freaks and leaks

This past week, my best friend, who was recently promoted at work(a round of applause for her, please) and I undertook the challenging task of finding an apartment for her. We first went for lunch at a local healthy food/vegan lifestyle type place. We never go to these sorts of restaurants, frankly, if it's a choice between an anti-cheese-anti-wheat-anti-fat food byproduct and plywood, I would rather eat the plywood. With rusted nails sticking out of it. But on this day, it seemed somehow fitting, a fresh start, a fresh culinary experience. We left half-full of sweet potato fries and optimism.
"We're going to find a place today, I can feel it!" I said
"Yes! Today is the day! I'm pumped!" This isn't exactly what she said, but sort of.
"Let's never get a tofu wrap again!" I said
"Yes! They are not filling and have very little flavour!" she said.

We promised ourselves chocolate chip cookies for later.

It's one of those well kept secrets that seasoned apartment hunters share amongst only their closest friends that the only real way to find a place in this over-priced city is to walk around your desired neighbourhood, find 'for rent' signs and call them. So we started walking. The first street we walked down was in one of those areas where homes look like crumbling gingerbread houses painted candy colours, sprinklers ch-ch-ch-ing, elderly people sitting on their front porches, performing a seemingly unnecessary neighbourhood surveillance. A gentle breeze blew through the trees as birds chirped.

"Look, there's a sign!" I said. I pointed at it. 'Flat for rent. Furnished.'
"Ugh. Furnished. Why?" she said. I think she was picturing doilies and portraits of the Virgin Mary.

We went up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened after a minute, and an old man appeared, smelling like mothballs.

"What are you selling?" He said, squinting at us.
"Hahahaha," we said, "we're here about the apartment for rent. "
"Oh. There's just one problem. You're girls."
We looked at each other. Was this guy for real? Really?
"What do you mean?" we asked
"I don't rent to girls. I've had nothing but trouble with them. We still have one living here we have to get rid of."
Um. Okay.
"Alright, well, good luck with that" I said, trying to sound snotty. As we walked away, my friend tossed one more salty remark his way. He then called us assholes and told us to go to hell. And I do believe, from the depths of his woman-hating soul, he meant it. Somewhere in the back of the house, I have little doubt his wife was washing his underwear by hand and wishing she had married someone else.

Now, previous to this, my friend had been looking at an online rental site, which gave pictures and descriptions of the places advertised. It was here that she discovered the true meaning of false advertising and white lying. The world of renting isn't like the real world. Here, cozy means claustrophobic. Bachelor means cooking next to your toilet. Quiet tenant means celibate hermit. Several places advertised large basement apartments, and then casually mentioned 6 foot ceilings. Apparently, there is an entire rental marketplace for hobbits and wood nymphs.

Then we met Roger.

"He's wearing a barrette," my friend said, as he approached the front door. Sure enough, his hair was pulled back into a ponytail by a barrette, like the kind we wore in the late eighties.
"I'm obsessed with quiet." he said."And no smoking. Don't say you're a non-smoker and then smoke. One cigarette a day counts as a smoker." He had penetrating eyes and a bitter grin, and I believed he was fully capable of obsessing. He radiated creepy.
"The water pressure isn't so good. We'll have to work out a schedule, or we'll call each other when we want to take showers to make sure no one is using the water simultaneously." Shudder. I immediately imagined Roger racing up to his peephole as soon as my friend called him to announce her bathtime. We didn't even bother with the polite banter you offer when you know you hate an apartment, like "This is a nice bathroom," or "Does the kitchen come with that spice rack?" We just said goodbye and left.

One of the last places we saw had advertised as a bright basement with five windows. But when we got there, one of the windows was actually a brick that had been removed from the wall and replaced with a clear tile. Sunlight shot through that clear tile like water through a burst dam, and I realized with sadness that this corner of the apartment, with it's desperate light and water-damaged walls was actually someone's sleeping quarters. That's one of the things about apartment hunting. You see just how poorly some people choose to, or are forced to live.

As we ate the giant chocolate chip cookies we'd treated ourselves to, we marvelled at how money seperated an allegedly classless society such as ours into distinct groups of have's and have-not's. Money changes a lot of people, damages their sense of fair play, heightens their standard of living while lowering someone elses, enables them to manipulate people with the basic human need for shelter. Things like windows and reasonable ceilings should be a given, because honestly, a hotplate and a prayer simply aren't enough for most of us. In the end, my friend found a lovely, cheerful place, (with a lovely, decent landlady) that she may or may not take, but that is definately worthy of her. And along the road of misogonysts and potential perverts, we met helpful, warm individuals who offered parental-like concern and infused a difficult day with much needed humour and humanity.That's the thing about this city. There's always a little magic to be found.

Just ask the hobbits.

At the corner of front and center

If Shakespeare will allow me to paraphrase him, I sometimes feel like we're all actors in an almost first-rate movie. No, let me revise that, we're actors in some drama academy, like in Fame or something. I've been forced into the class, and they keep making me do things they say are 'normal', and will help me master my art, like pretending I'm a strip of frying bacon. And all I want to be is the make-up artist. Or work at the craft table.

Is this analogy working? What I mean is that sometimes, I feel so terribly visible. I feel like I have an audience, whether it be people driving by in cars, or bored shop owners looking at me from their windows, or black-clad Portuguese nonas watching me as I walk past. It's something I've never been entirely at ease with. I know, this sounds egocentric, but I don't mean it to. I just never really realized, till this late in the game, that other people are interested in what I'm doing. In how I look. In what I have to say.

As a kid, I clearly remember(because you do not make these things up) auditioning with a friend for the school talent show, doing a lip-sync of Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller'. We were pretending to be zombies, and I didn't have a costume, so I borrowed my sister's puffy ski jacket, grey with pink clouds on it. Oh, there were countless dance routines, politely endured by my bemused parents, or occasional flirtations with singing and acting in school productions. I don't recall too much about feeling silly or so shy I couldn't do what was expected of me. And then it stopped. I'm sure there was some pivotal moment, but I don't remember it. That level of un-self-consciousness, one of the most sublime facets of childhood, died in me, and was replaced with intense self-awareness.

I couldn't speak in front of more than one person at a time. I couldn't order pizza over the phone. I was scared of men. I failed oral presentations at school becauseI couldn't stand in front of the class. My fear was accompanied by a host of symptoms-clammy hands, fiery guts, shortness of breath, and of course, my trademark blush, the betrayal of all calm and coolness. I felt like an alien, even if other people talked about nerves and jitters, I knew my experience was different. It's the worst paradox I've faced, fearing an audience so much that your body trembles out every spasm of nervous energy, making your fear so transparent. And being fearful of your response to fear.

Do we blame hormones?
Overly-critical peers, who teach us, just a little, about breaking hearts and making social gaffes?
How about the media? Aren't they somehow behind every unhinged, deranged impulse and disorder society suffers from?

It took a long time to make even small steps in overcoming my disorder. I still do battle with it, because even with years of therapy, I don't know how I got to be like this. I don't know why I think people are judging me, unfavourably or otherwise. I don't know why some people are shy and anxious, like me, and others are energized by the same stimuli. It doesn't seem fair.
I just want to be normal.

There are scads of things I feel socially anxious doing. For example:

Eating sushi in public. And pasta. And veggie burgers. Actually, I think this anxiety is more aptly titled "Eating in public". When I was little, and my parents would force me to eat meat, which I hated, I would chew it for hours and store it away in my cheeks. Gentle mocking ensued. This habit, I bashfully admit, has followed me into adulthood. I take a mouthful of food, and a few minutes later, that odd chipmunking behaviour occurs. I'm trying to tell myself it's cute. But I'm wary...

Purchasing necessities at Shopper's Drug Mart. There are a lot of items that fall into this category. For instance;
Tampons. I go out of my way to act like I don't care. I would walk around with the box on my head and a sandwich board saying "Menstrual and proud" if I thought it would offer credibility but inside, I'm thinking no one needs to know this about me, no matter how 'natural'.
Condoms. I feel like the person behind the counter is thinking,even for one split second 'hmm, this person is having sex'. And a judgement is being made, however slight. Because I used to work at Shopper's, and I can clearly remember thinking things like that about people buying condoms, more specifically 'That person is having sex, and I'm not. Go figure.' Again, another tidbit of highly personal information that a private person like myself feels a bit strange sharing with the general public.
Digestive Aids. I don't mean Pepto. Everyone buys Pepto. I mean things like Metamucil, you know, for when you can't go. Or Immodium, for when you can't stop. When you have to buy these things, when you're in a bad way, other people's empathy, while lovely and well-meaning, can seem a bit invasive.

Going to see live music alone. This one kills me, because music means everything to me. I love a good live show, but more often than not, I have trouble finding people to come with me. I've been to a show by myself, and it wasn't so bad, only I had actually lost the person I was supposed to meet there, so I knew the whole time she was there somewhere, which doesn't really count as going alone. In theory, it makes perfect sense to go alone, because once the music starts, you don't really talk much(unless you are those manner-challenged Torontonians who go to shows only to be seen and gossip loudly infront of me from your lofty five feet and eleven inches-why are you always so tall? why are you at every show?) But in between sets, what do you do with yourself? Do you read? It's so dark! Do you stand by the bar and drink your beer? Do you just stand there, wondering what to do with your hands once the beer is done? I'd love to be one of those loners you see standing against a wall, unaffected by their solitude. Or one of those crazy-haired older dudes, who rock out to a completely different tempo than the one being played, completely oblivious to the rest of the crowd, just feeling the music. Those guys, I respect.

There's more. But I really feel like if I go into more detail, you will stop reading my blogs. You will think 'Man, this girl has issues', and you will dismiss me, but you shouldn't be so dismissive because I'm just quirky. (That's what I call my social anxiety now. Quirky. Idiosyncratic.) Look, I know no one is thinking this much about what I do with my everyday life. I am not the center of anyone else's universe.

I keep trying to tell you other actors that I'm not a piece of frying bacon either, that I'm not like you, but you know what? I am. Like everyone else, I graduated from childhood, and now I'm in charge, directing, producing and starring in my own movie. I do my own make-up. There are plenty of outtakes and bloopers. A couple of gratuitous love scenes. And it's low budget at the best of times.

But the soundtrack is awesome.