My mom forgot that I had moved.

Army of Loneliness

My roommate was recently laid off and doesn't have many friends in this town. So when I came home from a show at about 2:30am he was eager to chat and began describing the elaborate graphic novel trilogy he was working on. Though I was relieved and encouraged to know that the hours he spends playing video games and watching B-movies may ultimately be fruitful, all my admiration disintegrated around 4am, just as he was launching into the third installment.

Ring of Boredom

Since I moved into my own place (discounting my three stranger roommates) last month I have frequently been asked, "so, what do you do after work?"

Well: I sat down to catch up my correspondence at about 10pm, but instead ended up watching all of Adam Lambert's American Idol performances and then reading every comment on Perez's "Adam Lambert Comes Out in His Own Way" post.

I usually answer "...work out."

"Because that's what parents do"

I moved home from University today. In honour of the occasion, my parents took me out for dinner at the local pub. I chose to honour the occasion by ordering a deliciously boozy (yet classy) Manhattan from the high school aged waitress.

Waitress: "Sure, I just need to see some ID, hun"
Me: "I did not bring it, 'cause I'm twenty-one."

With zero acknowledgment of our heroic couplet, the waitress declined me service. Then, apparently not satisfied with my humiliation level, she asked me to repeat my new order (as if any other drink ever sounds anything like the word "Coke").

My Mother: "And I would like to change my order. Let's see, ummm, can I get a, uh, Manhattan?"

When my mom was also denied, my father got mad. And when a round of pints was delivered to a table of near-by youngsters with nary a mention of identification, he launched into action. Springing from his chair, my dad marched across the bar, demanded to speak to the manager, and politely reminded him that all customers should be treated equally.

Progress

During a chat with my landlord today, he mentioned that he may rent out the unit below us to our current next door neighbours. I then came dangerously close to responding, "Great choice! They're really clean," a fact I gleaned from leering through their kitchen window while smoking cigarettes on my porch.

Flora and Fauna

In February I will embark on what is being dubbed by the university as a “service learning experience.” Along with twenty-four of my fellow students, I will travel to Peru and volunteer with NGOs for one week. At a recent orientation session for this trip, our team leader, Rich, an incorrigibly exuberant fellow, arranged for some native Peruvians to speak to the group.

At the front of the room stands Carlos, a recent immigrant, swaddled in a bulky hoodie over what had to be at least two more layers. Though his English skills are limited, Carlos politely listens to the questions and tries his best to answer. For finer points and clarifications, he seeks the assistance of Santiago, the much younger man seated in the front row. From Rich’s muddled, but positive, introduction of Santiago we learn that he is a Spanish teacher, though his track pants, stained white tee shirt, and obvious hang over, make me question whether he is employed by the university.

After some standard questions about the weather (it’s hot) and the GDP (it’s low), one young woman inquires about the flora and fauna.

“You know the way we have squirrels in Canada? What do they have in Peru?”

Carlos, politely assuming he had missed something in the translation and not in the girl’s syntax, turns to Santiago for help.

Santiago rubs his eyes.

“I mean, is there, like, an animal that we’ll see a lot of?”

Suddenly Santiago springs to life: “Dogs! There’s dogs everywhere.”

A collective aww rings out from the warm-hearted service learners.

Until Santiago goes on, “You know the way we treat dogs like they’re human here? Well in Peru we treat them like they’re dogs.”

The group seems baffled by this comparison. Apparently they don’t know the way we do that. Many students turn to Carlos hoping for clarification.

“Don’t be afraid of them,” he assures. “If you just raise your fist they’ll run away, since they’re used to getting kicked around.”

After a stunned silence, a boy in the back row earnestly exclaims, “maybe we should be helping the dogs!”

You may have heard about the the trouble brewing at a Lethbridge Tim Hortons last week. What you haven't heard (because I didn't tell you) is, in an attempt to smooth things over Tim Hortons CEO, Paul House, traveled to Lethbridge today with a few complimentary gift baskets in tow. As a wrapper of those baskets, I am at liberty to inform you that they contained a lovely assortment of Tim Hortons teas and tea-related merchandise. Lovely as they were, I seemed to be the only one in the office who saw the humour in presenting disenfranchised native Canadians who have suffered endless hate and ignorance on the part of British colonizers and their descendants with a peace offering of English Breakfast Tea.