Car Trouble

Car Trouble

Most Kitsgals pride themselves on the type of car they drive. It is not uncommon to drive down West 4^th and think you have inadvertently wandered into a Mercedes dealership. Me? I have never found it to make sense to buy a car for $100,000 when you can buy a house with that money instead. That is why I have always driven run down old cars.  My current car, an old Toyota, tends to cause the other Kitsgals a bit of concern when I park next to their newly leased BMWs. The reaction on their faces is usually one of dismay….like somehow my car has devalued their car by its mere presence.

Growing up, my family never owned a nice car. It wasn’t my parents’ style to spend money on something that was flashy or a status symbol. I remember learning to drive on my mom’s old 1966 two tone yellow Rambler. Manual steering, AM radio with one inch speakers, no seat belts and plastic bubbled seat covers – yes, it was the epitome of cool for any 16 year old girl. I was the only kid in high school that preferred to walk instead of getting a ride.  My friends, who would want me to drive them to the mall, would not sit upright for fear of being seen.  And my friends were the geeky, nerdy ones with no status to lose.  (although it was really fun turning corners sharply as my buddies would all slide to one side of the car given the plastic seat covers and the lack of seat belts – thank goodness, the doors shut tightly)

In terms of taking care of my car, I must admit, I am very poor. If I turn the key and it goes, then I assume the car doesn’t need anything. This rationale works well for a while…until the car does need something and then it doesn’t go. This liaise faire approach to car maintenance was a huge sore spot with my dad. I remember our conversations.

“Hello?”

“Hey Dad. It’s Maggie. How are you?”

“When was the last time you checked the oil on your car?”

“I don’t know Dad.”

“Get that oil checked. Now here’s your mother.”

Last Saturday, my dad’s obsessive warnings about checking the oil in my car came true. Ugh. I was in the Downtown Eastside – for those of you who don’t know the DTES, think skid row X heroin X 400 – anyway, I was there to pick up a friend of mine and when I tried to start the car, it wouldn't go. And, for some reason, the car alarm went off. And wouldn’t stop. The noise was loud and annoying.

Then, the most awesome thing happened. Like a scene out of Dawn of the Living Dead, crack addicts began staggering out of the alleys to help us. I guess the horn alarm was bothering them too. Soon, we met Frank – who used to be a mechanic before he discovered crystal meth. Frank ripped out the car horn (thank goodness) and got the honking to stop. Then he tried to get the engine to go but no luck. I had to have the car towed to a garage but Frank was so concerned that we couldn’t get to our destination, he offered to steal a car for us. I declined but I was touched by his offer.

A few hundred dollars later, my old Toyota is back on the road. But I still think fondly of all the good folks who stopped to help me in the Downtown Eastside. I can’t help but wonder how many people in Kits would have offered to do an indictable offence to help a stranger out of a jam…not many, I am guessing.

Stripping 101

Stripping 101

Lately, every one in my life is becoming a stripper. Over the past year, I have known three gals who gave up the dream of becoming an office manager, a lead barista and a corporate attorney to become a stripper. I am not sure why stripping has become so popular. Perhaps it is due to the insane amount of money to be made, the success of Pamela Anderson or those suggestive Snoop Dog videos. It is hard to say really.

Just to be clear, Kitsgals are not strippers; though some of them look like they could be.

Frankly, I was a bit shocked when my seemingly normal doctor friend, Jessica, suggested we take a drop in stripping class. I would think that as a doctor she would have seen enough nudity in her day job but, apparently, she got fed up with seeing everyone else naked and wanted to take part in the action. As for me, well, she dared me; and we all know that I do stupid, stupid things when I am dared. (See My First Triathlon for background)

Prior to class, we spent an inordinate amount of time picking our stripper names. Jessica was to be known as Cinnamon Buns and I would be known as Pop Tart. (We were hungry when we thought of the names.)

We arrived at the class early, and expected to see a whole pile of skanks and skank wanna-bes (we weren’t really sure which category we fell into – perhaps skanks in training?), Instead, the class was full of about 30 or so regular looking gals who all dreamed of dancing in a Kanye West video.

Everyone was dressed in normal workout gear. I think this was due to the warning the receptionist gave when you called to pre-register for the class - you must wear sweat pants or, as a novice, you will get stuck to the pole. No one wanted to experience or to explain that kind of burn.

The instructor, Mandy, was super petite (in all areas except one – insert your visuals here) and super perky (insert your visuals here). She introduced herself as Miss Pole Dancer of the Universe 2005 and assured us that she was indeed a real stripper. This was important to me. If I am paying my hard earned $10 drop in fee, I want to ensure that I have a genuine stripper teaching me. I didn’t want a stripper substitute.

Mandy won my heart right off the bat when she gave each of us a spray bottle with disinfectant and insisted that we clean our poles. Sometimes my hypochondria is under control; other times it is not. Given that I am scared to touch the stability poles on a bus, I was for sure afraid to touch a pole that gals have swung their Pussy Cat Dolls all over. I spent the next 45 minutes cleaning my pole.

Mandy started the class with a demo. She swirled and curled so much around the pole; I would swear she was part python. And she did it in 10-inch heels. Wow.

Then it was our turn. Mandy guided us along step by step.

Step 1: Make friends with your pole.

I guess given how intimate I would become with the pole, it makes sense to get to know the pole on a personal level.

“Hello Pole! My name’s Maggie. So, do you come here often?”

Step 2: Learn to walk around your pole.

I began this section with my usual clumping walk around the pole. That was wrong. My walk can be described as less sexy and more “there is a chance I could have polio” style of clumping. Mandy tried to show me how to move more seductively by thinking sexy thoughts. I continued on – clump, Matt Damon, clump, George Clooney, clump, Why was Ocean’s 13 such a boring movie with so many hot guys in it – it makes no sense – I mean just write a good script for Heaven’s sake…clump, clump, clump….hmmmm…not working…

Step 3: Swing around the pole.

This was the part I was looking forward to the most. I like swinging, spinning and going fast. I was keen to learn how to whip around the pole like some super sexy Cirque du Soleil circus freak. Mandy began her explanation.

“Okay. Now this is really easy. Grab onto the pole at a 45 degree angle.” Okay, so far so good. “Place your right leg at a 90 degree angle from the pole.” Sure. “Take your left foot and form the shape of an acute angle triangle.” Which one is an acute angle triangle again? “Next, pretend your leg is a protractor.” Wait!!!! “Swing your left foot in the shape of a rhombus.” Stop with all the math references!!! “Create a trapezoid momentum using the vector of the gravitational pull of the Pythagorean theorem followed by the spontaneous trajectory of the beta waves….” Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was lost. My hopes of whipping around the pole were being crushed. Who knew stripping required a math degree. I had visions of being a stripping school drop out – what would that look like on my resume? I waited for Mandy to come around and help me. She put it in easier terms for me. “Maggie, just swing around the pole.”

And with that, I was swinging around a pole like a chimp on meth. It was fun!!

The class ended and I must say it was a good workout. I have a newfound respect for strippers. It takes a lot of strength and a lot of math skills to do the job properly. Next year, if I need my taxes done, I am calling a stripper. Pop tart out.

Bad Hair Day

Bad Hair Day

Today, I woke up with every Kitsgal’s worst nightmare….Yes. I had a truly bad hair day. I have never been one of those gals who rolled out of bed and every hair fell into place. No, I was blessed/cursed with naturally curly hair that likes to ping in places where it should pong.

Bad hair days are not new to me. I have a long history of bad hair days. When I was growing up, my mom felt that the five dollars Magicuts was charging for a basic hair cut was outrageous. Thus, she took it upon herself to ensure we didn’t walk around looking like a pack of “dirty hippies”. Mom’s haircutting technique was simple and practical. She just kept cutting until the hair looked straight to her. Sometimes, she used a bowl as a guide; sometimes she just eyeballed it. The fact that my mom had a lazy eye condition could explain why, in pretty much every one of my school pictures, I look like Mr. Spock…..but only if Mr. Spock had naturally curly hair that pinged when it should have ponged.

Today, however, was different. It was different because the colour of hair I woke up with, was not the colour of hair I went to bed with. Before going to sleep last night, I decided to play with some colours to give myself a fresh new look. When I woke up, my hair was bright cotton candy pink. Apparently, you cannot mix red and blonde highlights together….because…if you do, they make pink. It seems so clear now.

I arrived at work and tried to hide the mess in a ponytail. Pink is a hard colour to hide. Sooner, rather than later, people started to notice. Some people were really kind – waaay too kind.

“Oh! It looks so cute. What a creative choice,” some people said.

Others were a bit more blunt. “Aren’t you a little too old to pretend you are Avril Lavigne?”

Then it began. One thing I have noticed is that when a personal crisis is looming, people have a knack of telling the worst possible story under the guise of “helping.” Yes, the hair dye horror stories began.

“Oh. I once died my hair blonde and then it became so brittle all the hairs fell out. It was the day before my wedding and I had to wear a wig for six months.”

“Oh. That’s nothing. This friend of mine once had a hair dresser put foils in her hair and it gave her brain cancer. She recovered but her boyfriend broke up with her and took her life savings. But the foils looked good though.”

“No way. Well a friend of a friend, once got some streaks done and the hairdresser pulled so hard on her hair when it was in that cap thingy that her brain fell out. Then her cat died. ”

Enough!

After citing a “hair emergency” my super cool boss gave me the day off. I am not sure if he did it to be kind or so he didn’t have to look at me any longer.

Regardless, I ended up at a posh salon on West 4^th. It was the only one I could find that would agree to fix my pink hair. There, I met Ruth. I loved Ruth instantly. She was petite, swore like a Teamster and had a technicolour head of hair. Picture all the colours you would find at Benjamin Moore and they were in Ruth’s hair. When she first saw me, she thought I looked awesome and said I only needed a bit of purple and yellow to be really trendy. I told her that I needed to have a colour of hair that you would find naturally occurring in nature. She looked disappointed, but said “Okay.”

Ruth dyed my hair the only colour dark enough to cover the pink – yes, a deep dark chocolate brown. I find it kind of ironic that both my hair colours in the last couple of days have been reminiscent of carnival food.

I left the salon looking very different. It is a shock to pass the mirror. “Who is that Goth girl? Someone call security!! Oh my goodness. It’s me!”

I have to wait two months before my next colour adventure. Stay tuned.

My First Triathlon

My first triathlon

All kitsgals are fit. Whether they worked for it or paid for it, they always look like they just came from the gym. In my world, I like to workout. I also like to sit. That is where the two sides of my personality conflict. Here is the story of my greatest fitness test to date.

I am stubborn. Really stubborn. I am stupid stubborn. I never back down from a challenge. One day, a friend of mine, Tim, announced that he was going to do a triathlon.

“I’d like to do a triathlon too. Maybe, I will do it with you,” I piped in.

To that, Tim laughed and laughed and laughed. “You? Do a triathlon?? I don’t think so.” Ha ha ha…

The laughter continued for quite some time all the while my inner Viking became increasingly riled. You never want to rile my inner Viking. “I could so do it. Count me in.” I replied.

Tim laughed and said, “We’ll see.” Hahahahaha.

The triathlon was in three months. No problem. Plenty of time to train. For those of you who don’t know, triathlons are a combination of a run, a swim and a bike ride. They were thought up by some overachiever who thought this would be fun. I suspect he was drunk at the time.

Following the challenge, time passed. A lot of things happened. Training wasn’t one of them. Tim kept after me to forfeit my registration fee, but I stubbornly refused. Besides, really? How hard can it be? This particular triathlon was a mini one so it only entailed a 5K run, a swim across a lake and a 20K bike ride. Piece of cake. Yum. A piece of cake would go down good right about now

The day of the drive to Harrison, the location of the race, my friend Tim’s wife Becky said that she hadn’t been able to get the hotel reservations she wanted. Everything in the area was all booked up due to the Ironman triathlon happening that same weekend (an even longer and sillier race) so we were staying outside of Harrison. We arrived at our hotel and I was relieved to see a big sign declaring the place was Under New Management. This was good, because based on the bullet holes in the siding, things didn’t go so well for the old management.

We went to check in and met “Steve” the front desk clerk. I assume he was the front desk clerk because he was sitting behind the front desk. He was clad in the traditional concierge outfit of a wife beater mesh tank, a full set of human body fur and a collection of do it yourself home-style prison tattoos. Most of his front teeth were gone and he reeked of stale booze, but aside from that he was very pleasant – he offered to watch our valuables, sell us pot at a good rate and give us a wake up call.

Steve directed us to our rooms. Mine was the single suite at the end of the hall. I opened the door. The room had three huge saggy king sized beds inside. I went next door to visit Tim and Becky and asked how many beds they had. They had five. Neat! All this for $45 per night. I wonder if Trip Advisor knows about this place. Suddenly Steve’s question about which inmate we were here to visit made sense. Apparently, given the hotel’s close proximity to the maximum security prison, it provided a good place to stay for the prison wives who were up visiting their men for their yearly conjugal visit. Ewwww.

During the night, I tried to sleep but found myself wondering if maybe I should have trained for this event. “You’ll do okay,” I thought to myself as the forth train of the night rumbled by my head. Did I mention that the CN rail line ran right next to my window? It did.

True to his word, Steve woke us up at 5am. He did this not by phone but by yelling down the hall. “HEY! #@%$ -ING JOCK BUDDIES. GET THE #@$% UP!” I am sure we were a big hit on our floor.

We arrived at our race site early. Or at least what I thought was early. The race was set to start at 7:30 am. I mean, who else arrives ready to do serious exercise at 6am? Well, triathlon people do. Everybody was there. We were almost considered late. I stored my gear in the various transition zones and got ready for the race. Tim kept goading me to back out and help him change in the transition zones instead. I was tired and I must tell you, I was tempted. But that “I know you can’t do it” look in his eye caught me. I was going to do this thing even if it killed me.

The first part was the swim. We had to swim across a section of Harrison Lake. A friend of mine, who had done a ton of triathlons before, suggested I wear a wetsuit as it would give me added buoyancy. This means you don’t really have to swim as hard – it is like wearing water wings over your entire body. It is not really cheating, but kind of.

Only a few other people were wearing wetsuits. Most other folks were clad in an assortment of Speedos, bikinis and other spandex race wear that showed off the fact that, based on their physique, they had been training. In my wetsuit, I must say I looked nothing like Emma Peel on the Avengers - I looked more like an over stuffed sausage on a breakfast plate at Denny’s.

Everyone piled up at the shoreline. There were hundreds of competitors. Then, at exactly 7:30am, the starting gun went off. Swimmers raced into the water. Unfortunately, the lake wasn’t exactly the lovely sparkling fresh water experience that the triathlon organizers had promised us. No. This lake was a fresh sparkling glacier fed pool of skin numbing water. The cold water took my breath away, even with the protection of a wetsuit. Suddenly, I felt like I was in the middle of a re-enactment of the Titanic. The bikini clad swimmers, who looked great on the beach, all of a sudden were struggling to breathe and move in the frigid water. Participants were splashing about, struggling to stay afloat. Rescue boats pulled people out of the water left, right and centre. I dog paddled on.

I saw Tim reach the other side and pull himself out of the water. I was a few minutes behind when I ran into the transition zone to get my bike. I pulled the zipper on my wetsuit, but it was stuck. What?!! I looked down - a huge piece of seaweed had clogged the zipper. Ahhh! I struggled with it to no avail. “Okay….I will have to cycle in a wetsuit.” I thought to myself. I grabbed Fil, my bike - I always name my bikes - doesn’t everyone? Okay, before we begin that debate, let’s get back to the race…

I found myself pedalling madly, looking frantically for signs that indicated which direction we were suppose to go. My seaweed/ zipper fiasco had made me horribly behind. I sailed a long for quite some time.

“This is fun”, I thought. I became distracted by the scenery and my frustrated attempts at getting the seaweed out of my zipper. Pretty soon, I began to see fewer and fewer people as I got farther and farther from town.

“Am I so far behind that I am last? No. Can’t be. Keep going.”

I kept pedalling…and pedalling…and pedalling. Soon, a horrible thought came to my mind. “Where am I?”

And then the crushing realization. I had missed a marker. I was lost. And I mean really lost. I can’t believe it. I pedalled on. I was sweaty. My legs cramped, My wetsuit didn’t breathe air. I was thirsty. Ugh.

After what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the best marker around – the maximum security prison gate where all the frisky wives go when they are not sleeping en mass in my hotel room. I asked a guard where I was. He laughed and gave me directions. He said I must have inadvertently followed one of the Ironman markers which was set to happen on this route tomorrow. I was happy he didn’t mention the giant piece of seaweed dangling from my wetsuit….I am also glad he didn’t mention the wetsuit.

Pedalling like mad, I found my bearings and ended up back at the transition zone for the final leg of the race…the run. I was tired, cranky and sweaty. I parked Fil and grabbed a pair of scissors from my backpack. I cut the silly wetsuit off – there was no way I was going to parade around town any longer looking like Aquaman. I threw my shorts and shirt on and was good to go. I began the run paying careful attention to the markers. Every time I passed a race official, I grilled them intensely…”Are you sure I am going the right way?”

I figured I was about dead last by now but I was determined to finish. I passed a few stragglers on my way to the finish line – these were mostly elderly people in walkers but I didn’t care. I passed them! Soon, the finish line was in sight. The Chariots of Fire theme song was in my head. People clapped and cheered…not really for me but for the 104 year old using a walker who was coming up behind me. I didn’t care. The cheers ran in my ears.

So, I finished. And I have a medal to prove it. I wore my triathlon medal for a full month after I completed the race. My friend Tim laughed at my race time but he couldn’t fault my inner Viking for determination. Yes. I am stupid stubborn.

Stretchy Pants

Stretchy Pants

Lululemon is an institution in Kitsilano. No self respecting Kitsgal leaves the house without the little white icon of a 50s hairdo somewhere on her body. It is a source of pride; a reflection of taste; an indicator of a lifestyle.

I had never owned a pair of lululemon stretch pants before – something in my nature balks at the thought of spending $110 for sweat pants, but, given the location of my new home, I wanted to fit in with the cool kids. Watching all the Kitsgals walking down West 4^th in their lululemon pants, talking on their cell phones, rushing off for their mani-pedi appointments, they looked so cool, so fit, so trendy.

“I must have a pair,” I thought to myself. I had visions of one pair of stretch pants changing my entire life – my ass would automatically perk up without exercise; men would fall at my feet; my boss would give me a raise. So, I made a deal with myself. I could buy one pair of lululemon sweat pants if I did three good deeds. That way the universe would overlook my greedy consumerism because of my generosity. Ten minutes later, I had done my good deeds – I recycled a pop can, I watched ten minutes of the CBC and I was pleasant to a telemarketer that called – and, I was off. I was excited. This was the day my life was going to be amazing.

I took a deep breath and threw open the doors of lululemon. I walked in like I owned the place. After all, this was going to be my new home. I was greeted by a very nice girl named Amber who smiled brightly when I strode boldly inside.

“Hello, and welcome to lululemon. Can I help you?” she asked politely.

“Yes, I am here to buy some sweat pants.” I responded.

Amber’s face twitched slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t call them that here. These are lifestyle pants. We have different names for our designs”

I came to learn the names - the Still Pant, the Not So Still Pant, the I’m Not Really Working Out I’m Just Wearing It for the Look Pant, the I’m Actually a Stripper Pant and the I’m Seriously Going to Do Some Exercise Pant.

This was a lot for me to take in. I asked Amber what I should try. She looked me up and down and suggested the I’m Not Really Working Out I’m Just Wearing It for the Look Pant. She knew how to read a customer. Then she asked for my size. I told her I was “normal but more on the healthy side of normal” She looked at me with that slightly twitchy look on her face again. “Maybe she’s got a palsy,” I thought.

Then Amber responded, “Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t carry healthy to normal sizes here. Our sizes only come in Subnormal, Pre-anorexic, Anorexic, Meth Addicted Anorexic and Twig.”

I was crestfallen. “I guess I will try Subnormal please.” Amber looked at me with her sceptical palsy ridden face. What if my whole new life in lululemon wear could not be started because I could not fit into it? The fact that I might have to work out to fit into athletic wear was a bit ironic to me.

I took them to the fitting room. I pulled the black pair of size subnormal I’m Not Really Working Out I’m Just Wearing It for the Look Pants on. They fit perfectly. How can this be? “Amber!” I shrieked. They fit. I am reborn. I can be anyone I want.

I have lost my mind. These are sweat pants. But, wow, are they ever comfortable. Then, I started laughing as a new vision took shape in my mind. No.  I wouldn't be wearing these pants to lunch with my girlfriends, to my private yoga class or to my standing mani-pedi appointment.  No.  But, I could definitely see myself lying on the couch, eating nachos and watching Celebrity Apprentice in these new comfy stretchy pants.  “Amber. I am going to make the most outrageous purchase of my life. I am actually going to spend $110 on a pair of sweat pants.” The twitching outside the change room was deafening.