Day one hundred and twenty two: I was just trying to help

Apparently I've stepped on some toes. 


The New Shop is Winnipeg's oldest, operating restaurant. It opened in 1918 originally as a confectionary and has had several owners since. 


When I started in November there were a few things I took note of that needed to change to give the place a bit of a boost, more pizzaz, if you will. The problem? I was new and far be it from me to waltz in and tell anyone how to run their business. 


Just recently, I took it upon myself to redo the menus because, to be frank, they looked ridiculous. Someone went overboard with the serif font and borders:

I know what it's like to be married to a font, my personal favourite is Bookman Old Style,  but the Monotype Corsiva just had to take a hike. The menus looked like they were made in 1992 and printed via a dot matrix printer.  

I mustered up all the design knowledge that hadn't quite yet eluded me from first-year Electronic Publishing: Layout and Design and with what may or may not be a bootleg copy of Adobe InDesign, to put an end to the eyesore that was the old menu. 


I'd like to think that the way a menu looks speaks volumes about the food it describes. If a menu looks like a big ol' mess then why would anything sound remotely appetizing. 


Here's what I came up with:

Now is it the greatest menu design ever? Of course not. Does it look better than that doily we had before? I'd say so. Was everyone really impressed? Nope. 

When I got the proofs printed it was like everyone in the building had a great idea on how to improve my design so I told them to "suck it"... with my mind.

I didn't take into consideration that I'd be hurting some feelings by re-doing the brutal menu and being so vocal about what an impediment it was on the restaurant but sometimes you've gotta be ruthless in this business.  

Day one hundred and eighteen: this never gets old.

I don't know and I don't care how the other residents of West Broadway/ Wolseley feel about the new Subway that just opened up on the corner of Sherbrook Street and Westminster Avenue, but I am trilled. 

I still have yet to do a lick of grocery shopping and there's not much, I assume, that one can make with Bisquick, paprika and a tin of Vienna Sausage. 

Let me be clear when I tell you that the only reason I have canned cocktail wieners in my cupboard is strictly due to the fact that it's some sort of Newfoundland thing so my mom, I mean Santa, put them in everyone's stocking at Christmas. And really, what's a Christmas without canned meat, am I right? 

That all said, a Subway within walking distance is a welcomed commodity as far as I'm concerned. At least it will ensure that I get fed from time to time. How I manage to have a sink full of dishes everyday with a fridge full of condiments and no food, I will never know. 

While the Subway employee's at my neighborhood sandwich shop are alright, there will never be a replacement for the Subway guys in Osborne Village. They're much more personable and they do backflips for tips... still. 

The backflipping Subway guy told me he's movie store locations to Carmen so naturally I had to get my fill of backflips while I still could. 

The thing is, I would have tipped regardless. 

Here's hoping the Sandwich Artists in my neck of the woods start practicing. 

Day one hundred and fifteen: sometimes your kids are funny.

While there is nothing I deplore more about serving than serving kids, sometimes there's a couple of young pups that can really make my night. Tonight one young gal, Sarah -- I know this because she drew me a picture, wanted to know all about me and if there's one thing I've established via this blog it's that I love talking about myself. 


She asked me how old I am so I told her to take a guess. She said 16. I appreciate her uncanny ability to recognize my youthful glow. She looked at me like I had six heads when I told her I was 26 but that was soon forgotten when I brought out her chicken fingers and fries. 


I'm not sure if it was the engaging conversation or the red jello, I assume it's cherry, with whipped cream that inspired this epic piece of art but I appreciate the gesture:  

I'm not sure if the short-haired character with the spear is supposed to be me. I hope it isn't because my hair is much longer and it would negate all the nice things I've said about the artist. I don't care if she was seven years old, you're never too young to offend and make enemies in the process.


The picture made it's way onto my fridge because, if I'm not the short-haired character with the spear, it's totally awesome. 

Day one hundred and fourteen: I have really nice printing

I'm going to go ahead and put it out there: 


I have great printing. 


I never get sick of people telling me how nice my printing is. I know that sounds ridiculous but it doesn't take much to make me happy. As silly as that seems it's about to get sillier. One of the best parts of my day is the 10 or so minutes I spend writing out the specials on the board at the New Shop especially on the days where my ritual is uninterrupted. 

There's something almost cathartic about the whole process -- my mind shuts off, if only for a few minutes, I crank up some tunes and instantly I'm brought back to a simpler time and all I have to worry about is if my printing is spaced out properly. 

I don't think about what I'm going to do with the rest of my life or feel the residual guilt I have from consistently sabotaging myself because of all the self-saboteurs out there, I can say with the most utmost confidence, that I take the cake. 

I'm really good at colouring too. If coulouring were an employable job skill I would have all the jobs. 

Day one hundred and thirteen: bending the rules

I think it’s safe to say that everyone bends the rules at their place of work from time to time and working in a restaurant is certainly no exception.

At (insert real name here) I’ve been known to jazz up my coffee a little bit with some chocolate or caramel sauce – maybe even a shot of whip from time to time but you never know whose eyes are on you and whether the mouth that belongs to those eyes is going to go tattle. So it’s best to avoid having a snack on line with food from the restaurant.

I’d feel pretty stupid getting a stern talking to from the boss maybe even a little bad about myself -- sorta like the fat kid in elementary school who stole food from everybody’s lunches.

I have no desire to get in trouble at work. Lately my attitude has been less than desirable at work which I'm sure I'll be hearing about any day now, I don't need to add more fuel to the fire. 


I have a feeling that if I were to get in trouble one of two things would happen: the bad attitude would boost to dangerous levels or I'd start crying. I've said it before and I'll say it again, when I get in trouble I tend to cry. Sure 99% of the time it's out of a place of frustration but that's hard to articulate when my nose is running and the uncontrollable sobs are making it difficult to even get a word out. 


What can I say? I tend to overreact but I'm working on it. 

Day one hundred and twelve: I have two VCRs.

I need a vacation.


I can't remember the last time I went grocery shopping or did laundry (other than my work clothes). My apartment looks like a house straight out of Hoarders.


I work every day -- no weekend to kick back and relax or get anything done for myself. I feel unhealthy, both physically and mentally and I'm fed up. I want to quit my jobs, hit rock bottom instead of dangerously hovering above it.


There are simple things I have neglected to do for myself because I spend the better part of my day with plates in my arms. I've had a bed frame sitting on my bedroom floor since New Year's Eve that has yet to be put together. To be fair, it was a bed frame I happened upon. I wasn't in the market for a new bed frame nor had I allotted time to put it together.


Now that I think about it, the majority of my furniture has been "gently used." My coffee table is second-hand from the same fella who gave me the bed frame. My couches look like they belong in the lobby of a Country Inn and Suites circa 1993 but I was more than happy to take the near perfect condition living room accessories off a different friend's hands.


My most favourite previously owned item, however, is my TV. Who needs high definition or LCD technology when you can have the finest tube machinery Panasonic has (had) to offer? I don't want to brag but m TV has a built in VCR and FM radio:

My TV gets turned on an average of once every two or three months. Lately I find that when I am home that time is spent doing one of two things: sleeping or getting ready for work. 

I need a vacation even if that means an afternoon off in my apartment to sit back on my used couch and watch a video on one of two functional VCRs I own -- to be fair, one is a combination DVD/VHS player. 

I need a vacation or I am going to snap.  

Day one hundred and ten: cash money

A while ago I mentioned a little bet amongst several members of the (insert real name here) serving staff. The idea was to abstain from (insert real name here) food for as long as possible.
The buy in -- $5, the prize -- all the money (and glory).


I'm happy to report that all the glory is mine. I wasn't sure what movie montage song to sing repeatedly and/or re-enact. The end of Teen Wolf when Michael J Fox plays the big game as himself rather than his alter ego basketball superstar wolf self? That made no sense so I went with a classic -- a Rocky training montage. Running around the restaurant jumping up and down singing Gonna Fly Now by Bill Conti probably annoyed some people but it seemed like the only viable option.



It's not an easy feat, sure I make it look easy.


When people started handing me over five dollar bills I started getting an overwhelming sense of superiority not unlike that of a certain Peanuts character by the name of Lucy van Pelt.


I played Lucy in a school play when I was in the 5th grade -- how fitting. She's a bit of a know-it-all and very bossy -- traits I had tried to shed over the years but somehow haven't managed to elude. The only line I remember from that play has been running through my head since I won the bet:


"Boy, what a sound! How I love to hear that old money clink, that beautiful sound of cold hard cash." 

Day one hundred and eight: dietary needs.

I get easily annoyed when tables ask me questions that can be easily answered if the person just took a moment to read the menu.

Today, at (insert real name here), two women at two different tables asked me if there were any desserts not on the dessert menu. 

My response to them both was: 

“If you’re asking me if we have secret desserts then I’m afraid my answer is: no, no we don’t have any secret desserts not listed in the dessert menu. Now, if you’re asking me if we have other desserts that aren’t a secret but not listed on the dessert menu then my answer is also, no.”

One woman was just unhappy with the selection while the other was looking for a lactose free option. 

We just started making gluten-free options on our menu. Can we tackle one dietary need at a time?

I’m sorry you’re lactose intolerant and that has put an impediment on enjoying the finer things in life. It truly is a bummer because cheese is delicious. At some point in your life, you might be so lucky as to have a lactose free option when it comes to a tasty treat at the end of your meal but for now, surrender the fantasy. And while you’re at it, stop wasting my time.


Maybe I'm bitter because I'm not the type of gal who orders dessert when I go out to eat. I don't really see the point when there are so many more options of delicious things to mow down on, why waste the room on apple crisp?

Day one hundred and six: regulars vs. stalkers

I've been at (insert real name here) long enough to have a nice little following of regulars. I enjoy serving familiar faces that come in from time to time, especially the ones that tip well. I like to think that it's because I've got charisma which is, if I may quote Pauly Shore in the great film Son in Law, "a special quality of leadership that captures the popular imagination and inspires allegiance and devotion."

Being charismatic has it's downside though. I seem to have made a good impression on an older gentleman who now shows up to (insert real name here) everyday to see if I'm working. At first it was harmless, just a lonely old fella who was looking for someone to talk to. Now it's gotten to the point I feel ill when I answer the phone at work and he's on the other end telling me "not to worry" and that he'll "be there soon." 


Generally he talks about London, England and I nod and smile because I have nothing to add to the conversation. He'll sit at one of my tables for hours and he smells like French Onion soup before he even orders French Onion Soup. Worst of all, he only ever tips me a dollar. 


Am I afraid for my safety? Not really. I'm sure if I found myself in a situation where I had to fight for my life I could take him out because he's old and because I've been conditioned to escape from life threatening situations courtesy of Big Bro. 


One summer Big Bro tied my legs and arms to a lawn chair and locked me in the shed. So if creep show stalker somehow manages to capture me in order to make my skin into a lamp, I'll be prepared:



I have to give credit to the people I work with, however, when he phones they say I'm not in and if he comes in unannounced the hostesses tell him my section is full and try to get rid of him. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't but they've got my back an I truly appreciate it. 

Day one hundred and five: hives?

I’ve broken out in hives three times in as many days; the first time at (insert real name here) then at the New Shop and a third time again at (insert real name here). I don’t have any known allergies so I can only assume I’m dying. 

Now I'm not a doctor per se, but I do watch a couple medical dramas -- Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice and I have recently taken to inputting symptoms into the Symptom Checker search bar on Web MD. 

I typed in "itchy arms" and the only thing that came up was that I have Down Syndrome. 

Well this is just great. I'm already stressed out as it is working two jobs now I have to deal with having Down Syndrome? I was hoping it was just a reaction to some chemical but no such luck. 

Now I'm wondering what else my parents have hidden from me. Am I adopted? Sure I bare a sticking resemblance to my brother but that can just be a coincidence. 

My rational mind says that maybe Web MD is wrong but that would be like saying not everything on the Internet is true and I refuse to believe it. 

Maybe I can start making more tips if I tell my tables if I tell them about my impediment -- use the Down Syndrome to my advantage. 

I Web MD searched hives just to be sure and although Down Syndrome is still a possible diagnosis, it seems like a little case of dermatitis is the culprit for my itchy arms. 

Day one hundred and four: surely you can't be that stupid

I had a hissy fit today. Actually, a hissy fit doesn't accurately describe my temper tantrum. It was more like a shit fit of epic proportions.


I had a complete and utter meltdown that was kind of like this:



(minus the tears...)


The catalyst of the meltdown? Someone wasn't following the Golden Rule.


Lately I've found myself really taking to heart the bad behaviour of strangers. There was a time I'd just shake my head and move on because I didn't really care what some asshole eating at (insert real name here) had to say, but now instead of letting it roll off my back, I'm absorbing that negativity.


Today's interaction went like this:


Me: Sorry to interrupt but what can I bring you to drink?


Asshole: We're in the middle of a conversation. Surely you can't be so stupid as to not figure that out.


Me: **silence and disbelief**


I walked away a little stunned. Did that guy just call me stupid? This is when I started to get mad. I swiped my card in the POS with such vigor that it snapped in half.


My temper tantrum lasted a couple more minutes and I eventually got over myself as my co-workers looked at me as if I had six heads. After I had calmed down I felt a wave of shame wash over me. I'm disappointed in myself for letting some hack get the best of me. Maybe it's because I need some time off or maybe I'm in the wrong line of work but now I'm on a mission to not let the small stuff get to me.


What's worse than my temper tantrum is that I had the perfect opportunity to drop a life from Airplane.
How often is it that people start a sentence with "surely..." even if the rest of the phrase is to call me stupid? Opportunities like that only come around once in a lifetime:

Day one hundred and three: the tax man cometh

I think, for the first time in 26 years (or however long it's been that I've had to file for income tax), I'm going to have to go to an income tax figure-outer person. 


There was a time that my mom had my taxes done by some broad... er... lady, but she's out of commission from an embolism or an aneurysm -- either way, something happened that's left the number crunching to me and I'm not so confident this time around. 


I haven't been keeping track of my tip as diligently as I should have been and now a wave of paranoia has rushed over me because I don't want to accidentally commit tax fraud and have to pay a bunch of fines or worse... end up in the clink. I've seen the Shawshank Redemption many times and as confident as I am in being able to pull off a great escape no one will ever believe I'm as much of a Rita Hayworth fan as Andy Dufresne. 


Sure jail can't be all that bad with the choreographed Michael Jackson numbers... 




Now, I'm not 100% positive but I'm pretty sure provincial and federal jails in Canada almost never have Michael Jackson's choreographer Travis Payne come out to teach some sweet dance moves a la the Cebu Provincial Detention And Rehabilitation Center (CPDRC) in the Philippines and if that's the case I'm not taking any chances with my freedom. 


So in order to get a fair shake at this income tax thing I think it's best to leave it up to the professionals. 

Day one hundred and two: 90s music dance party

I don’t know why I never thought to bring CDs to work until today but the revelation to do so has blow my mind.

I’m the only front-of-house employee kicking around in the morning so I don’t turn on the music until we’re officially open. We have the radio tuned to FAB 94.3 partly because it’s the only station that doesn’t have static and partly because it’s really good.  Normally,while I'm opening the restaurant, I listen to one of three podcasts:

• WTF with Marc Maron
• Comedy Death Ray Radio with Scott Aukerman
• Doug Loves Movies with Doug Benson

In an attempt to mix it up a bit today I went with a sweet Dollarstore CD I purchased called Maximum Edge 90s (only the hits) and so far, it's working out awesome -- so much so that I've vetoed playing hits from the 60s and 70s and thus the New Shop has been transformed into a 90s music dance party town, population: me. 

What are some of the great tunes I've been listening to you ask? 

How about the hit 90s television series Party of Five theme song by the BoDeans: 

Or a little gem we all know called Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something:




Now everyday can be a 90s dance party day.

Day one hundred and one: my feet smell.

My feet are in a perpetual state of smelling awful and that's bound to happen when one works in two restaurants, at least that's what I keep telling myself.


My feet are pretty gross to begin with. I booted off a toenail (this word grosses me out) from careless kicking whilst swimming at Rainbow Falls and then again, exactly a year later (give or take a day), I managed to destroy said toenail (gross) thanks to some brand new socks, a linoleum floor and a dining room table.


That's just my left foot.


I broke my right-index-finger-equivalent-toe when I tumbled down the stairs in a late night bathroom emergency and it still sits kinda gnarly. 


I always feel bad for the poor gal who has to deal with my feet when my girlfriends and I get pedicures. She thinks I don't see but I notice the longing looks she give the other feet, wishing she was working on them instead of the buckets of yuck attached to my legs.


My feet smell bad, and not just for a girl. My feet smell bad for a human being. This may or may not have something to do with my choice in footwear; lately I've been rocking $20 kicks from Zellers. I'm on my feet for at least six hours a day and that's only on the days I work one of my serving jobs. Most days I'm kicking around in my smelly restaurant shoes for 10 or 12 hours and all the food, drink and garbage juice I spill on my feet are bound to seep into my skin. I'm sure,in theory, I could avoid this with a proper pair of shoes but who has the time to search out a pair of shoes that don't look like orthopedic-old-people shoes that should be worn with a matching pastel pant and sweater set from Tan Jay? Not me?


Until then, it's looking like my feet will continue to smell how, what I imagine, a dead body smells or this monkey's finger:

Day ninety nine: lying to coworkers

Lying to strangers is fun but what's even more fun is lying to people I work with. Lying to people I know is more of a challenge because I'm bad at it. I get flushed and start to laugh not to mention maintaining the lie


One of the cooks at (insert real name here) quit for the second time to go up north and do some census work so it only seemed appropriate to start a rumour as to the "real" reason he was leaving -- with his permission of course. I was able to get as creative as possible since he has no plans on coming back -- I think his exact words were:

If anyone sees me walking back in at any point with a resume in my hand, please do me a favour and bludgeon me to death with the closest object at hand (or, if you are in a vehicle, accelerate rapidly into me, then back up a few times).

Rumours spread like wild fire in restaurants and it is truly amazing how gullible some people are.


I ended up telling people that the cook quit because he had one too many adult beverages with another cook one night resulting in the two fellas ending up in bed together and everything just seemed to fall into place after that. 


Let me preface this by saying that both guys knew what I was going to say and found it just as hilarious as I did and still do.




The heart wants what the heart wants. 

Day ninety eight: lying to strangers.

I like lying to strangers.

I especially like lying to strangers that come into eat at (insert real name here). I can only have the same conversation about the weather before I start wanting to blow my brains out.

We get a pretty decent movie crowd before and after a show so in the interest of making conversation I tend to tell my tables I’ve seen the movie they just watched or are going to.

For example, today I told a table that I thought Black Swan was pretty good the first time I saw it but it made much more sense the second time around once I looked up the story of Swan Lake and pick out the parallels between the movie and the ballet. 

What do I actually know about the movie? There’s a lesbian sex scene and Natalie Portman does some ballet.

Another flick I like to lie about is the King’s Speech. At first I said that both times I had seen the movie it was so good that everyone applauded, both times! I haven't been to a movie that ended in applause since the 1994 major animated picture the Lion King. I've since added that Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush work so well on screen together it's like they've known each other their entire lives and I'm impressed that the film maintained historical accuracy. At this point I generally hope that my table doesn't start talking about King George VI or World War II. 

What do I actually know about the movie? Colin Firth is a dreamboat. 

So what movie had I seen in the past few months that I could truthfully critique? Jackass 3D. It’s pretty gross and the 3D technology is unnecessary.

Day ninety seven: your credit card has been declined

When a credit card or debit card is declined, for whatever reason, I get just as embarrassed if not more than the poor schmuck who is trying to pay for his or her grub.



When those six letters pop up on the screen and flash: declined, I get ill. A series of excuses then start to fall out of the mouth of the payee (I know I have money, something must be wrong with the machine etc) then I have to 


Sometimes I like to crack a little joke to relieve the tension so I'll say something like:


"How embarrassing?! This guy (or gal) doesn't have any money!!" And then I point at him or her for everyone to see. Or I'll say "don't worry, we have enough dishes that need to be done to cover the cost of your meal."


Most of the time this results in a bout of rosacea and avoidance of eye contact and what I figure a silent vow never to return to (insert real name here) or the New Shop.  


Every time this has happened to me the diner has had another form of payment so I haven't had to go to a manager and try to figure out a solution because I can imagine this scenario is extremely awkward for everyone involved. 

Day ninety six: take my little hand

My right arm is freakishly stronger than my left arm and it’s all from serving for the last 10 months. I for sure have not even been rocking the bicep curls.


I am in no way ambidextrous so I used my predominant (right) arm for everything.

Even when I take out the garbage I throw the bags out with my right arm. I tried to switch it up and use my left arm a few times but each attempt had ended up in a tornado of food, used straws and garbage juice.

Go figure when I tell people about my rock-hard-right-bicep the immediate response is a crude masturbation joke:


                          "Hey (insert my real name here) been…"


I can’t even finish this sentence because my mom reads my blog and she already hates swearing. I can only imagine how she feels about smut talk but I will tell you it involves scraping the cheese off of a certain taco.


I digress.


I get pretty impressed when I carry a lot of plates or a bunch of glasses without a tray -- even more so, when I don’t spill anything. Have I dropped a plate of food? Totally. Have I ever made it rain on a table of old ladies? Yes, literally I have. I once spilled an entire tray of water on a group of grandmas. I felt awful. AWFUL. Good thing it was water and not glasses of something that stains, like mustard. Mustard is super hard to get out but the chance of getting something spilled on you is the chance you take when you dine out if your server isn't using his or her strong arm.

Day ninety five: street justice.

A man came into the New Shop today for a glass of water. It was after the lunch rush so I didn't see a problem with him taking a seat and having some H2O. Sometimes it's just easier to say yes than to ask someone to leave. 


He sat at one of the booths happily sipping away when I noticed he was putting sugar, salt and pepper into his glass and chugging it. The only time I've ever seen someone drink sugar water with such zest was in the major motion picture Men in Black starring Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones. 


The man then started to bounce around from table to table so I decided it was time for him to kick rocks as it were and take his sugar water drinking show on the road. It was time to go sell crazy somewhere else because at the New Shop, we're all stocked up. 


I went into the kitchen to tell Chef that I was about to ask the man to leave and that if all of a sudden I went missing it was because the guy, whose name we later found out was Grant? It was definitely a 'g' name -- if I was missing it was because Grant had killed me to make a lamp out of my skin. Excessive and paranoid? Perhaps, but you never really can tell with sugar water drinkers. 


As I walked out of the kitchen and back into the dinning room Grant was putting on his coat while mumbling something about "heading back to work." Skin lamp crisis averted. I replied with "have a good one" and went back to whatever it was I was doing. Instead of leaving out the front door Grant went to the washroom at the back of the New Shop or so I assumed. 


A few minutes went by and I had not seen him come out so back into the kitchen I went to ask Chef or one of the cooks to take a peek in the mens room to make sure nothing unsavory was going on. It turns out Grant walked into the back room and Chef told him to "get the fuck out" not thinking to check if Grant took anything before letting him walk out the front door. 


As I noticed him leave I remembered that he didn't have a backpack when he came into the restaurant and it hit me -- that sugar water drinking thief stole from us. Naturally, I decided to go get it back. 


I put on my jacket and told the other server to call the Red Coats (slang for the Downtown Watch) and give them this description:

• male
• 45 years old
• 5'10" 
• red hair
• glasses
• two tone beige jacked
• two tone green backpack 

I didn't realize how observant I've become since becoming a server. Sure I've seen every episode of every Law and Order franchise but I think it was the serving and constantly sizing people up on a daily basis that helped me remember as many things about him as I did. 

I booked it down the street after him, not unlike LL Cool J in the 2003 major motion picture based on the television series S.W.A.T.:

I don't remember running that fast in my 26 years but I was pretty impressed with myself. 


To cut a long story less long, I caught up with him at the Hydro building across the street from Portage Place Shopping Centre. With the authority of Jack Bauer and the adrenaline of a mom whose small child is trapped under a car I yelled "give me back my stuff!!" and Grant turned around and graciously started taking off the jacket and shoes he was wearing.  


I think it's about time to quit the restaurant industry and start fighting crime. Street justice had prevailed, no thanks to Chef whose first instinct was to go up to his office and change out of his kitchen clothes into his civvies (street clothes) then go search for Grant. Too late, manhunt over. 


(Insert my real name here) - 1. Crime - 0  

Day ninety four: female pattern baldness

I really get a kick out of old gals that come in to (insert real name here). It doesn't matter if I've served them before I know every single time they're gonna get the same chicken salad and a glass of water with a lemon wedge. God forbid I forget the lemon wedge. Actually, to be fair, most times they never notice the missing lemon wedge and I end up looking like a hero when I remember I forgot and bring them a plate of several lemon wedges. 

And as predictable as their order, most times when these ladies get together for lunch they talk about the latest episode of Dr. Oz. I don’t know what it is about old ladies and Dr. Oz but they take everything he says as gospel.

One of those gals complimented my hair today which was a heaping mess on the top of my head. At first I thought she was being sarcastic but she kept asking me question about it 

If there's one thing I love doing it's talking about myself so I was more than happy to explain that my hair is really long and curly so most of the time I tie it up into said big ol' mess because I don't have the time between my two jobs to straighten it as much as I used to. 

That's when she got concerned. Dr. Oz said that girls who straighten their hair have a higher chance of heavy onset female pattern baldness than those who don't. What?! 

There are three things that terrify me:

1. Moths and/or butterflies
2. Fresh water sharks lurking in Manitoban lakes 
3. Female pattern baldness

When I was 15 my little cousins came from Vancouver for a visit with my grandfather and they brought a case of lice with them. My mom had to go through my hair with a delousing comb and medicated shampoo while my pops thought it would be hilarious to tell me the only way to get rid of them was to shave my head. 

I burst into tears.

I was so traumatized that my head was being checked for bugs and that my mom had to phone my best friend's parents and fill them in on the situation because she and I had just had a sleepover. I was devastated and thought my life was over so naturally and sort of logic had eluded me and I believed my dad. I was already emotional to begin with so the harder I cried the harder they laughed. I've got a big head and the thought of being bald was and still is devastating.

Female pattern baldness?! From straightening my hair?! This guy is one of Oprah's shining stars so obviously this information was legit. 

The lady then offered me some solace when she told me to do what her granddaughters do and straighten my coif with a flat iron. Apparently Dr. Oz was talking about girls who use heavy duty chemicals. Crisis averted. No hair loss for this gal. 

Day ninety three: I love meat

When I was in high school I was a vegetarian for a very short-lived time. I made the bush league mistake of cooking a tofu hotdog in the microwave forever condemning the machine to smell of sweaty gym clothes.

I love meat (that's what she said) and in my fight against vegetarianism I've pledged to eat three animals for every animal a vegetarian or vegan doesn't eat. 

Tonight at (insert real name here) three people at a table for six ordered the same steak. Two of them asked for their steak to be cooked well-done and the third asked for his steak to be medium. I’ll never understand how a person can enjoy an over cooked piece of meat. Steak is not meant to be cooked well-done but I'm not the one eating it so what do I  care? 

Not every restaurant will ask a diner to cut into his or her steak but the ones that do have a reason for doing so. We want to know if your meat is cooked the way you want/ordered it.


This table didn't want to cut into their steaks and lo and behold they got the wrong steaks and I had to get a new steak re-fired. In the end everyone was happy with their food but situations like this can be avoided in one of two ways:

1. Don't eat over cooked meat
2. When a server asks you to cut into your steak to check if it's done, do it