Sunday Dog Bliss

Oh, the irony...

Two years ago I was living with my ex-boyfriend who was so into work that it drove me crazy. I had made the decision to leave my corporate-world job, because work had been taking over my own life. When I worked there, I would come home from a long day at the office, still thinking about projects and timelines and deliverables. Powerpoint was my best friend - I would spend evenings slaving away at presentations, answering "urgent" emails. I'd take work phone calls during personal time. I was stressed out all the time. I could not make that mystical work-life balance concept work for me. I felt great about leaving for something completely different, but I was frustrated beyond belief that my partner seemed to live for all those things that I'd left behind.

School was a whole different kind of work - two years of learning things I was definitely not hard wired for. Memorizing anatomy, forcing myself to grasp physiology and clinical pathology. And trying out a slew of new practical skills. The frustration that comes with learning something and not instantly being good at it was certainly trying. Observe. Read. Try. Fail. Tweak my technique. Try again. Better, but still, mostly fail. Tweak more. Try again. It takes time and it takes determination, and it takes a thick skin. While in school, I was insanely busy.

And now, lo and behold, I'm still insanely busy. All I seem to be doing is working. How did this happen? How's that for irony? Between veterinary nursing and dog training, I have a whole new life... which is mostly about work. The difference is, I love it. I feel like I'm making a difference. I'm helping people and I'm helping pets. I'm learning how to relate to a lot of different people and animals, and how to react to a lot of different scenarios. And when I leave work, there's no taking stuff home with me.

Plus, I'm through all the hard stuff, and I'm in the best part of the work phase - I'm getting good at things! I teach my own agility class at doggie school. Somehow after a day in the clinic, commuting to job #2 and then assisting in two beginner dog classes, it's nine o'clock at night, and I can control a whole group of owners and dogs as they conquer agility obstacles together. I get my energy up, I give direction confidently, I motivate clients. People ask me for help. I look forward to it. At the clinic too, my skills are improving. I keep up with the hectic pace. I prep surgeries, I monitor anesthetics, I place IV catheters, I collect blood samples, I x-ray, I clean teeth, I educate clients, I passed a course in therapeutic laser techniques. I'm being exposed to more, and all in all, my confidence just keeps rising. It's a great feeling.

Choosing a career that pays crap, means I need to work hard. I didn't envision working two jobs, but right now, from a financial perspective, it's a must. (Memo to those that think they can comfortably live solo in Toronto with pets on a Vet Tech salary: you cannot!) But for me, it's okay, because I get so much out of both my jobs. What's hard is slotting in social engagements, and friends, and family, and fun. (And uh, blogging.) Meeting so many new people at work who are into the same things sure helps fulfill the social side. I am dating. My friend social circle is changing a little, I'm losing people to motherhood and marriage and domestic bliss, but I'm meeting people new people all the time and getting to know them. I'm in demand, and there's almost not enough of me to go around.

It's going to be go-go-go for the next little while, but as long as I keep learning, I'm good with that. I have some entrepreneurial ideas, and I won't be working this many hours forever. I feel things falling into place. A good place.

I am not a workaholic.

Online Dating So Far: Meh.

After a couple months in the online dating scene, here's a shortlist of what most men on online are looking for, from what I can surmise.

No baggage: I object to this. If you've been in a relationship before, you have baggage. If you've ever said goodbye to a relationship, or someone's ever said goodbye to a relationship with you, you have baggage. If you've had ups and downs in your life, you have baggage. And sorry, but that's all of us. Our past experiences shape who we are today. What we go through keeps us learning, and ultimately makes us stronger. We all have baggage.

Takes care of herself: This is murky. It could mean, eats well, stays relatively in shape, is not an alcoholic or a drug addict, lives in a clean environment, does these things independently. Or it could mean, always looks immaculate, maintains fresh manicures, never wears anything wrinkled, gets her hair done twice a month, does yoga, and thai-boxing, and is a gym junkie, and always presents her best side. To what standard are they speaking? Ambiguous.

Self-confidence: I'm the first to admit I'm not always sure of myself. I know that I'm smart, I'm kind, I'm funny, and that I have a lot to offer. But sometimes - gasp - I doubt myself. I don't live in a world of crippling fear and self-doubt or anything, but if I didn't doubt myself at times, I think I'd be an ego-maniac. Which I am not. I would describe myself as definitely self-confident in some capacities and definitely lacking in self confidence in others. Which I thought made me balanced, but which I guess makes me an unsuitable companion for the majority of men out there. Damn it - why do I have to be so honest with myself?

Adventurous: Men on online dating sites all seem to be into extreme sports - or so they say. They go rock climbing, they kayak through rapids, they skydive, they fly planes. Do they want women who will do these things with them? Are they lying because they think it will make them more attractive? Because really, that many people are into extreme sports? Or are extreme sport people just more likely to be single? These men's profiles typically feature carefully selected and carefully posed photos of them on their motorcycles, which of course, highlights just how adventurous they are.

So, Internet? I guess I'm doomed. I've got baggage. I doubt myself about certain things. While I'm not, for example, a junkie, I have never owned a gym membership in my life, I keep my fingernails short and naked for work, I spend most of my life in jeans, and for fun, I pick watching live music over jumping out of airplanes. And this is why I delete 90% of the correspondence I get from men on online dating sites. Meh.

Food, Inc : You should really watch this.

Know what you're eating. Know where it comes from. Know what it costs, and not just to you at the supermarket - to the farmers, to the animals, to the planet, and to your health and well-being. Watch this movie, now, and then tell someone else to. (Please?)

Money, and why I would like to have more of it.

Things I would spend money on if I were rich, in no particular order:

Get a stem cell transplant for Siroons. Siris has really bad arthritis. When she was about six, I found out she had really bad elbows – she had surgery on one, which slowed the development of the inevitable osteoarthritis and degenerative joint disease, but at nearly twelve, she’s pretty sore. As a result, she’s on an NSAID daily for life, and even with taking these, and taking glucosamine supplements, she is still lame on her front right leg. She’ll have days where her elbows are hugely swollen and where she needs to be carried down stairs. She moans and groans when she lies down and gets up. And it breaks my heart. She’s still active, she still wants to run around like a lunatic, but sometimes her body won’t let her, and her leg gives out on her. On these days, she trips mid run. She has trouble getting in and out of cars. If I could afford it, I would try anything so she could be pain-free and fully mobile again, and the idea of a stem-cell transplant appeals to the veterinary nerd in me.

Go on more volunt-ouring trips. I would go back to Uganda to visit everyone I met there. I wanna hang out Central and South America, maybe helping in schools. I would love, love, love to volunteer on a behavioural research project and work with gorillas or chimpanzees. Oh, the adventures I could have. How much I could see and learn and immerse myself in, if I didn't have bills to pay.

Pay my parents back my school debt. Because owing my parents money sucks, and I don’t like the strings-attached feeling of it, even (especially?) when I don’t know what the strings are.

Ramp up the investing. Yeah, cause I’m sensible like that. I would hire one of those mysterious financial planners I hear so much about , and do all the things I’m supposed to have done by now. Like make sure I have a decent investment portfolio, that would set me up for retirement and make sure I have any emergencies covered, and blah blah blah. I would see that I’m contributing more than a measly $50 a month to an RRSP. And then I’d relish watching my savings grow, and feel secure in my financial future.

Buy a house in downtown Toronto with a basement apartment and an upper level one too, and a nice backyard. My little brother could live in one of the apartments and I could rent out the other one, which would hopefully cover my property taxes and homeowner expenses. I would have little patio parties in the yard, I would grill veggie kebabs and roast corn on the BBQ. I would have a sweet little garden.

Rent a downtown space and open a business. I would set up an all in one doggie daycare, training centre, pet supply store, and grooming salon. I’d do training classes at night, and have a store in the front/day care in the back during the days. I’d hire a bunch of dog nerds, equally giddy about obscure dog breeds and new dog training tools and philosophies. We’d be the best place to work and the best place to bring your pooch. A portion of our proceeds would be donated to worthy animal shelters and rescues, and we would always have a resident foster dog. It would be magical.

Own a car. Nothing fancy, but wheels to get me from A to B. No more slumming it on public transit. It would make my grocery shopping easier, I could lug around pet related items like giant bags of dog food and kitty litter, agility equipment, etc. I could take off for a weekend if I felt like it, and just drive to wherever, because I felt like it.

Get laser hair removal. What? Okay, yeah, it’s a bit superficial, but I would treat myself. I hate shaving. (Waxing? Is also annoying.) If I never had to do either again, and I could have silky smooth skin that lasts forever with no effort, well, that would be fabulous.

Treat myself to whole new wardrobe. Again, this is a superficial one. But I’d love to buy whatever clothes I wanted to, whenever, regardless of price. Yay, fashion!

Employ a life coach. But not an annoying new-agey one, and there seem to be a lot of those. Just someone who I could bounce shit off and who would tell me if I was being an idiot, and who would pump me up when I need it, and help me put things in perspective. What about my friends, you say? They’re great, but they rarely call me out when I’m being an idiot. And while I was at it I would also hire a personal trainer, and a nutritionist.

Support people who are doing good things. I’d give a ton of cash to people and organizations who are doing great things. Invisible Children. Toronto Cat Rescue. Bullies in Need. Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. Doctors Without Borders. African Child in Need. Plus, probably a ton more. Then, I’d start up a not-for-profit organization myself. And I would buy all my art from local artists and all my food locally grown, no matter what the cost.

Of course, this is a very partial list, but a good example for now. It's a bit random and all over the place - yes, I know that some items on this list would be achievable with me making (just) double or triple my salary, while others would require me to actually win the lottery, but you get the idea.

Money shouldn’t mean much, but damn if it can’t be a colossal barrier sometimes. Sigh.

What would *you* do if you had a crapload of cash?

That Day in Amsterdam

A couple of years ago now, on my way home from Kampala, I had the most wonderful day. The kind of day where time stands still, where nothing matters, where everything is sunshine and warmth and goodness.

It was an eight hour layover in Amsterdam. After spending two weeks exploring Uganda, after having my mind blown by the generosity of people and my heart broken by poverty and desperation, after seeing the effects of AIDS, of war, after two weeks of living in a strange hostel, of getting to know co-workers, of learning the Ugandan culture, and realizing, really realizing just how lucky I am, I was on my way back home, but not quite there yet.

Our big group of fourteen dispersed at the end of our time in Uganda. Some of my trip mates (the rich ones!) flew to Tanzania for a safari. Some flew back to their homes in Montreal, in Chicago, in New York. A couple went on to Kenya to do some more volun-touring. And so, it was just Eric and Jenn and I and eight hours in glorious Amsterdam. Eric and Jenn, who I barely knew before this trip, but who had experienced so much with me over the previous two weeks. Who were now my friends. We were jet-lagged and culture shocked. None of us had had much alone time in fourteen days. We were coming off a surreal adventure. We were only a day away from our homes, our beds, our friends, our families - but we were still thousands of miles away.

We landed in the early hours of the morning. In the airport, we exchanged money for Euros. We boarded the first train to downtown where we watched the sunrise on a 24 hour café patio. We ordered the greasiest breakfast ever – a welcome treat after subsiding on basically rice, beans and plantains for the last several meals. It was a Saturday morning, and the narrow cobbled streets were littered with flyers, cigarette butts, evidence of night’s debauchery. It being 7 am, they were empty. We watched the street cleaning crews sucking everything up, making everything pretty for when the people wake up and want to go for a stroll. I remembered from my last visit, how clean and green the city was, and now I know it is all thanks to the early morning city workers, who work quickly, quietly, diligently to clear the streets of all that grossness.

Nothing was open yet. We walked around by the canals, and watched the city slowly wake up. Everything was so peaceful. Amsterdam belonged to us.

The first coffee shop that we found that was open was calling to us. We’d all been to this city before but we’d forgotten how it works – ordering up marijuana from a menu, we didn’t know what we wanted, we just knew we wanted a joint.

“You order.”

“No, YOU order.”

“No, YOU.”

Finally someone did, I don’t remember who. With our tiny green stash in hand, we walked across the city. Destination: Vondelpark, which I now know to be one of the prettiest, happiest places in the world.

It was maybe 10 am by the time we picked out a spot, by the water, under a large tree. Our feet hurt from all the walking. We plunked ourselves down. We’d stocked up on snacks. We fired up our first Amsterdam joint. We didn’t have to be back at the airport till four.

The three of us basked in the park. We made friends with dogs who were out on their morning walks, and we chatted with their people. (How old? What breed? So cute!) We thought about our own dogs at home and how much they’d love it here. We watched the dynamics of little dogs playing with bigger dogs, shy dogs meeting boisterous dogs. We smiled and nodded at joggers. We waved at bicycle riders. We spied on couples having picnics. We ate candy, in the morning. Tourists asked us for directions – which way out of the park? We had no idea.

We retrieved fly away Frisbees and returned them to their rightful owners. There were ducks in the water. We watched them paddle around, take off briefly, and then return. We laughed together, about so many things. Silly things, stupid things I don’t even remember, but what I do remember is feeling my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. We observed everything, even colonies of ants in the grass we were sitting in, and making up stories about each member, Eric adding on to Jenn’s contribution, me adding to Eric’s, the stories getting progressively more ridiculous as they went on.

Our senses heightened, we took in the sounds of the park, bird calls, water rippling, dogs barking, Dutch accents, bicycle spokes. We lied back in the grass with our eyes closed, feeling the sun on our faces. It was magical. We did this all day. A few times we convinced ourselves we should explore the park, and we got lost a few times, did a couple of circles without knowing it until landmarks looked familiar, realizing we’d past them before. We gave up our exploratory mission in favour of another sunny out of the way corner to talk, laugh, read, and take everything in. We tried not to think about how weird it would be to go home, to explain our last two weeks to our friends and families, how we would be back to work, back to normal routines. Because for now, we were here, happily stoned in Vondelpark, amongst the green grass and the sunshine, and loving every minute.

Nobody wanted the day to end. We contemplated changing our airline tickets and staying another day to do the same thing again the next, but in the end were too lazy to look into the costs, to wait in lines, to deal with customer service agents, to book hotels, to take all the steps needed to accomplish this. Still, we procrastinated on heading back to the airport, waiting til the last minute, getting lost once again on our way out of the park, after begrudgingly, we flagged down a cab and began the journey back to our real lives. The perfect end to a most amazing journey, and a day that I’ll never in my life forget...

Vondelpark will cast a spell on you -- go!

Smiliest Dog Ever.

I was just looking through some old photos and stumbled upon one of my favourite shots of Siris. It was taken enroute to a week long cottage vacation, and she was pretty happy to be on a car ride to somewhere fun. I love this photo!

The Coach Phenomenon

I’m talking about Coach handbags, people. It’s like I blinked and they’ve suddenly become the number one status symbol of women 17 to 60. This is kind of disturbing. It’s like I need to own a Coach handbag to be anyone. The average woman in this city seems to have one, if not more, and the more, the better from what I’m seeing. I can’t tell you how many crowded subway rides I’ve been on with some woman’s Coach purse jutting into me, or right in my face if I’m sitting down and they’re standing. Coach, Coach, Coach. And this is on the subway, slummin' it with the common people. Heh.

Now, it’s not that I don’t like a decent plain Coach handbag. Some of them, the more subtle ones, are quite lovely. Their pricetag ain’t so lovely, though. Who spends that much money on a handbag? And the ones I like are the plainish classy looking ones. The majority of them aren’t even that great – they just have those little Coach “C”s all over them so that everyone who sees you knows you have a Coach purse. So that… , so that…, ….so that what exactly? Who knows, I don’t get it. I don’t own any Coach handbags.

I remember the fads of elementary school and high school (Vuarnet, anyone? Cotton Ginny?) and I guess I thought these things – fashion and accessorizing etc – would make a lot less of a difference as I got older. And here I am in, in my thirties, feeling like I’m a freak for not owning a single Coach handbag, and not having this Tiffany jewelry piece – either in the bracelet OR necklance variety. (Which, really? Why beg your boyfriend to buy for you the exact same piece that thousands of other women got their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to buy them? Where is the special-ness in that?) Add to this not owning a single Lululemon hoodie or pair of yoga shorts. And not taking yoga to begin with.

The times they are a-changin’. And they have their new current crazes to get caught up on. Sigh. As always, I seem to be a little bit off the mark, and don't think I'll bother catching up.

Plus None

An old friend is getting married this summer, and I couldn't be happier for her. Like me, she's had a history of making bad relationship decisions. I've known this friend since we were kids, so we've been privy to each other's entire dating lives. I've met a number of her exes and watched her live and learn, tweaking what's she's looking for, adjusting her own attitude towards dating and relationships, about what's really important, and who might truly make her happy. And it worked for her!

She found her fiance online. They met a couple of years ago... they moved in, they got a dog, they took trips together... they're still so happy. They're saying "I Do" next month. The wedding is going to be pretty low-key - they're doing a tiny private ceremony at City Hall, and then hosting guests at their reception downtown - the standard dinner, drinks, DJ and dancing.

Now, this old friend is someone I've kept up with since grade six, albeit kind of in a vaccuum. It's not like there are a bunch of us from grade six that are still friends. It's sort of just her and I. We meet for drinks, or brunch, or to walk the dogs, just the two of us. We talk about our lives, share our stories, discuss current events, vent about our frustrations together. Or I go over to her condo and hang out with her and her man. We have our core values in common, but we've gone in different directions in life since those elementary school days for sure. She has a group full of girlfriends who kind of remind me of the ladies of Sex and the City. They wear heels, and lots of make up. They regularly visit the spa, they always have fresh manicures, they go out dancing or to fancy lounges, they drink martinis. Whereas, I'm pretty low maintenance, I avoid the club district like the plague, I like to drink beers with my friends in tiny dive bars where there is live music. I think banjos and mandolins are pretty cool. I like bluegrass and some old school country music. And the thing is, I think she likes my low keyness. She likes that we're different, that she can meet me with her hair in a pony tail and wearing the jeans she wore yesterday and not feel judged. I'm a break from everything, I think. And I'm happy to be that for her.

Today is the wedding shower, and in a couple of weeks, the bachelorette. I've met some of her friends over the years, but don't really know them. Showers and bachelorettes are always a little awkward - a bunch of women thrown together to celebrate the bride-to-be. I guess that's why all the silly games and traditions - to keep people engaged, interacting together, to keep it inclusive.

And here's hoping I find some people to bond with. Because my wedding invite arrived in the mail this week, and it looks like it's just me that will be attending this wedding reception shindig. No plus one.

Now, I know I don't have a boyfriend to speak of, but I had been counting on bringing one of my many male pals. At least to have someone to sit beside me, to bail me out of those times where the dance floor is packed and I'm sitting on the sidelines, downing a drink. Sigh. I know nothing about wedding etiquette, I'll admit, so maybe this is par for the course. But I won't know anyone at this wedding except for the bride and groom, the bride's family, and everyone I'll meet at the shower and bachelorette. Is this weird? Will I be stuck at some lame-ass singles table with the widow-aunts and uncles? Gulp.

I once went to a wedding with an ex-boyfriend where he was the Best Man. An old high school friend of his was getting hitched, so my ex sat next to him at the head table, while I was left to fend for myself all night at a table of random strangers. Awkward.

I'm thinking I should talk to my friend, the bride to be. Maybe this was an oversight? Maybe if I offer to pay for his plate, she'll let me bring a date? Maybe?

Slanted and Enchanted

Yesterday I went to see one of my most favourite bands from my indie-rock days, Pavement, on their reunion tour. Back in my university days, I worshipped these guys. I still own all the records, the imports, the EPs, right down to 7" singles. I hold with me memories of going to see them in small clubs in the 1990s, of following their side projects, of reviewing their releases in my crapola little 'zine that I would cut and paste and copy and snail mail out on request. Heh. I was a total indie rock dork, yes. And I probably still would be if I didn't have to put in so much effort into staying on top of new music. Things like life, and work, and paying the bills get in the way.

So, Pavement announced last year they were going to regroup and do this reunion tour. Which made me pretty damn ecstatic. A friend and I scooped up tickets and commenced the countdown, immediately. They were playing as part of a huge festival type thing, with a few bands that seemed promising and a lot of others who were pretty hipster-ey and next-big-thing or current-big-thing-that-I-have-no-idea-about. I was working anyways, so had to miss almost the whole day of music festivities. We arrived about five minutes prior to Pavement taking the stage, which was a-okay with me. Pavement was the important part.

Well, the sound was kind of crap, and the boys of Pavement were a little sloppy but Internet? I didn't care. I think I knew all the words to every single song they played. Even though I hadn't listened to them in years, everything came back. Every intro, every guitar solo, every chorus, every clever lyric they've ever written. And I wasn't the only one. I was surrounded by people who adored this band at the same time as I did, and with the same degree of passion.

What was strange though, was that this was fifteen years later. We were in our thirties. Every third woman seemed to be pregnant. There were kids running around, Pavement fans' children, who came along for the day. Everyone was sporting wedding rings. I ran into an old co-worker of mine who whipped out her IPhone and started showing me pictures of the baby girl she'd had six months ago. What was up with me, she asked, after blabbing on about her husband, her little girl, how fabulous maternity leave was. Well, I just graduated from college. I'm making $30,000/year less than I was the last time she saw me, and by choice. I'm working at an animal hospital and an obedience school. I'm not with my ex (who she knew also) anymore. Uhhh, yeah. She smiled and asked how Siris was doing. So I was happy, so things were good? she asked. Things are so good, I said, and smiled. After that it was a little awkward - I think she wanted to understand, but I don't think she did. It was clear that I had no babies to bond with her over. I had no flashy web-enabled mobile phone to whip out to show her. I was glad to run into her, and I ooohed and ahhed over her adorable little girl, and I meant all the nice stuff I said. But I couldn't help but feel a bit removed, and I have had this exchange many times over the last few years, running into people I've known over the last ten years of my life. It is always clear: I am on a different path than you. I don't fit in anymore. I am single and in my thirties and I am doing my own thing.

Pavement themselves, on stage, so many metres away and obscured by flashy lights and smoke machines, looked the same to me. I was way too far away to spot any grey hairs, any beer bellies. I like to think they hadn't aged. But we all had. And I felt a bit...old. Because also present at the show, were today's generation of music dorks - probably there to see the it bands of the day, but taking in and appreciating my beloved Pavement for the genius they were in their heyday. Skinny jeans abound. I'm not sure where I fit anymore, Internet, but I bet there are tons of us out there, feeling this. Let's meet up at a Superchunk show, when it happens.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Or not.

This is a post about distance, and by this I guess I mean the physical distance between a person and a destination.

I consider myself a commuting expert, after my two years going to school in a township one and a half hours away from where I live, not to mention working a job in another municipality. And sans wheels, I am a public transit champion. Toronto doesn't have the best public transit system, for sure, but you can get around from A to B, with a little effort.

During my school days, I moved north from downtown to the area known as "mid-town." It cut my commute to school from 2 hours one way to 1.5 hours one way and was purely a move of convenience. I am right on the subway line and can get downtown usually in less than half an hour. The plan is to move back downtown once I get past my three months probation at the new job. But for now - living here is isolating as hell.

Home is where I sleep, walk the dog, and store my crap. For everything else, I'm required to travel. My baseball team plays in a park that's an hour commute. My clinic is about a thirty minute commute; obedience school is forty five. For the next four weeks, I'll be teaching the dog part of Fetching, a bootcamp exercise program for dogs and owners which Ola's launching with a personal trainer friend - that's in the Beaches, an hour commute. Between two jobs, baseball and this temporary fill in gig at Fetching, I'm booked Monday to Thursdays, morning to night.

And on the weekends I've got to, yes, head downtown again, if I want to see anyone. Which, I love downtown. I do. But sometimes...sometimes it's not about where you're going, it's about the person or people that will be there. The backdrop can change, but you're still having meaningful conversation over a pint. You're still catching up, you're still laughing with each other, right? Right?

Well, lately I find myself pitching an idea - meet for drinks here, go see this band here - and am met with "that's too far", or "all the way out there?", and then inevitably, "nah. I think I'll pass." Like, if the destination is not within walking or biking distance, or in the person's neighborhood, they're not interested. Am I being too sensitive that this offends me? I read into this "I just don't like spending time with you enough to sacrifice a short subway ride, or a longer walk." When for me the distance is double or triple what they'd be travelling.

So in short, the politics of distance have been getting me down. I don't always want to have to cater to everyone else. I have limited time available, to begin with. Why is everyone so fucking spoiled? I'm not even asking people to come down to my lame hood (although sometimes, admittedly, it would be nice to not have to go downtown for everything). From Queen and Bathurst to Queen and Roncy is not that far though. Or from the Annex to High Park. It's like people have developed zones - little unspoken radii - that they will not venture out of. If I want to hang with them, it needs to be on their turf. My radius is the whole damn city.

I've recently decided, fuck that. I'm too busy for that. I'm going to be more insistent, or I'm going to start making plans with people who will make the journey to where I want to be. Because I don't think I'm wrong. The physical destination should not be the point.

Also, I really need a car.

Holy crap, I'm employed!

I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE FRIGGIN JOB!

They called me yesterday and I saw the number pop up on my cell phone and was too nervous to answer. I waited till it stopped ringing and watched the little envelope appear - message waiting. Gulp. Then, I nervously dialed my voicemail, my stomach doing flip-flops the whole time.

"Hi Andria? It's E. at Blah Blah Blah Animal Hospital calling. I was hoping I'd catch you, because I'm calling to offer you the job..."

She said some more stuff after that, but I didn't hear anything else - because I was actually cheering out loud. Then I did a little victory dance in my apartment, and took Siris out for a little walk around the block to get my wits about me. And then I calmly phoned them back to, in my most professional and calm phone voice, accept their offer.

I started my new job today! The wheels are in motion. My new life awaits- so excited!

I did it! School's out!

I hung in there. I studied my ass off. I put myself so far out of my comfort zone I almost forgot where my comfort zone was to begin with. I lived the commuting-three-hours-a-day nightmare. I learned A LOT. I made friends with a bunch of twenty year olds. I even got straight As across the board in my last semester. And of course, I nearly ran myself ragged, burning the candle at both ends for two years straight - trying to work two part time jobs, excel at school, still have some semblance of a social life, not to mention give my own pets the time of day. But I did it! I'm a Veterinary Technician! Finally!

Anyone who knows me, knows I'm not the braggy type, but I'm so fucking proud of myself, that I'm going to make an exception here. Yay me!

(Obviously, I've neglected the old blog. Boourns. Sorry about that. But did I mention I'm a Veterinary Technician?)

So right now I'm in full-on job search mode. I went to my first working interview this week, which was more than a little terrifying. A chat where I met the hiring manager and had to sell myself to the extreme. A tour of the clinic. Walking from room to room, trying to win over the various staff members I was introduced to one after the other. Being asked to demonstrate skills on various animals as I passed through. Take blood from this dog. Place an IV catheter in this one. With many eyes watching. No pressure. Not to mention some of these skills I've only had the opportunity to do a handful of times. Nope, not nerve racking at all. Heh. Well, I survived it, and I even think I did pretty well. It's a big hospital with a big team, and if I don't get the job, I won't be heartbroken, because just getting through that and not having a major anxiety attack or screwing up ridiculously is an accomplishment worth celebrating, for me. (But... if I do get it I think I might cheer out loud!)

Once I get full time work, I can finally quit my job at the other clinic, which I've been fantasizing about for a while now. I've still got the national Veterinary Technician registration exam to study for in July, so that I can get those lovely RVT initials after my name and the insurance, prestige, and $ that go along with it.

In a couple of months, I'm getting my own dog obedience classes to teach, finally, which I'm *so* excited about after years of being "just an assistant". I can think about moving back downtown once I'm more settled with work, and the prospect of a new apartment and a new neighbourhood make me super happy.

And, I'm going to join a baseball team! And I have time to see my friends again. And maybe start dating, even. I have my life back, and I'm so excited about what's next.

A little school nostalgia for you. Here's me (note the sexy coveralls!) with a cuddly little lamb born at the Seneca barn this spring:


Here's Moondrop and her new foal Cali - who is 3 days old in this picture!


And here's a short video of the Seneca flock... who are eager to eat some yummy grain which we were shaking around in bowls to entice them to run.

I'm actually missing the barn already. Weird.

On Being Watched...

The clinic that I work at is a small clinic. It's quiet a lot of the time, and we get these weird walk in, emergency type clients that we see once because their regular vet is closed and then never see again. We have a small group of eccentric regulars. But if it's quiet and there are no in-patients for me to tend to, I do busy work, like cleaning and restocking, making surgery packs, and hanging out with the boarding animals. A lot of the time the doctor will run off to do some errands and it will just be me in the clinic, listening to Q107.

And the doctor has cameras. Set up all over the clinic. Technically he's 24 hours so he SHOULD have a camera set up in the treatment area where there might be sick dogs and cats to watch. But he has taken it a step further. He's camera-fied the entire clinic so that he can spy on his employees. I'll let out a dog to run around in the clinic and get some exercise and then leash it up if it's harrassing the clinic cat. One day when I did that my cell phone instantly rang. It was the doctor. Telling me not to leash the dog up, to let him run free, all of two seconds after I'd leashed the dog up. He was watching me. Creepy.

...And I bet he does it a lot too. It's probably like Facebook to him. Let me just go and check in with what's happening at the clinic! I bet he compulsively checks it - just to see if anyone's doing anyone interesting, if anyone's ripping him off, if anyone's doing anything that they should be fired for. To maintain absolute control.

There is a no cell phone policy in the clinic ("This rule will be enforced!" reads a passive aggressive note in the staff area), so I have to send out my text messages from the washroom, where there's no camera.

So, knowing I'm being watched, I manipulate it. I show my best worker bee to the cameras - look how conscientous I am! Always so busy! Always finding ways to make us look better and be more efficient! Plus, I show the lens my goofy side, me playing with the boarding dogs, or cuddling with Princess, the one eyed, totally obese cat who lives there. Alone in an empty vet clinic, I dance around to classic rock, and sing along, while I'm sweeping and mopping. The doctor has never asked me about it, but I know he knows.

No, that still sucks. Cameras at work suck. A lot.

Senor Snuggles

My cat Senor Snuggles has this hilarious personality. He loooves him some attention, but it's gotta be on his terms. Or he might get a little frisky with his claws. He wants the love, but he selects the time. I am at his beck and call.

We're giving him a dental cleaning at school in a week or so, so he's having to do some travelling. He hates travelling. We went to the vet this week so he could be brought up to date on vaccines. The vet that is a five minute walk from my doorstep. He manages to take his characteristic I'm-in-my-carrier-fuck-you shit in that five minutes. When we brought him out to the exam table, he actually peed on the table. Yeah. I was mortified. Poor Snuggles. He's coming to school with me on Wednesday for his work up - blood collection, x-rays, etc. I'm kind of terrified for him, and for me.

He acts like he doesn't care that he lives here, that he loves me and Siris. And then whenever I pull him out of that environment, he can't handle it. But he's gonna have some nice clean teeth as a result, and I'll save money on potential extractions and complications later. So it's for his own good. And he's always super sucky when I get him back home.

(photo is courtesy of my dogwalker, Kim.)

It's official: I suck at New Years resolutions.

Four entries per month - ha! So instead, I managed one, and barely. Somehow I thought this might happen. Better luck in February. Don’t people usually start out strong and then peter out? Not this girl! Why start out strong, even? Heh.

In my defense, I tried. I did write a long and boring entry about girl-drama in the Vet Tech program at Seneca. It was an intricate tale involving me being accused of being a microscope thief because I sat at a different lab station on the first day of fourth semester than I had all third semester, in one of my classes. (Yes, really! What nerve, I know!) It detailed the aftermath of this grave offense. But I ended up deleting this post because a) in retrospect, it just wasn’t very interesting and b) the earthquake in Haiti happened shortly after the post went up – which made it seem all the more stupid and irrelevant. When bad things happen in the world, I have a hard time writing about myself. And I have a hard time when bad things happen in the world, period. My heart feels heavy and I am glued to news programs about it, and my eyes well up when looking at photos in the Metro on public transit, and I feel helpless and insignificant when I imagine devastation on such a grand scale as what happened there. Poor Haiti. I still can’t stop thinking about it.

In my little life, things are marching forward. I started my once a week co-op at a downtown animal hospital, which is one less day a week that I have to trek out to King City. I’m on placement once a week until the end of April, and it’s a busy four-veterinarian practice so I’m learning lots. At school, it’s the semester-of-truth, where everything we’ve learned so far all comes together and we’re actually in real surgeries. It’s exciting, and interesting, and intimidating as hell. Last week, I was the Anesthetist for a cat neuter surgery. I placed my first catheter, hooked up the anesthetic circuit, delivered the IV fluids, and did all the monitoring. All this while commanding my hands not to shake and remembering to breathe. At some point in the next few months, I’m going to get to actually do the neuter surgery (aka the cutting off of the cat’s balls) myself! The day before my anesthetist debut, another group at school lost a cat on the table during their scheduled surgery due to embolism. The stakes are high. It’s scary stuff. This is what I signed up for though. I know what I’m doing, I’m just not confident yet. And that comes with practice. Animals know when you’re not confident though, so I’m gonna have to try to fake it til I make it, for now.

What else in January? I went on my first date in forever, and in a shocking-Andria-twist, it involved no alcohol. Of course, I have no business going on dates period, because I’m too damned busy to fit in a relationship of any kind, but this was before school started, so I did it anyway. Meh. He was intelligent at least, but our chemistry was better over e-mail and text messages. We lamely tried to get it together for a second date, but by then school had started, my schedule had become insane, and I don't think his ego could handle "my only window this week is here". I think we’re both glad. I am, anyway. Something was not right, no use trying to force it. And I’m going back to bar dates, or dinner and wine dates, for a little while -they’re more fun. If I can ever find anyone worth having a drink with. When you have all the time in the world, you don’t have to be so picky. When your life is as crazy as mine is, slotting in dates eats up time I could be spending with my friends. Who I already hardly ever see because I’m so busy with school and work. So I need to be picky, or so I tell myself. Otherwise, bad dates = wasted friend time.

Also in January – lots of friend counseling through love problems, and the head cold from hell! Oh, and Siris found love with a chubby young English Bulldog named Angus who just moved into our building! I have honestly never seen her so jazzed about another dog. She does her wiggly dance for him every time she sees him, and he thinks she’s pretty grand too.

Last, it’s looking like all the colleges in Ontario are going to go on strike sometime really soon. That’s 24 colleges in Ontario, including mine. Which is going to free up a lot more Andria-time (and cost me a lot more money, and probably extend my semester at least a month.) I’m trying not to think about it though, because I’ve got zero control over the outcome, and who knows, there’s still a chance a deal could be struck at the last moment.

But if my school’s on strike and I still don’t hit my four posts a month goal, then man, I really suck.