortable with each other."
J: "Would you undress in front of me?"
M: "NO! .... But I will take off my pants and you can watch me from the bathroom while I brush my teeth, I guess."
J: "mmm... okay..."

So M. brushes her teeth in her underwear while J. looks on, taking all he can get.

She picks a Forensic Psychology book about serial killers out of her bag and starts to read in bed while J. fervishly beats off. But if you have ever tried to concentrate on anything while the sound of hand on cock is happening right beside you, I'm sure it will prove impossible. So M., trying to keep her mind on the book, started to read aloud from her bedtime book. Which just so happened to be on the chapter about brutal decapitations.

J: "Can I put my hand on your breast?"
M: "Fine."

And so J. finished himself while M. read about serial killers, the whole while ignoring to her best ability the hand groping her breast. J. cleaned up, M. put her book away and they both went to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

That's fucked up.

----

S. and L. had been fucking for hours, as it often happens with them. Lovers for years, never girlfriends, it is a sort of special relationship full of lengthy love making. Finally they made it to the bedroom where L.'s iTunes was playing on shuffle. S., close to an orgasm, couldn't help but notice the sounds coming in off the speakers... An old show tune that goes something like:

"Anything you can do, I can do better...
I can do anything better than you...
No you can't!
Yes I can!"

S. started to laugh, and not wanting to ruin the moment, she tried to stifle her laughter. But if you ever started to laugh while your face is buried between someone's legs, I'm sure you would find it really difficult to not let your partner notice. Soon, they both were dying of laughter, singing along to the song.

The girls went to sleep shortly after declaring that song to be the official 69 theme song.

That's just hilarious.

---

Table 13

Monday night, a customer died in my section. As a waitress, I expect to deal with a pile of annoying clients, all demanding my undivided attention. More ketchup, less salt, more salad, less tomatoes - and the saddest thing that I saw was how noone stopped asking when a gentleman not 4 feet away was having a heart attack.

It took me a few minutes to register the problem at table 13. Two men, obviously old friends, were enjoying their filet mignons. 5 minutes later, one of the men appeared to be asleep. I tried to offer assistance - not knowing what assistance to give - and was shooed away by the friend. I kept serving tables, because that's what I came into work to do. I kept going back to table 13, because that's what any human with half a soul would do.

I urged a co-worker to call 911. I accepted the help of a doctor who had just settled his bill with me. I told the kitchen to shut down until everything was under control. Then I went outside and lost control.

Later I learned that I had a panic attack, alone in the back alley.

I blamed myself for serving the man drinks. I blamed his friend for refusing aid from myself and my coworkers. I blamed table 16 for asking for ketchup while a man's lips were turning blue.

I didn't know his name, his friend's name or even if the paramedics were able to revive him - for the third time - at the hospital.

I was given two days off to relax - unprecedented behaviour from the management who have basically chained my ankle to the bar 6 days a week for the last 3 months.

Thursday I was back at work. Nervous, anxious and still confused.

One of my coworkers came up to me and said that there are 4 people who want to talk to me.

"The son of the man who died on Monday wants to talk to you. He came in with his sisters to see where their father spent his last moments."

I left my nearly full bar and introduced myself to them. I told them about how the two men were - jovial and hilarious. I told them what their dad had to drink, what he ate and how in the middle of his meal he just slumped over.

They thanked me and told me how their dad had a stroke last week. The doctors said it was a very minor stroke, and at 82 years of age, he should just continue on as normal. He had a ticket booked to Vancouver to see his kids on Wednesday. He went out for dinner with his best friend at his favorite restaurant on Monday.

He died of a heart attack in the restaurant. They managed to keep him on life support until Tuesday - where his family gathered and said their goodbyes. He died on Tuesday when they pulled the breathing tube.

One of the women spoke to me in private and told me how grateful she is for everything I did. That because I made sure 911 was called and got a doctor to volunteer to administer CPR, the family was able to get to Montreal to say goodbye. She told me that they view Monday as the night he died.

And that they were very happy to know how he died eating his favorite meal with his best friend under the care of a warm-hearted waitress.

I still feel bad for making jokes about how the majority of the clientele is so old, "I just hope noone dies during my shift".

But I'm happy I was there. So is the waiter who used to work that section on Monday nights. He is bringing me a few Adavan pills tonight... just in case.

this side of paradise

i packed my bag and got on a train to ottawa
two hours later i was welcomed by my mother's warm hug
two hours after that i got out of my parent's car and tears streamed down my face

i have never felt so relieved to smell the pine needles
to hear the crunch of sand and stone under my feet
to breathe in clean, fresh air

i could see the stars clearer than i can see the city lights from my apartment here in montreal

i fell asleep to the sound of bullfrogs and i awoke to the chatter of chipmunks and birds

i knew i needed a rest in a quiet land
i knew i needed out of my tiny apartment
and i really knew i needed to not wait tables and sling martinis for the snooty westmount crowd

but i had no idea that i needed it that badly
or that it would feel like a miracle cure for a mystery disease

it wasn't home to me
it wasn't nostalgia for what past generations lived
but how do i explain the feeling of homesickness i have now?
the first sight of montreal's skyline usually fills me with excitement and wonder
my journey back filled me with sadness

i would gladly take 4 more bee stings
10 more horsefly bites
3 more sunburns
if i could just listen to the trees sing for a few more days

i would even take down the dock and put it back in
(again)
if i could just swim with the fishes for a few more days

because that pathetic little pond in parc lafontaine is just not cutting it.

see ya - don't wanna be ya

I'm going on vacation.

And it's not the "liquor drenched let's party all the time" type of getaway, where you need to rest up for as many days as you took off.

It's the "I'm turning off my cell phone and you can all be damned because I'm in the middle of nowhere bonding with my vacant mind" kind of vacation.

I have not stopped working and partying since sometime in 2006. And I think I burnt out about 4 times since then.

It's been too long and I need to stop thinking. City living is a blast but there are too many distractions. I am going to limit my distractions to a logic puzzle or 90 and the daily paper. My toughest choices are going to be whether or not to swim, tan, sleep or eat. My mind will be plagued only with what kind of beer I will take down to the dock with me.

R&R here I come.

Facebook is fucking creepy.

First, a girl I hung out with when I was years old found me.
Then a bartender at a local bar found me because she remembered my name off an ID card I lost there.
I found that a girl I went to junior high with is married with a child.
Then the piece de resistance - a group has been formed for people who hung out on the steps of a door of my old highschool. Sure, we called ourselves some sort of a crew, but there are pictures on that group from 1986 on. That's fucking strange.

What is even stranger is to do a search for people you haven't seen in years.

Not recommended under any circumstance.

beer good. rock n roll? better.

I like dancing to rock like a complete whore-bag.

Men are intimidated and women start getting a little, well, looser.

These boys scattered when they saw me, and all the women were fascinated, intrigued and then next thing you knew - the whole bar was full of petrified boys pinned against walls, terrified of the amount of women dancing like everyone was watching.

Hair was tossed, hips were gyrated and not one person kept doing the pitiful mosh-like dance. (when i walked in the whole place was full of quasi jumps, little turns and a couple of foot stamps. that had to be stopped.)

20 or so twenty-something girls were toasting each other on the dancefloor with cheap Boreale. We were showing off, we were not giving a shit. We were simply rockin out.

I liked starting a mini revolution on the dance floor.

God I love rock n roll.