But, you know, when I see the following at 11am on a Sunday, it all has a way of rushing back in a hell-storm of anger and frustration.

That’s not to say that I don’t have a little freak out once I’ve left the room, but in the face of common human differences and errors, I think I do a damn good job of treating my customer service technicians with the best of my behaviour.

That was until today.

It was reconfirmed to me today why I left TD Bank so many years ago.  As a member of their institution for most of my life, there simply came a day when I realized that paying $18 a month for a simple chequing account was not for me.  I stayed on as a Visa holder and to this day haven’t had to deal with any of their frustrating and useless customer service representatives.

Impersonality is, perhaps, one of the hardest hurdles to breach in big corporations, but you’d think that when you are dealing with people’s cash–their savings and their livlihoods–you would put the customer relationship at some sort of paramount level.  You’d think as one of Canada’s largest financial institutions that they would have a certain degree of foresight.  You would think that after this many years of experience that they could see the value of a customer relationship for what it is.  Apparently this is far from the truth.

So after an hour on the phone (a large degree of that on hold), a disconnection, a redial (by me), more hold time, an an eventual response that entailed “We cannot help you access the internet, you’ll have to go to your nearest branch with two pieces of id,” I lost my cool.

The poor fellow on the other side of the wire, who has no doubt been given no empowerment in his position, and simply has to redirect people from one place to the next, was unfortunately the victim.  An ex-partner of mine once worked in a call-center, and would certainly agreed that I had indeed “escalated,” rather, the point at which the customer reaches a level of such frustration and anger that the operator has no choice but to transfer them to the next in command.  Unfortunately, I didn’t give the fellow the chance, and simply hung up the phone.

And for a moment it felt good.  It was refreshing and cleansing to get that off my plate.  I managed to squeeze a couple more obscenities into my day.  I managed to give the operator another story to tell their spouse when they returned home that evening,

“God I hate this job, this one guy today, fuck was he pissed…”

I managed to do all these things while I should have been quietly sitting and studying.

All this, while at the same time completing absolutely nothing.  Not one thing was accomplished and the only person who benefited from my phone call in the first place was my cell phone provider, who no doubt appreciates my generous use of my day time minutes.

God Damn It!!

After waiting nearly 45 minutes for the bus, I only have time to sit here and wait for the soup to boil before rushing off to work.  So in pure frustration I cast letters on the screen, and they are directed solely at you TransLink.

I love this city, I really do.

I have a lot of criticisms and frustrations about certain aspects and certain corners; the dark smelly alleys of the beast that is Vancouver you could say.  But more and more, transit is beginning to drive me to points of utter insanity.  With the schedule that I keep, and the tasks that fill up my to-do lists, I really don’t ask for much:

• A night once a week where I completely let go.

• Nourishing, satisfying eats and drinks to fill my belly.

• A good book to keep by the bathtub when I just can’t look at one more textbook.

• But mainly a solid group of friends to stand by me.

All these things I have completely.  I am fulfilled on a daily basis about the good in my life and the joy that all my extraneous influences bring to the table.  The inspiration I receive from the music, the words, and the people of my life fills me.

But when something stands in the way of these things, I have a tendency to rage.  So when I’m stuck at a bus stop for 45 minutes, and I know that I could be reading that book beside the claw-foot, be with my friends, or be having a little dance somewhere, everything goes pear-shaped.

So fuck you transit!  I don’t know where your buses magically disappear, or if someone just decided to take a break, but figure the shit out!  I’m sure I know very little about the delicate workings of a transit system of our size, but dammit! I really don’t give two shits.  This boys got things to do and places to be, and for Christ’s sake, my soup is burning!

But with this digit’s full support, I now divulge, daring not to digress as per usual.

Until recently, I had thought it possible that I was the cause of permanent heart break.  I assumed in vain that I was capable of causing immense anguish just at the act of leaving a person and that this had caused hearts across the globe to have shattered.  I know… yeah right!, you must be thinking.  But these thoughts came not from my own self conceit, hardly, I’ve managed to conjure up these thoughts from the selfish ways in which I have left every partner to date.  These thoughts came from all the distant break-up notes and ambivalent conversations of what should have been over a decade of exploration and beautiful connection.  These thoughts came from the fact that I have walked away from every love I’ve ever had, and the guilt that lives in me because of it.

So when the greatest love of my life, this once all too-full cup and I started reconnecting after two years of complete silence, I soon realized that it was possible to mend even the greatest heart break.  Perhaps time has greater skills with tape and glue than we think, perhaps she’s a potter or a sculpter and she can take the moldy clay of old loves and mold them into something small and shapeless.  A shapeless form that can learn how to grow up and be ‘something’ again.

Surprise, surprise, my digits escape me, they cause me to wander.  Wandering back to me and to the troubles I’ve seen, these didgets, it seems, think less of the full picture.  So I take it to this, loud and clear, and succinctly as I can possibly manage, I take us right back to the beginning:

Hate has been had tonight, from a heart much more fragile than the too-full cup it seems.

Hate has been passed on in the guise of love.  Hate is wearing a shroud of deceit, and I feel for my too-full cup.  It seems I never destroyed you after all, and we’re lucky to have not gone to such lengths to humiliate each other.

Someone thought it possible tonight to pass a note to a man.  Someone thought it possible to tear apart thoughts that were written by fingers, translated from toes that walked soils and sands alike.  Someone brought hate to a man that brought more spiritual balance and love to my life then I have ever known.  And we’re over, yeah sure, and perhaps we’ve moved to something greater, us being alone that is.  In many ways it was his over abundance of love that drove me nuts and perhaps this spiritual vessel of him was too full for me to balance without wanting to leave it for someone else to carry;

I’ve often been found to rather dance, than try and balance something for somebody else.

But regardless, I loved him and left him.  I turned my back on him and I walked away, and sure there was fuel and burning, and red in the eyes, but not this, not this hate.

And I’m sure that you’ll read the words that the too-full cup wrote you tonight…  I’m sure that you’ll see behind all the capital letters that you screamed at him, that told him to die, that there’s something else hiding there.  Perhaps the grammatical catastrophes on the page will always keep the truth from your eyes??  But maybe, just maybe, you’ll actually realize sometime in the future what you really put out into the world tonight.

…

Someone thought it possible tonight to carry on as though his heart was broken.

Someone thought that by using words and pictures that could ruin a person, he in fact would…

Something tells me, that this someone tried to spill an all too-full cup tonight.

Except this cup has got a lot more liquid left inside of him than you thought, and his balance is damn well better than you or I.

Malaysian Escalator Sign

When researching this little article a friend of mine told me that if I need to walk up escalators then I should clearly just get out of bed five minutes earlier every morning.  This is the same friend that I spent 6 months traveling through Asia with and the same friend that made sure to let me know that it drove her crazy when I would walk up escalators.

As far as pet peeves go, standing still on escalators ranks near the top.  It is a behavior rampant in our society and clearly draws a line between two unique groups of people: people who have places to be and things to do and people who are clearly just trying to drive me crazy.  There are locations throughout Vancouver where these two groups can co-exist in peace, namely the SkyTrain stations where it is clearly labeled that standees take the right and walkers take the left.  But this leaves a city of uncontrolled escalators ready and waiting for some lazy guy or gal to come a long and prevent me from reaping the benefits of this mode of travel.

Malaysian Escalator Sign

Granted, there are those that would argue that an escalator presents a moment to chill out and relax, to take a second to repose and rest.  But unlike all you masters of zen, some of us common folk have a schedule to keep and don’t have the privilege of such an aimless squandering of time.  To those of you that are less mobile than I am in my young age, I completely approve of your behavior, but these are not the folk that I see most often blocking my path.  It can be anyone anywhere, perhaps you are carrying a couple of bags and decide that it’s alright to hold them at your side in my path, perhaps you are talking on your cell phone, or perhaps you have a friend with you and the two of you decide that is necessary to stand on the same step and make it completely impossible for anyone to overtake you.

I found an interesting article on Slate.com that looked at this dilemma from an economic perspective .  At discovering this discussion I began to realize that this problem is in fact bigger than me and you and consequently sheds light on a much broader societal issue.  Whether we walk or stand still on escalators, we are claiming our right to behave as we choose in an un-controlled environment.  It is often in these un-controlled environments, when humans are cooped up together in intimate environments, that some of our most interesting behaviors become apparent to each other.  Buses, elevators, and line-ups are all situations where we’ve been faced with dealing with the words, smells, and raucous attitudes of others.  It is what we do with other’s behaviors that defines us as individuals, and we hope for the benefit of humanity itself that it doesn’t turn out violent as this incident on a San Francisco escalator did.

So, if this little commentary accomplishes anything I suppose I would just like a little more consideration from those of you who I’m unlucky enough to have to share an escalator, elevator, or city bus with.  I guess all I’m asking from you, is to open your eyes, take a look around, and be aware of the individuals that are standing directly behind, because unlike yourselves, some of us are too jacked up on anxiety and coffee to take ten seconds to just chill out.

Snow | Vancouver

It’s an always tragic day in Vancouver when it begins to snow.  Growing up in Calgary, my taste for the snow is, let’s say, drastically different from a few of you “born and raised on the coast folk”.  There is something always deeply depressing about watching the bamboo plants outside the window become totally blanketed in snow.  I’ve come to realize in the few cities that I’ve lived and the many that I’ve visisted that no matter where you are, from New York to Dallas to Victoria, any city looks exactly the same under a coating of the white stuff.

Snow | Vancouver

I suppose I can understand the novelty for those of you who only have to look at the stuff for a couple of days a year.  I suppose I can see the slight joy in a snow fall on Christmas morning.  But, I’ll never stop hating it, the way it looks when it covers the trees, the way the streets become all mucky and brown when the cars have driven through it, and the way it makes everything just generally more difficult.  Ugggh…. And to top it all off, it takes away everything I moved out to the coast to enjoy.  It takes away the green, it blocks my view, and it even takes away the sound of the rain coming down in the morning.

So, needless to say, yep, it’s snowing in Vancouver.

Oh yeah, and then once you’ve paid the bill, you go out to your car, grab Christmas presents, open them, and expect me to throw away the wrapping paper, you suck even harder… Oh God, you suck!

I will never be devoid of my desire to be at the center of the universe.

While sifting through the backlog of random musings on my hard drive I stumbled upon this.

—

Whenever I have thought about changing the direction of my life, I have envisioned a complete ninety degree turn. On heels, I lift my toes off the ground, swivel, and change face entirely before taking my first step. Over the years, my behavior has teetered between one extreme and the other. I have been a man contentedly balancing between alcohol and overhaul.

When I cleanse, I eliminate it all-every last bit of poison- and flush it all out. And, when I party, I consume it all-every last tempting tidbit-and move about the room stunted and blinded.

The question and purpose over the years has not been how to become completely pure but rather, how do I find balance in this shaking and breaking world of mine?

How do you give up just enough and only indulge just enough to remain happy, healthy, and on track?

As I sit here in this cafe fresh from a late evening, trying feebly to study I realize how pathetic my ability to think is right now. My brain does nothing for me other than provide its constant stream of distractions and daydreams.

Sometimes I wonder about the role that my environment plays in the whole thing. I wonder if it is my environment that is enabling me, causing me to falter. But, how do you eliminate the temptations that come in human and inhuman packages? And, how do you continue to foster love in your life when you have to eliminate people and your social settings from it?

I suppose it can be enough to just take baby steps here and there, keeping your best intentions in mind. I suppose it’s enough to believe that we are exactly where we are supposed to be, doing exactly what we’re supposed to be doing. I suppose it’s entirely naive to think that you can change over night, but my brain and body are telling me more and more every day to at least give it a shot.

When I was younger I would never tell anyone that I was having my period. I was soo embarrassed. I wouldn’t even buy my own tampons. Not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t ask my dad to buy me some if I didn’t have any, which eventually led to a horrible incident in high school that included a rugby jersey tied around my waste and my seat in science class smeared with blood. I chose to go through a day of absolute agony instead of just saying “Dad, can you buy me some tampons?”

Now it is a completely different story. I will tell anyone who is listening that I am bleeding. “This is why I am acting like a weirdo” is written on my forehead. That or, “My uterine walls are shedding,” or “I have really bad cramps.” I have a sandwich board and a bell adorned with psycho faces and pads. “Hey, everybody!! It’s my lady time!!!! I have a bloody vagina!!!!” I scream in the middle of a busy bus stop.

I remember the change: the precise moment when I went from denying my aunt flo, to embracing her and all her glory. I remember the day well… I never bought my own tampons until I was 18. I asked my mom to get me some and she refused,

“You’re an adult now, Meghan. Go buy them yourself”

What a bitch. I started to cry and got really mad, telling her that she was “so mean” for making me go to the store and embarrass myself like that. She said “tough” and I was off to Macs to do what I never ever wanted to do, tell a complete stranger that I was having my period .

So there I was, holding a box of Tampax regulars, hating my life more than ever, waiting in line at the convenience store. I prayed to Jesus that no cute boy from my high school would walk in the door. I shuffled my feet, got really sweaty, looked at the ceiling and the floor, and never made eye contact. Finally it was my turn to pay. The transaction occurred with no issues, the tampons were in a plastic bag and presto! I was out the door. It wasn’t actually that bad. I was stunned. The sun shone on my face, releasing my fears and inhibitions with the crisp fall wind. It was over. Until next month…

Since that day almost 10 years ago my period has become not an embarrassment, but a joke. I’m not going to be a flake and say that it’s empowering or that I’m glad I have such a gift because I think getting your period is lame. Cramps suck, mood swings are evil and staining my good underwear makes me angry. Period blood is gross. Sometimes I wish I was some underweight model or a gymnast so I could halt the bleeding, but that would be too much work in the gym and not enough time with food.

Now buying tampons is nothing. I’ve been at the cashier with tampons, condoms, and a pregnancy test and didn’t even blush. Weird combo, I know, but hey, if I wasn’t pregnant then my period was a-comin’ so I thought I’d be prepared. Nowadays I’d rather buy tampons than a James Blunt CD. At least I still have my dignity with the former.

I guess with age comes an acceptance of the gross, embarrassing, and sometimes bloody parts of ourselves. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to take a shit in a public washroom, but I doubt it. But that’s a whole other issue.

-Meghan Matty

Are these the fantasies of a man content in his chosen profession? I ask myself this as I begin to set the tables that surround these ladies, but my mind continues to wander to other profane and perverse ways that I can blow these ladies’ carefully composed little world to bits. Are these the thoughts that run through other servers’ minds, all of us completely exhausted from brunch and ready to strangle the next customer that walks through the door? Or, is it just this type of woman that drives me to madness? Women who leave their homes once a month, converging on an innocent un-expecting restaurant staff, requesting their waters iceless and adorned with lemons and their salads naked and dry. Women who expect their seats to be reserved for them so that they may sit and banter as long as they very well please about the glory of parchment paper, their newest read from Oprah’s book club, or the lack-luster appeal of their marriages.

And, don’t get me wrong, I can see that these women could merely be the excuse my mind has been looking for today, so that it may wander to such perverse thoughts as these. But, I must continue to dig deeper, because I have began to surrender. Maybe it’s the age I’m at or the fact that I’ve been serving food to the masses for years now, but I want nothing more than to leave it all behind me. Granted, I haven’t the freedom to find another job so financially satisfying and I know that a part of me loves the fast pace, the industry, and the pleasure that I get from making someone’s experience genuinely special. But, it’s old. It’s old and tired, and like the bodies of these women that sit across the dining room, it needs some moisture, and sun, and fresh air to breath through its lungs. This creature of habit that I’ve become once again; this creature that has slipped so easily back into the same shoes and apron he was wearing before getting out, has just as easily slipped back into his same habits.

This industry carries a curse with it. With all the struggle and hustle of the job, all of us walk away a little richer. And, with the smell of grapes and spirits on our noses and the taste of fine things so close to our palettes, we feel obligated to find sustenance at such a late hour that we often discover ourselves still stirring as the sun begins to rise. We desire these higher things: fine wine and food, and fine surroundings with fine people.

I am walking through the dining room when I catch a glance from one of the ladies at the table and I wonder if she is really looking right through me or if she actually wants out of here as badly as I do. I wonder if she’s jealous that I am about to walk out of here with my curse that looks more like a blessing to her, and she is stuck once again talking about cookie pans and pretending to not want cheese on her burger or dressing on her salad, because she at the age of forty, still wants to fit in. I wonder if this curse I find myself with is really something beautiful, because I wouldn’t be writing this, if I didn’t want escape so badly in the first place. And I wouldn’t be fashioning my surrender so strategically and carefully, if I didn’t have all this time to sit around and analyze all the characters of my world.

So I am stuck asking myself if serving is really all that bad. All of a sudden I can see the beauty in floating so far away from everyone’s conversations, while still all the while being an essential part of it. Is it a gift to experience such intricate details of all your neighbours? Is it a gift to experience other’s routines as they in turn experience yours?

In the end, I guess we have all found ourselves creatures of habit at one time or another, all wanting desperately to escape the routines that we’ve built. And, if it was all shook up tomorrow and we were without our daily struggles and repetitions we would probably miss it all… eventually.

And, if that’s not enough for me to serve the masses for another day, while I figure everything else out, then I don’t know what else is.