This is my stop.

I just remembered something.
Last night, after having dinner with friends, I took a bus home. It was about 11pm, and the bus was otherwise empty. A few stops later, a man got on the bus. Despite the wide range of seats available to him (that is, all of them) he decided to sit right next to me. I continued texting on my phone without looking up.
"Hello" he said.
Sometimes you want someone to know you're busy and/or uninterested in having a conversation, without wanting to seem like a stuck up bitch who deserves to get stabbed. As a woman, this is a very tough balance to strike. Nice enough not to make a man angry, but not so nice that you're encouraging him. So, without looking up from my phone, I grunted a barely audible 'hi' through the scarf bundled around my face.

"You from the States?" he asked.
To be honest, I found this funny, because unbeknownst to him, that's a question I get quite often, but I really don't think there was a trace of an accent on my very muffled 'hi'.
Shook my head, continued staring at my phone.
"Really? Ya sound like you are."
He went on to ask me a ton of questions, which I answered with a series of nods and the occasional "mmhmm".
He was probably in his fifties, and not the most unpleasant person apart from the fact he was either unable or refusing to read the very clear social cues of the situation. I'm still not sure which.

Naturally, it dawned on me that he might get off the bus when I did to continue the interrogation, on the pretence of "what a coincidence!" but in reality to follow me home. I say naturally, not because I'm paranoid, but because it's happened before.
So, I got off the bus suddenly a few stops early in a strange, dark part of the city I didn't know and walked the rest of the way. Yeah, that's a thing I did purposely, just to be on the safe side. Read that again.

And then, before I had even reached my front door, I forgot all about it. I forgot about it and was only reminded tonight when a friend said something to me about accents. Because it's not note-worthy. And that, is a little bit note-worthy.

Write there.

Did you love the 90s?
Of course you did. Everybody did! I'm pretty sure Buzzfeed employs a person on a full-time salary whose sole job is to compile weekly lists of things we loved in the 90s, from Tamagotchis to Hey Arnold to Ring Pops. It was a beautiful time, when everything was neon and nothing hurt.

Some of the best 90s memorabilia -especially if you were a gender-conforming 11 year old girl - was the stationery. But, just for a moment, I want you to forget about Lisa Frank and the pointless gunk that was glitter glue (let's be real, that stuff's adhesive properties were nil).
Today I want to give a shout out to the one, the only, Squiggle Wiggle Writer*.
Otherwise know as My First Vibrator for adolescent girls everywhere.

"Banana" -really? The second most phallic word in the English language?

If you didn't personally explore your young, burgeoning sexuality by holding a vibrating pen against your crotch while the rest of your family were downstairs watching The Wonder Years, that's okay, but I guarantee you know someone who did. Ask around. You'll see.

That its vibrating motor mechanism was identical to the one used in my current, grown-up, purpose-built vibrator was a joy. That it was inconspicuously sold in the stationery aisle was a godsend. And hey, the colourful gel pens that came with it were cool too. It was the quintessential gateway sex toy, and boy did it do a good job. It was also completely un-sexual and un-intimidating in its presentation, you quite possible owned it for months before realising its true potential, and it was most likely gifted to you, quite cluelessly, by some kid your mom made you invite to your birthday party. If only they knew that years after the ink had wasted, it would still be one of your prized possessions.

I wasn't sure if it still exists out there in the world, so I just took a quick look and found it on Amazon. It gets a solid 4 out of 5 stars, though according to the reviews, its real benefits seem to have gone unnoticed -at least by the parents.
Well, here's to you, Squiggle Wiggle Writer. You really helped me to take my love of stationery to the next level.

*Battery Not Included

Marriage Material

One day I'll wed just so that when my husband comes home after a long day at the office, I can say "You work so hard, darling, let me draw you a nice hot bath!" 

And then I'll give him this and laugh.
#doodles #dadpuns #hedhateme

The n00dz world order

Scrolling through my newsfeed today, I came across the headline After a Break-Up, Germans Now Have to Delete Nude Photos. As a feminist and a horndog, I'm a sucker for any article on sexual politics and n00dz, but having spent the past semester lecturing university students on the sharing of digital information and their rights to information privacy -or lack thereof -I was particularly curious.

To summarise the article (but really, just read the piece by Kristen V. Brown), a German federal court has recently ruled that consent to an explicit photo ends when that relationship does. Essentially, those who giveth crotch shots may taketh away. It's an important decision, and particularly in these times of 'revenge porn' -a catchy name for what could be more accurately described as the epidemic of sexual harassment, blackmail and blatant misogyny, whereupon #notallmen post private photos of their exes to the internet for all to see. Currently, in many countries including the US, the classification of this practice as criminal depends on various details of copyright law and whether or not you can actually make out a nipple.
But now in Germany, it would seem, an individual has a right to demand an ex delete any intimate photos taken or shared during courtship, regardless of whether the photograph holder has any intention to share them maliciously -and this is what is so unique about this case.


Putting aside the question of how such a potential law could be enforced ("Hey, did you delete those photos?"    "Sure did."  "And the copies that automatically upload to your Dropbox?" "Oh those.. umm, yes. "  "Pinky swear?"  "Uh-huh.") -where does this really leave us?

Those who welcome the ruling draw the comparison to sexual consent. Sexual consent can be withdrawn at any point before and during sex, and likewise, someone who is happy to share intimate images with a partner during a relationship should have the right to change their mind when that relationship is over. I mean, it kind of makes sense?
Except I'm not really sure it does.
Yes, sexual consent can be withdrawn at any point before and during sex, but it can't be withdrawn after. Post-break-up, we can't just take back the gifts we gave that person, or the beers we bought them or the truly excellent head we bestowed upon them... so why should we be able to take back a picture?
Buttholes. Nipples. Taints. Everybody's got 'em. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Okay, so we unfortunately don't live in a world where pictures of women's buttholes are casually greeted with shrug emojis, and instead we live in a world where our bodies, and our sexualities are policed, and too often used against us and to control us. But if we want that to change, if we want to live in a world where our vulvas are only as scandalous and threatening to our reputations as our elbows, maybe policy should lead the way.


The other question, and this is one that is made explicit by German lawyer Katya Weber, is how do we define an intimate photograph? For a lot of people, maybe it's determined by the level of nudity. But who gets to decide that a photograph of a breast is more intimate than a photograph of that person crying, or a photo of them holding their newborn baby?
Moreover, and this is what really worries me, is the comparison made to data protection laws. Who decides that a nude photograph is a more intimate piece of information than a conversation? Whether it's some hot and heavy discussion of sexual fantasies, sharing our darkest childhood traumas, deepest fears and wishes for the future or just general shit talking about a mutual friend, we tend to share a lot of private information with our romantic partners. What else can we choose to revoke when things turn sour? Should we have the right to order an ex to remove all trace of our communication, or is that crossing into Eternal Sunshine territory?
Maybe we also have a right to hold on to the mementos from past relationships. We need to be allowed to to remember, to treasure the little things -the love letters, the locks of hair, the screenshots from that Skype chat when you were long distance that Summer. Or am I the only one who'd like to look back nostalgically on a photo album of dick pics in thirty years time, like I'm in a Barry's Tea commercial?

"Did dad take this?"  

"No, that was... someone else."

The girl is back in town.

I have been home about six weeks now.
Well, five if you take into account that the day after I got home I left to visit friends in the UK for a week.

It still feels a little unreal, in a way. I spent two years working with the same bunch of terrific people, meeting the same wonderful friends at the same favourite bars, and now that's all over, gone. That's a weird feeling. I know a lot of people talk about life being a series of chapters and how things change, but I think for a lot of people that's a smoother, more gradual process. When you're someone like me -and I refuse to call myself a traveller, as that conjures up images of someone living out of a backpack and scuba diving and getting one of those real, traveller tans -and that's not what I do.  I move to cities and I find an apartment and an ordinary job and I meet ordinary people and do ordinary things. And I love that! I love ordinary. But sometimes people confuse air miles travelled for adventurousness. So I don't ever call myself a traveller, I call myself a mover. And when you're someone like me, a mover, you get used to the chapters ending abruptly. Most of my chapters have ended the exact same. My dad picking me up from the airport. My mom making a big fuss over me and asking me if she can make me a sandwich. Us all in the kitchen joking about how the dog still seems to remember me, anyway.  It's the exact same every time, and the similarity is more remarkable than the frequency.

The first few days are all novelty. The first bag of proper chipper chips, catching Reeling In The Years on TV over dinner, the first trip into Penneys that I've been looking forward to for months. And then it normally gets old very quickly for me. Even if I have psyched myself up for the return home, the enthusiasm usually fades within a week. I'm not going to talk shit about Ireland. I've been asked a hundred times by a hundred different people why I keep leaving, and I don't think I've ever done a good job of explaining myself. I have just always been happier when I'm elsewhere.

And now something has changed. And for the first time in my life, I don't have a plan to leave. My cards are laid out on the table and I don't have any more visas or one way flights up my sleeve. And I like it.

Or at least in theory, I like it. In reality, I have barely seen any of my friends -that is the few friends I have that are still in Ireland - and I am ridiculously busy with work and more stressed than I have ever been in my life. I'm also paying more for rent in Dublin than I have ever paid in any other city, while making less money than I've ever made in any other city, but shur, what can you do and all that.

Still, having a job and a place sorted within a month of getting home isn't anything to complain about. Seeing friends -and, perhaps more importantly at this stage, making friends will hopefully come in time. And with no plans to leave, time is one thing I have plenty of.  What I know is I'm very happy to be here. I want to get to know Dublin the way I knew Chicago, I want to spend weekends exploring it like I did Seoul. I want to become as nostalgic for the Liffey as I am for Lake Ontario.

And it's already happening.

Packing #onemoretime

Cut Corners.

“Alrighty, folks, welcome aboard American Airlines, we're currently reaching about 20,000 feet. Apologies for our delay on the ground, but we're going to do whatever it takes and cut any corners we can to get you there closer to schedule. For the moment, keep your seatbelts fastened as we're expecting a little turbulence for the next little bit and we hope you enjoy your flight.”

No. Thank you, but no, please, that's alright. There's no rush, really.

It's a very unsettling thing to hear. The term “cut corners” should not be used when referring to 500 people hurtling through the sky above the Atlantic ocean.

What does that even mean -"cut corners"? How does one speed up this process? We're already flying. What else is there?! Is it simply a matter of putting the pedal to the metal? Taking a shortcut?

I've seen enough movies. I watch the news. You go a few degrees off target so you can get Mr. Smith sitting up there in business class to his 10am board meeting? Throw in a little fog, next thing an engine gives out and you're gonna have little Suzy and Bobby Smith digging through rubble for bits of their father's body like they're looking for the toy in a box of cereal.

Is that what you want, you sick fucks? IS IT?

Look, let's just stick with the original plan. If we're twenty, thirty minutes late, what of it? What's the rush? Oh, is this view of blue skies and fluffy clouds boring you? Are you severely inconvenienced by having to sit on your ass watching movies while being brought free drinks? Oh, I'm sorry, are you in a terrible rush to get back to your job and your bills and your asshole of a cat?

Yeah, no, let's just sit here and be patient and we'll get there when we get there, in one piece, which is what really matters, right? Can we do that?

Thank you.

Hardcover.

Alexander's life was a history book. It took prize position on his coffee table and guests were invited to browse through it, as he brewed coffee, or boiled pasta. Now and then he would direct me to a particular article or a photograph, something he felt was important, and I would eagerly do as instructed, flipping through the pages trying to absorb it all, the words, the pictures, thirstily scanning for his name, his face -as desperate to know his past as he was to share it. He believed it said something about him, and I believe it did too, but perhaps not what he thought.

It took me a while to realise that this wasn't just his past. This was him. He was a series of anecdotes, of his exes and old friends and old tours past.  Being a sucker for nostalgia, it was something I found charming at first. I could relate, I thought. I knew what it was like to miss people and places and things. To be in love with a golden era. But he was still chasing that past. Any real extra time or money was spent in an attempt to re-visit it. Any extra wall space was dedicated to exhibiting it. I had been there too. 

The anecdotes became repetitive. The details, a little too familiar. The motives, obvious and boring.
Finally, I got it. I wasn't in that book, and I never would be. That's the thing with books, once they're published, out in the world, resting on bookshelves or tucked under pillows. They're final, they don't change.

I got it, but I'm not sure he did. Moving on requires more than a plane ticket and a new health card. Growing involves more than fucking someone new. "You are not your fucking khakis." Nor are you your vinyl collection nor your French press nor your very lovely coffee-table book, not even if you're in there.

The age of aquarius OR For she's a jolly good fellow Pt 2

I'm turning 30 this week, which simply means I've been alive for some abstract number of rotations around the sun, but culturally means I'm a legit grown-up. I'm no longer young enough to qualify for the cheap, youth tickets to the Canadian Opera Company but I'm not old enough to read their acronym without grinning. I'm in maturity limbo.

I had a potluck Saturday night to celebrate, and I kinda had a few words to say. Throughout the night when friends would ask how I felt about turning 30, I just smiled, shrugged and changed the subject because I didn't want to use up my nuggets of wisdom before it was time for my few words. I imagined I'd say them after everyone sang Happy Birthday while I blew out the candles on my Baskin Robbins ice-cream cake. Everyone would cheer and then I'd chime my fork against my champagne glass to hush them before humbly starting my speech. In my mind, there may have been a podium too. But in real life there was no ice-cream cake, thankfully, because nobody really needs ice-cream cake when your friends make you double-Bourbon cupcakes and apple pie and lobster dip and etc. Besides, I don't have a podium (how embarrassing), or a champagne glass for that matter. It was the loveliest night and so good to have so many of my favourite people in Toronto all together at once. But I didn't end up sharing my thoughts on the whole thing.
So.

All I know for sure about turning 30 is that I'll no longer be in my 20s. And my twenties were quite the decade for me. 

I broke Xstraight edgeX after an eight year run.

I "lost my virginity", at least in the oppressively heteronormative, cis-centric sense, at the tender age of 23.

I finally made the transition from pads to tampons, and I only did it two summers ago in the bathroom of Ronnie's Local before almost immediately passing out and fearing I had Toxic Shock Syndrome. (I didn't. I ate a burrito and felt better.)

And sure, some people might be a little freaked out at the idea of turning 30 and, say, not knowing how to drive.

Or turning 30 and not having a house.

Or a baby.

Or a real job.

Or any real career prospects to speak of whatsoever....

...or having no idea who's going to look after them when they're old and decrepit...

...

Pfft, but not me.

I'm just happy I made it out of my 20s without incurring any crippling debt, or catching any sexually transmitted diseases and in fact, really only having 3-4 consensually ambiguous sexual encounters tops and without having to get my wisdom teeth removed.

Plus, I learned a lot in my twenties. For example, that friendships get better with age.
 And yes, a good man is hard to find but they do exist.
That life is short, so say what you mean and mean what you say. 
And in the words of my old college roommate, Joanne, that nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission. 
And in the words of Eleanor Roosevelt, to always pee after sex. 
Sometimes I get those two mixed up.

But really, I don't feel anything about turning 30 other than it sounds weird. Like, "Hi, my name's Amanda, I'm thirty" sounds crazy to me. But it's a'ight, it's cool. And not just because I still get carded at the LCBO or still dress like I'm 21 or still pick the marshmallows out of my Lucky Charms or any cutesy nonsense that's meant to signify I'm still good ol', young-at-heart me inside. Barf. It's cool to be a grown-ass woman because experiences. Who would you rather have dinner with, an old broad who's lived through wars and revolutions, and probably has a few neat scars, or at least some good records you can steal, -or some dumb baby who just sits there with apple sauce on its face and hasn't done anything cool and only has a six word lexicon? I rest my case.

Anyway, they say "you're only as old as you feel", in which case I am slightly hungover years old. Or there's also "you're only as old as who you feel", in  which case I am still only 27-ish years old, I think. Whatever. Hey, in Korea, you're considered aged 1 from birth, meaning I'm already 31. Now, 31...that will be an appropriate birthday for a Baskin Robbins ice-cream cake, eh? Eh?

That's right, I just tied this post up in a fucking bow.

Putting the seed in aniseed.

I came across (har har) the above posting on CraigsList today while browsing the Free Stuff section in the hopes of finding a record player or a nice lamp, and it got me thinking...


Reasons One May Go About Giving Away 200 Black Licorice Condoms Via CraigsList

- you remember anything that tastes like Jäger shots triggers bad memories and makes you gag, in the bad way.

- you and your black-licorice-condom-loving partner have gone to get tested together, agreed on some sexually monogamous boundaries and switched to the Nuvaring (so far available only in its original flavour).

- you unfortunately discovered that your partner was allergic to licorice extract and had to make a somewhat embarrassing trip to the ER, though secretly, you found the resulting swelling pleasurable.

- you actually ordered 200 Mango-Peach Condoms, but there was a mix up and condomdepot.com have a strict no-refunds policy. You WILL be sending a strongly worded email.

- the cutie you went on that one date with who casually mentioned an affinity for black jelly beans never called you again, and you realised you maybe got a little ahead of yourself. Decided adding "must like licorice" to your online-dating profile prerequisites would be a little restrictive.

- you're just really curious about the kind of person who would travel across a city to collect to collect a zillion free condoms from a stranger.

- you purchased said condoms because you like to be proactive about your sexual health, and you're fully aware that everything from chlamydia to throat-cancer-causing-strains-of-HPV can be transmitted via unprotected oral sex. But then you thought, nahhh. Because, really.

CuckYou.

The European Common Cuckoo is an asshole. Well, the technical term is a brood parasite. Basically, Mama Cuckoo will lay her eggs in another bird's nest, so that some schmuck of a pigeon or something gets stuck raising her kid. Papa Cuckoo is a sneaky fuck too, often he'll cause a distraction in order to lure the schmuck birds away from the nest so Mama can get in there and deposit her business (she has actually evolved to do this quickly and discretely). And Baby Cuckoo isn't innocent in this Jerry Springer-esque nonsense either, it's the skeeziest of the bunch -it hatches quicker than the schmuck babies, grows faster, and pushes the schmuck eggs and/or chicks out of the nest so it doesn't have to share regurgitated worms with nobody. It's born with that instinct. Ugh, kids are the worst.
Unfortunately, birds don't have access to DNA swabs and lie detector tests and sassy audience members to give them sage advice -which is a shame, because I would totally watch that show.

Just a thought.

For the birds

You stepped into the art gallery to escape the humidity and the rain that was beginning to fall. It didn't quite fit right, snuggled in between the small hanok style coffee shops and handicraft stores. A large banner featuring a nude and bloated waxen male figure hung brazenly on the outer wall. Inside was dark and cool, and the whitewashed walls were familiar. Galleries were the same here as at home, were the same as in Toronto. You saw the central feature as soon as you passed through the door, it was inescapable, but you ignored it, deciding to leave it until last, and you slowly took your time, walking around the room anti-clockwise, studying each piece carefully, not wanting to miss anything and trying not to think about what was ahead, until there was nothing else to see.

There was a large table, upon which rested a large, rectangular bird cage, painted white. Inside was a large variety of trophies, cups and medals, of  differing heights. Here and there, was a trophy filled with birdseed, or water. Here and there and there, was bird shit.
Three small, white birds inhabited the space, and your heart broke a moment.
 Who let them out to fly around in the evenings? Who spoke to them, who loved them??

Dongwook Lee - Love Me Sweet exhibit in Buk Chang Dong, Seoul

You moved slowly around the side of the cage, to the nose bleed seats. The birds  were flying laps, lengthways from one end to the other, like a distressed relay. You moved your face closer to the bars, and tried to make eye contact. You extended a finger, inviting the captives to smell you, scratch you or peck you, they deserved to exert some anger, you felt. You told yourself, that if you spoke enough Korean you would ask about them, whether they were pets or merely props. But you didn't, so you only mumbled 죄송합니다 to the birds and left.

Keepin' the faith.

dollar for your thoughts?

I go to Dollarama to buy pens, jars, and Bubblemint gum.
Last week, as I wandered down the kitchen aisle, eyeing up non-Tupperware tupperware, a mother and her young son (maybe aged ten or eleven?) trailed behind me. They were looking for a lunchbox he could take to school.
He points at one and she says "Don't be stupid, that's too small, your lunch won't fit in that one."
"I think it will," he says.
"Oh my god, no it won't. Are you retarded?"
She chooses a larger one.
"We need a new mop too.." she says, as they reach the non-Swiffer swiffers.
"No mom, we don't need the whole thing, we just need the top..."
"What are you talking about?"
"Look, mom, we just need one of these refill things, not the whole thing.."
"Oh my god, are you retarded?! You're driving me crazy today.."
"Mom, look, you just buy the top and it clicks onto the handle we already have at home!"
"..Oh.. okay then."
"And stop calling me retarded.."
"I didn't call you retarded... but stop saying retarded things."

It was the saddest.
I really regret not saying something.
Not to her. Who am I to give parenting advice? I don't have any kids, Besides,  she's probably still a good mom. I mean, at the very least, she makes sure he goes to school and makes sure he has lunch, and those count for something.
But I wish I'd told him he sounds like a smart kid and never to listen to anyone who tries to make him feel stupid, especially people who use "retarded" as an insult and don't even understand the concept of replacement swiffer attachments.

tungsten in cheek

Smell ya later, Breaking Bad.






or






"Spread lightly."






Get it?

Yeah, I went there.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

I woke up today to see that Seamus Heaney had died last night in Dublin.

He's a poet I and most Irish people of my generation will associate strongly with school. In fact, I think he may have been the only living poet on the whole English curriculum. He was never my favourite (Bishop and Plath shared that spot, and there was also a fascination with Gerard Manley Hopkins but mostly only due to the whole repressed homosexual thing... the class where our teacher talked about how one line of his could be interpreted to mean anal masturbation with a crucifix was particularly entertaining) but there was something very familiar and home-like about him. Even since primary school, we had been taught how important he was, that he was a Nobel laureate and that was kind of a big deal, a point of Irish pride. He was someone who reminded you that our great reputation for writers (which struggles for air sometimes amongst our other less impressive reputations) wasn't necessarily dead and buried.

I'm no great reader of Heaney. I knew a handful of his poems, and that's about it. Of course, Mid-term Break was the big one for us. Maybe the first time a poem made me cry, and I'm probably not alone. A little boy in our school was killed on the road outside, his older brother just a little younger than me, and it was read at the funeral, or the school service, I can't remember which.

And then later it was Digging, and Bogland, and though back then the sentiments never truly struck me, I remember feeling like I could smell those poems, smell those words. He always chose such pungent words!

You know you're getting older when you hear someone died at age 74 and think "but that's so young.. sort of." At least he got his recognition in his lifetime, and that's something.

return of the mack

I've been back in Toronto a month and finally found the Canadian equivalent of Blu Tak enabling me to stick my little pieces of flair all over the walls -postcards and doodles and bits of memorabilia, so my room FINALLY feels like my real room now.

It's been a month and I don't have a job but I have a phone, a bank account, a bike (with a basket) and a social insurance number.

It's been a month full of weekends and long weekends and weekdays that might as well be weekends and these have been filled with laughter and trips to the LCBO and staring at the sky from Trinity Bellwoods park and late night stops at Smoke's Poutinerie.

It's been a month of reunions with old friends and new unions with new friends and first dates and skype calls back home.

There have been rooftop shows and pool-hopping and island jaunts and bikerides and railroad-bridge adventures and romance and that time I nearly fainted (don't ask..).

I could really use a job though.

#ToasterStrudels #Heisenberg #BreakingFast

#ToasterStrudels #RealMature