Day ninety one: street cheese

I've worked in Downtown Winnipeg for the better part of a decade and just when I think I've seen it all something amazing happens. Today it was the offer to purchase what I have now dubbed: Street Cheese.


I don't need to tell you how delicious and revered cheese is nor do I need to tell that it's not cheap. What I do need to fill you in on, unless you're already in the know, is that cheese theft is at an all time high.


Some guy walked into the New Shop this morning offering to sell us some blocks of cheese for cheap. Being the cheese connoisseur I consider myself to be I immediately recognized the packaging and had come to the conclusion that this guy had stolen some bricks of marble from Safeway. 


Over the years I've had people on the street try to sell me drugs, clothes, bus tickets, booze, etc. but never have I had anyone try to sell me stolen cheese. 


Obviously his generous offer was declined for legal reasons. I don't consider myself a lawyer, per se, but I do watch a lot of crime dramas -- Law and Order, Law and Order SVU, Law and Order Criminal Intent, Criminal Minds, NYPD Blue, 21 Jump Street, Hawaii 5-0, Matlock, Murder She Wrote, CSI, CSI Miami, 24, Cold Case, Sue Thomas F-B-Eye...  


and purchasing stolen merchandise is against the law and I'm almost positive health inspectors frown on the idea of Street Cheese. 


A friend of mine who is a loss prevention officer at Safeway says that cheese is one of the most sought after items to steal. Cheese and razor blades and I can understand why. Like I said before cheese isn't cheap and razor blades are even more expensive. This is why I don't shave my legs all the time (the cost of razor blades, not cheese). Actually, it's because I'm lazy and it's the winter. 


Street Cheese, it's a living. 

Day ninety: free refills

I was always under the impression that the rules of free refills at a restaurant are common knowledge but, once again, I have been proven otherwise. 


Generally speaking, if you order a coffee or a soda, it's safe to assume that you can have all the refills you want. This is of course in reference to fountain beverages and not canned drinks. There are some places, however, that do charge for refills on fountain beverages. Take for instance the Pony Corral. This particular restaurant charges their customers for refills on soda but on the bright side the Pony Corral is disgusting so by avoiding dining at that establishment it's safe to assume the injustice that is pay-per-glass soda is equally as avoidable. 


Wonders never cease when it comes to the expectations of strangers. Tonight, an older gentleman and I use that term as loosely as one can, was upset when he found out that he would be charged for each individual tea bag he used. He was bothered so much that he threatened to "never come back." Sometimes it's just easier to give someone a free tea bag in order to avoid being read the Riot Act over some dried out leaves. 


But expecting free tea bags is like expecting free refills on apple juice. I wish I could give out free refills on juice, especially apple juice because it is delicious and the most thirst quenching of all the juices, but I can't.

My job is to bring out the food, not to establish prices and/or the rules of refills. Those tasks are above my pay grade and the sooner a table can recognize my position in the grand scheme of (insert real name here) the faster we're all just going to get along. 

When someone threatens to "never come back" my response is always the same: an indifferent "ok." What do I care if you never come back? Answer: I don't. Furthermore, if a person has such an awful experience they vow never to return, chances are he or she or they won't be missed. 

Day eighty nine: fast food

Between my two jobs I rarely have the time or the energy to cook for myself anymore. I haven't been grocery shopping in ages and I haven't yet come across a recipe that calls for chick peas, jam and Bisquick (the contents of my cupboard and/or fridge). 

Tonight I rolled up to the Burger King drive-thru for a delicious Whopper with cheese meal. I got Coke Zero to drink so it totally balances out. 

Burger King is the most delicious of all fast food in my opinion and they have coupons all the time. McDonalds is gross. If the Burger King and Ronald McDonald got into a fight, you know that the Burger King would win because he's got  

What awful drive thru food lacks in true sustenance, it makes up for in free condiments. I haven't paid for ketchup in months. 

Sure I will suffer, dearly, the consquences for eating a Whopper over the next couple of days with gut rot, self loathing and the assorted ailments that are associated with such but if, for whatever reason, I find myself needing Zesty Dipping Sauce or honey mustard in a pinch, I'm all set. 

The key to getting fresh fast food is to make modifications to the burger. Yes, I like a Whopper the way it is but if I'm going to clog my arteries an bring myself one step closer to adult diabetes - by way of food - I'm going to make sure my grub is hot and fresh. It's as simple as asking for extra lettuce or for the cheese to be placed directly on the bun. This ensures a freshly made burger at no extra cost.

Day eighty eight: back to the grind

I should have looked more closely at my itinerary. For whatever reason my understanding of military time went straight out the window and when I saw 22:30 hours as my arrival time I thought it meant 10:30 am.


I thought I would have an entire day to myself before going back to working doubles. What a fool I am.


I had some time to kill because my plane was late leaving Vancouver and the plane to take me home was late arriving in Calgary. These things happen and when they do you make the best of the situation -- grab a bite to eat and look for a spot to get some wi-fi.


Let me just say this, the Calgary Airport has stricter firewalls set up than a high school computer lab. I was denied access to perezhilton.com because the Calgary Airport Authority deemed it to be inappropriate. Really Calgary Airport Authority? Since when are you the authority on anything other than the Calgary Airport? And while we're on the subject, why are you limiting my internet access 15 minutes at a time? How am I supposed to distract myself from the little girl throwing a temper tantrum at the table to my right and the server telling the table to my left a story about her cat? 


I'm going on record here and saying that the service at the Calgary Airport Chili's by gate 18 has the worst service ever. I didn't even want to leave a tip for my server but I couldn't bring myself to teach her a lesson by stiffing her because:

1. She is probably too stupid to realize she's a bad server
2. As a server, I can't bring myself to do something like that

Instead, I tipped her and I have decided to set a goal for myself -- be a better server than the brain dead gal at the Calgary Aiport Chili's.

I have decided to set a goal for myself -- be a better server than the brain dead gal at the Calgary Aiport Chili's. So far it's been working out awesome. I haven't told a story about my cat once. 


It would appear I'm not the only one who feels this way about Chili's: 

Day eighty six: to strive, to seek, to find.

There's one place I always go when I'm in Vancouver: the White Spot. Sure, there's a Triple O sign on every corner and I'm not sure if it's for the food or for the memories but it just doesn't seem like a trip to the West Coast without stopping in for lunch. The White Spot reminds me of all the times I sat in the drive-in parking lot in my uncle Tom's car, waiting for servers to bring out long, skinny trays of burgers and Coca-Colas while having some laughs. 

My uncle Tom died almost six years ago. It was July 11, 2005 when my mom and I ventured out for a day of exploration. My folks had moved to St. John's, Newfoundland several months earlier and it was the first time I went out to visit. I had just dipped my feet in the Atlantic Ocean for the first and only time in my life when my mom realized she had forgotten her cell phone at home. We stopped at the house to pick it up before going on a whale watching tour that would inevitably lead to my Screeching-in. A quick press of the message button on the machine changed everything.

"Marcia, it's Marguerite. Please call me." 

It was as if she knew based on that message, that half-sentence. It's a funny thing when that happens -- that feeling you get when something awful strikes. My dad came home from work to tell my mom that her 56 year old brother had died. 

In less than 48 hours I had flown from Winnipeg to Toronto to St. John's back to Toronto until finally landing in Vancouver. My mom and I stepped off the plane with hearts so heavy it felt like they'd never be the same again. All I can remember is the sinking feeling of walking into my uncle's home wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that very moment hoping it was some morbid practical joke. 

Like Christmases before there is a missing piece and just as empty as I felt then I still do now. I look around his office, missing him and I remember how grateful and blessed I truly am to spend even just four days with the people I love the most. 

Day eighty five: Christmas hissy fits

I don't know what it is about spending time with my family but it's almost as if I regress into my childhood self.


For the past month I've been dropping not so subtle hints about what I want for Christmas: a new Blackberry Bold. My poor phone is on it's last leg: it's been put through every sort of torture short of waterboarding.  


So when I opened up an adapter for an iPhone this morning, imagine my disappointment that it wasn't a Blackberry accessory. Let me point out that I know I am a brat, a spoiled one at that but it gets even worse when I'm with my family. 


Instead of being an adult and thanking my parents for getting me a thoughtful gift I instead said "I don't want this. I want a Blackberry." 


What a brat! As soon as that came out of my mouth I wanted to take it back. I've never been one to think before I speak, that's something I've been working on for the past 26 years. 


 I'd like to say it's because I'm so run down from working everyday all day at two different jobs and putting on a smiling face and a good attitude that finally the bad behaviour had no choice but to come out but I don't have an excuse for the way I behave.


What I should have done was ask if they'd be offended if I exchanged it for a Blackberry at my uncle's Rogers store and boom! Christmas sans hissy fit. Instead I was a brat, went to my room, had a little cry because I felt like such a jerk and like many Christmases before my mom came to save the day and make me feel better for being such a brat while at the same time telling me to smarten up. 


The thing about my family is that we tend to sluff off the bad stuff. We don't hold grudges.  I spoke too soon. For whatever reason Big Bro and my little cousin had a bit of a falling out and they have yet to patch that up. 


It's like Carrie Fisher said "resentment is the poison you swallow hoping hoping the other person will die."

So did my Christmas wish come true? Yes. The new Blackberry is en route:



But what's even better than a totally awesome phone and not having to work is that I got a reminder of how lucky I am to be able to call these people my family.

Day eighty three: I hate to fly

Last night my mom called and demanded that I be at the airport two hours early for my domestic flight from Winnipeg to Vancouver. This means she wanted me to be at the Winnipeg James Armstrong Richardson International Airport at five a.m. to fly out at seven bells. 

Clearly I told her I’d be there at that time but in reality I tossed some dirty laundry in a duffle bag, snagged my laptop and called at cab to come get me at 5:30. The cab ride took longer than it did to check my bags  -- it took the Tim Hortons workers more time to toast my cheese bagel than it did for me to go through security.

Better safe than sorry I suppose.

I hate to fly. I know the miracle of flight is nothing to scoff at but I can’t stress enough how much I hate to fly. I go for the aisle seat because I like to be able to control when I can get up and go to the bathroom. I don’t want to climb over someone in the event I need to use the most uncomfortable washroom in existence. Especially when their tray is down, forget about it!

I dread having to sit beside a stranger. I never get to sit beside the hunky dreamboat I saw in the terminal, it’s always the least desirable person who smells like a dirty gym sock, or worse, a baby. I already get pseudo nauseous from the re-circulated airplane air as it is; I loathe the idea of breathing in vile body odour on top of it.

At Christmas time, a baby or two on board is bound to happen. These poor babies, who are incapable of understanding air pressure, probably think their heads are going to explode. I’m 26 years old and sometimes I think my head is going to explode on the airplane. I don’t pretend to know the science of flight.

So does it annoy me when I’m trying to take a snooze on my 7 am flight to the coast that some little tyke is wailing like a banshee – a baby banshee even? Yes, of course it bothers me. But I get it. It’s not their fault. It’s their parents’ fault for bringing them on a plane in the first place. There should be a 12 and over policy on airplanes. Not only is it more pleasant for the other passengers but it’s also a safety precaution. Babies and small children are notorious for bringing contraband on airplanes. If I can’t bring a bottle of water through security, why should they be able to bring a bottle?

Don’t even get me started on Westjet’s new pay-per-view movie policy. $7 for an in-flight movie?! Are you kidding me Westjet? Talk about ridiculous. 

The thought of Christmas with the fam is the only thing that kept me going.