Squirrel Lady

A little story from the world of customer relations:

While working Front of House at the theatre a few weeks ago for a Sunday (this factors in) matinee, a lady came in wearing baby blue wellingtons, a fisherman's cap, and a warm sweater (it was 23 degrees). She was also carrying a wine box. Fine. Weirder things have happened in that neighbourhood. A week or so later I would see a man passed out in his own urine with his penis hanging out lying on the sidewalk. He would get help. Apparently this lady was also in need of some help, as she would explain to my colleague in the box office and myself. She bore a striking resemblance to both a homeless lady who had come into the theatre another time to "look around" and to a regular customer at the organic grocery store who suffered from dementia and once attempted to return lettuce because it was wet (actually), so I was a little skeptical from the get-go.

The patron came up to the box office and asked if there were any tickets still available for the afternoon's performance. My colleague said there were a few, and the patron seemed a little put out. She looked at her box, then outside, then at us. "Oh," she said, "I'd really like to see the show, but, you see, I'm going to require a little special attention." (Red flag).

"OK..." replied my colleague, "what king of special attention?"

The patron launched into a three-minute story about how she walked to the theatre that day and how she usually walked down Huron Street, but today she thought it was so beautiful that she would walk down a different street and she wanted to be early for the show but she only had one emergency transit token and couldn't afford to use it to go and come back (?)... etc. etc. until we got to the point where she mentioned she had come across an orphaned baby squirrel and some helpful passers-by had helped her get it into the box she carried.

The box shifted for dramatic effect.

She would only buy a ticket if we could assure her that nothing bad would happen to her little squirrel. My colleague and I exchanged looks and then told her we could absolutely not keep the animal in the theatre. She protested that we "had to help her" because she couldn't take the squirrel the the Humane Society because they would put it down and there was another organization out in Oakville that might take it but she couldn't get there and so had stood outside a procession of churchgoers leaving Sunday mass, asking each of them if they could drive the squirrel somewhere safe.

Her next request was for a phone book, to look up if there were any Fransiscan monastaries nearby. Her reasoning was that they couldn't possibly turn her away because St. Francis loved animals.

"I'm not crazy, right?" Let me get back to you on that one.

Distraught we couldn't look after her squirrel, the patron left for a few minutes and came back without the box. She bought a ticket, assuring everyone around her that the squirrel should be fine. She then asked me to confirm that the animal would be safe "there." When asked where "there" was, she simply looked at me blankly and went into the theatre.

As the show went on (and I sought proof that we hadn't drifted into the arena of the unwell), one of the venue technicians came up to me and asked if I had a box.

"What kind of box?"

"Oh, you know," she said, "about yay big... big enough to hold a baby squirrel."

Oh heavens. She had been smoking in front of the theatre and a small, injured squirrel had limped up to her, supposedly begging for help with its eyes.

"No, I don't have a box, sorry."

"That's okay, I'll just wrap it up in a hoodie."

My thought was that the poor critter had been unsatisfied with the wine box and was looking for a new savior (Fransiscan or not).

It turns out that squirrel number one was still safe in his box, and by the end of the show there were two squirrels in two boxes around the theatre...

So it remained as I ended my shift. That's what happens when squirrels choose to have babies in a dog park next to a theatre.

Trying Again - and the License to Make Mistakes

Blowing off the dust of a long-neglected blog is how many of my posts start. Ever since I wrote a 20-page story about a hamster out for blood in fourth grade, I've fancied the idea of being a writer. Not necessarily a world-famous writer or a successful writer or even a published writer, but simply someone who has ideas and puts them on paper. And so I carried around little notebooks and sketchpads and golf pencils everywhere I went, intermittently for the better part of my public school years. It helped that this also encapsulated my cargo pants phase, so there was always a pocket for items to help commit whatever inspiration struck me to paper. Needless to say, these efforts ended with little more than a few scribbles which were swiftly recycled in a fit of self-loathing. The problem, I began to think, was paper. While the idea of keeping a journal or diary seems romantic, my penmanship is so miserable and my patience with it so short that writing more than a few quick sentences was (and still is) difficult, even when trying to keep a travel journal for my time in New Zealand.

Thus, I turned to blogs, of which this is my fourth. Like the others, this one was started with the best of intentions, then squirrelled away out of fear and embarrassment.

A friend of mine gave me some creative advice a few years ago that temporarily spurred me on to greater creative output: make a bet with someone that you can write/draw/paint/dance every day. Nothing huge, $5, $20, but that little added incentive can be just the boost you need to keep going. "I'm tired and self-sabotaging today. Instead of writing, I'll watch Netflix. But wait, that will cost me $20! Might as well drag my fingers to the keyboard or pull out a pen and jot something down, anything." Though this worked for a little while, I ultimately became dissatisfied with the quality of my output (1 sentence per day about nothing in particular), and quit unceremoniously.

I've done some further reflecting on the problem and a recent revelation has made me decide to give it another shot. That revelation: the license to fuck up. I was reading a book of essays by David Sedaris while waiting for a flight and got to an unusually long section about his life as a smoker and his successful attempt at quitting. The second part of this chronicle was broken down into daily journal entries from the time he and his partner moved to Tokyo for three months in the hopes that a change of scenery would help facilitate kicking the cigarettes. The impression is given in other essays within the same book that Sedaris writes in his journal on a daily basis, and I was a touch confused when the Tokyo chapter of his smoking saga contained only sparse entries. Sporadic though they were, each was polished and humorous and insightful and ready for publication. Even so, not all of the entries pertained directly to smoking. This may seem obvious to many other people, but it was illuminating to me: not every word David Sedaris has ever written has been a polished, finished product ready to hit the pages of a best-selling book. Some of them are utter shite. Non-nonsensical half-thoughts that never see the light of day. Works in progress that need a little fine-tuning before being offered up to an editor or publisher.

This simple thought snowballed with an expectation of myself that I have been attempting to break for many years (and still am): not everything has to be perfect the first time. That's how people get better, but trying something, failing miserably, and trying to do a little better next time. Occasionally the planets align and a first attempt meets with much acclaim and adoration, but there's a reason this phenomenon is called "beginner's luck." To be consistently successful, one must practice. And even then, you'll put your free kick above the crossbar in front of millions of viewers or cut yourself making a sandwich in the privacy of your galley kitchen. That's the way people work.

For an embarrassingly long time, I've had a nagging belief that being from a healthy, well-educated and generally charmed background meant that there was some innate skill behind what I could do successfully and that a string of failures meant that I was simply not meant for the task at hand and should concentrate my energies elsewhere. So many missed opportunities and wasted hours, living in fear that an attempt at something new would result in humiliating failure and immediate hatred of the task at hand. If only I had been wise enough to embrace those fears as normal, and admit to the need to practice something new to attain any sort of aptitude.

That's the philosophy I'm pursuing going forward with my writing. I'm making no pretensions that every entry will be long, well-considered, well-written, or even kept at a professional distance. I make no promises to mask the identities of the people involved in some of my stories, though I won't go out of my way to give up the secrets of everyone I've met. I simply don't foresee having the energy to make convincing pseudonyms that I can keep straight later.

I'm also allowing myself to be personal. A lot of this will be about me and my journey. Some attempts may be made at fiction or character sketches or even full stories, but for the most part observation, however childish and silly, is the name of the game. I'm putting it into a blog as I'd like some security that I won't lose what I'm deciding to dedicate a significant amount of time to, and because the public nature of it (including my one follower, thanks Andrew) can serve as a motivator to be truthful and come out with the details.

In my past blogging life I have tried to form an identity or an edge to what I am writing by either going beyond the everyday and trying to share too much information or be shocking or different, or by going in the opposite direction and filling the internet with more of the literary equivalent of tapioca pudding.

Most of what I write I hope to put into words coherent enough to be read and entertaining enough to be pursued, following the example of Mr. Sedaris, but I make no claim that it will be anything brilliant or groundbreaking, but I'll try my darndest to make it honest, even if only for my own sake.

Home is Where the Heart Is

And I'm lucky to have so many. :)

Never Underestimate

Enough cannot be said of the value of good times with great friends.

Timeframe

It's amazing how a lack of structured routine makes one completely lose track of day and time. But that can be nice when on holidays. Focusing on goals and desires, or at least extra sleep.

Happy Satonursday, everybody!

Patriotism

I live in a great nation.

A place that has abundant natural beauty. A first-world nation with democracy, public health care, and an international reputation as a peaceful and helpful place.

I have the freedom to do and be and buy what I want. I can practice my own cultural and spiritual customs while still feeling a part of a greater whole.

There is running water, quality food, technology, and financial opportunity for all.

People can express themselves in a wide variety of mediums with a freedom I would not trade for anything.

We have great people who have made the world a better place through invention, innovation, research, art, and practical example.

And many people here never feel more patriotic than when watching a hockey game.

Perhaps that's precisely because they have so much more to cheer for than the players on the ice.

Lazy Sunday

Large amounts of food. Friends, games, odd oriental confections, and family. Can't complain.
Massive amounts of media via Netflix. Books. Comfy, comfy bed.
Search for answers, the future, a destiny?

Maybe a respite first.