To everyone upset about The Vancouver Playhouse, The Ridge, Book Warehouse, and all of the other culture that is evaporating in Vancouver:

To everyone upset about The Vancouver Playhouse, The Ridge, Book Warehouse, and all of the other culture that is evaporating in Vancouver:

I agree that Vancouver has a long way to come in developing a system that supports cultural endeavours. It would be great if The City or The Government or other Institutions could sweep in and save everything. But what can we do about it? How can we work together to create a sustainable artistic community?

Recent history and research about cultural non-profits has suggested that previous models of aiming for continued growth and reliance on granting bodies (often at the expense of depth, meaning, and lasting intellectual relevance) may have created a bunch of giant Jenga towers on top of a rug that can be pulled out from under them at any time. More and more cultural non-profits are realizing that it is about creating and mining niche markets, not creating cultural monoliths.

In Vancouver (and elsewhere), these institutions are falling—often in part because of funding cuts. However, at least from where I’m standing, small but vibrant arts and cultural communities are abundant (I’m tempted to say “flourishing,” but, really, financially I don’t think they are flourishing. They’re facing the same challenges everyone else is).

But we can’t ignore the culture in Vancouver of not wanting to pay for things. All of the arts and culture in this city costs something—whether grants pay for it, or fundraising, or money directly out of the pockets of the people who work and/or volunteer for these projects.

Regardless of what’s happening with funding, we need to develop a culture where audiences are eager to pay for things. For subscriptions, for tickets, for memberships, for events. We have ended up with a culture of wanting to consume arts and culture but not always wanting to pay for it, but then we are upset when it all starts falling apart because there is not enough money to support it. How can we rally for The City or The Government to find the funds to sustain these projects when we’ve rarely opened our own wallets to do the same?

I encourage each of you to look at your own participation in these situations. You know that theatre you love? Buy a subscription to their season, encourage your friends to do it with you or even buy them their first ticket. Go to more individual shows if you can’t commit the time or funds to a subscription. That magazine you love to read? Subscribe to it. Buy a second subscription for your friend who would also love it. That art gallery you love to visit? Become a member. Find out when their next fundraiser is and be there. At their art auction buy a fantastic piece of art for a ridiculously low cost compared to what the work is and what it is worth. That book you’ve been meaning to buy, the one you can’t find on Amazon or at Chapters? Go to one of the independent shops that carry it and buy it. That music group you love to listen to/see perform? Buy a subscription to their season, buy their CD, go to their concerts, go to their fundraisers. Go to an independent record shop to buy their work on vinyl.

I know, you’re probably a creative too in this expensive city. You probably don’t have the money to spend on these things as a result. But what would it look like if you made room in your budget for arts and culture? If you really look, there are often things worth sacrificing (coffee out, food out, drinks out, cabs, etc.). And if I’m wrong, if you really can’t afford to do this, can you afford to volunteer some time? No? Well, then, are you able to support these organizations by simply helping to promote their efforts on your blog, your social media, via word of mouth?

It’s easy to demonize The City and Developers. And, I’m sure there is a very complex and logical reason for why doing so is not a bad idea. However, in the long run, what will create a more vibrant, sustainable arts and culture community? I imagine that even if we pull together our modest disposable incomes, volunteer power and word of mouth we still might not be able to create ongoing support for big organizations like The Playhouse. But if we each become ambassadors for the projects closest to our hearts, we can likely sustain a number of smaller organizations doing extremely meaningful and innovative things.

 

Photo by Bronte Taylor

Here I am!

I’m assuming you were wondering, because it’s been ages and ages and when did I get so old that I’m so busy all the time? But it’s good busy, productive busy. Happy busy, and work is good and writing is going and I applied to go back to school and I’m all over the Internets for various foodly things, and every so often when I have a moment of quiet, I think about that little restaurant idea I had going on two years ago, and it’s getting closer all the time – I have a little bit of catering work – and except for this weekend when Nick and I had a fight over a Justin Bieber song after karaoke and it was raining and we were both seething as we stomped to the bus stop and furious for some reason neither of us is particularly clear on, almost all thoughts are happy thoughts.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. I haven’t forgot about you, wherever you are. Where are you? And how are you? I hope you’re writing.

Today I flirted with a man with one leg and he flirted back

It was one of those situations you find yourself in where you’re walking in the opposite direction of someone and are about to pass them and neither of you know which side to take, so there’s an awkward dance before one of you plows through, forcing the other to whichever side is left open.

Except for his dance, he popped a wheelie using his wheelchair. And it was so incredibly hot (and so was he, which helped).

He looked up at me and we both smiled; after passing, both of us looked behind us and I managed to get a wink from him as he turned the corner, one leg of his jeans tucked under his butt. It made my day.

Actually, it was one of two things that made my day.

After I left hot amputee boy, I jumped on the skytrain and ran into a friend of a friend. She has a craniofacial disorder and can’t see out of one of her eyes. We chatted from uptown through to downtown. She bitched about her partner; I beamed about mine. We parted ways and I headed to another train bound for home, where I got a text from our mutual friend telling me that the woman had called her after she got off the train to tell her how incredibly nice I was, but more importantly to me, considering the day, how hot she thought I was.

I don’t brag. I’m writing about this because shit like this never happens to me. I got hit on by a boy with one leg and was admired by a girl with one working eye, and I feel so fucking sexy…

Actually, does that ever happen to anyone?

I’ll admit. Amputees are a bit of a turn-on for me. Legs only though. And oddly enough, boys only. Hot, buff, athletic boys only. It all started one hot summer day about eight years ago in August, where I was spending the day with my then girlfriend and caught a glimpse of this strikingly attractive man learning how to roll in a kayak. The instructor wasn’t sure how to deal with this man’s bionic leg, but said man was confident – wearing shorts showing the full gear (a plus!) – and had a fuck-it-I-can-do-what-everyone-else-can-do attitude that was such a turn on that I didn’t want to leave the lake.

I joke about it all the time: Just think of the positions you could do it in! But in real life, I like women with two legs (and preferably two working eyes).

I’m lucky to have just that, though with how hot I was feeling about myself and the fact that she is away, I didn’t really know what to do with myself when I got home and had the evening to myself. Well, I knew, but, you know…

I’m chiming in a little late on the sex topic posts. And I think that’s about all I’m going to say. That’s what one-legged kinks and cross-eyed fantasies are for now, aren’t they?

“Have you ever been mistaken for a man?” “No. Have you?”

This is who I want to be when I grow up.  I want to wear tight black pants, knee-high boots, a corset and carry around huge fucking guns.  And I want to wreck havoc on all the bad guys of the world.

I’m not exactly sure what it is about hot chicks and firearms that do it for me.  It’s not a sexual thing.  As much as I can appreciate Ms. Jovovich, and I most certainly do, as she both kicks major ass and designs the one and only lipstick I ever wear, I am more so resigned to the fact that if and when the Kinsey scale can be trusted, I’d probably rate somewhere between 0 and -67.  It’s more of a, “I wish I could actually do something tangible to help the world and by Jove, exploding the shit out of the living dead (and those who’ve introduced them upon the world) is pretty much the closest thing you can get to achieving that aim.”  Plus, I really, really do like tight black pants and knee-high boots.  While I may bemoan the fact that my body is in fact ¾ legs to ¼ torso, I do know what looks good on these proportions.

Moreover, with closer examination, I think my attraction to the Resident Evil franchise, may have a deeper meaning that just OHMYGODGREATFASHION!

While the introduction of Alice in the first film may be dripping with gratuitous sexuality (she is found lying nude in a shower), the film quickly begins to explore the thematic conceits of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass (watch for reoccurring references to Chess, as well as the overarching idea of madness, and the fact that the Umbrella corporation’s computer is named the “Red Queen.”)

Through her rebirth (by both literally and metaphorically falling down the rabbit hole) Alice learns not only that she is stronger and smarter than both her male counterparts, but also her male adversaries.  The film’s depiction of patriarchal attitudes (embodied by Umbrella’s fierce dedication to the perfection of the T-virus and its never-ending number of faceless, male captains of industry) is unflatteringly relentless.  It is a perfect representation of engrained social patriarchies and the supreme difficultly a lone female has in subverting this status quo.  Alice is a violent, active agent in the fight against this historical institution, this machine.

Yesterday I went to see Resident Evil: Apocalypse with my husband.  I turned to him mid film and asked, “Why do these idiots keep trying to perfect this virus if humanity is all but gone?”  I didn’t understand why it would be so important to control something that no longer existed.

And then I realized that like the T-virus, certain socially proscribed narratives are consciously propagated and sustained every day, whether we think about them or not.  More to the point, they continue to subsist even when we think they have been defeated (or at least convince ourselves that they have.)  Dallas police chiefs, under the strain of skyrocketing rape cases, encourage women to stay together and watch their drinks, instead of just telling men to fuck off and stop raping.  (P.S. Is that message really so hard to endorse?  Parents, reach out to your children!  Tell your boys JUST SAY NO TO RAPE.)  I, unlike Alice, do not consistently fight against engrained sexism, and yet I rail against it whenever I am confronted with ugly and sometimes violent misogyny.

I may not be able to walk around with gigantic shotguns filled with quarters, but I can remember, can believe that I can make a difference as long, as I do remember.  Resident Evil reminds me of this.



After the fire.

Driving, post-sunset, with a wet wind whipping my hair into tangles and snares.  Your fingers resting on the nape of my neck, slow circular motions that leave gooseflesh, not fingerprints.  My dress, hiked above my knees, my heels digging into the carpeted floor, foot on the accelerator.  I am literally shifting gears while we are metaphorically doing the same.

We will arrive home, my shoes clacking against the cobbled pavement, hand in hand, stopping to kiss, only once, and closed mouth, but hard.  The door opens, so we kiss again, and our mouths follow suit, though much softer now.  My gooseflesh returns.

I have been fucking the same man for seven years.  Sometimes I wonder if I am, in fact, any good at this game we silly and simple humans have fashioned for not only ourselves, but one another.  How well do I kiss?  How thoroughly and fantastically do I stimulate?  Can I turn others on?  Do I turn others on? 

Do I turn you on?

Before I die I would like an annotated, yet succinct list of every person who has ever fantasized about me in bed with them.  On many levels I understand that this is but one manifestation of my over-rampant and highly destructive vanity.  But I honestly can’t help being curious.  I have spent so much of my life with the same man (a loving, beautiful, exquisite man) I fall into extended periods of time where I forget that I even exist as a woman to the entirety of the world’s opposite-sex population. 

But on the occasion that I remember, it hits me hard.

And during these times I fuck my husband with an almost maniacal ferocity.  As if I believe I could exorcize my lust-stained demons the more I bite and scratch, and banish all manner of my narcissistic character through missing strands of hair and my aggrieved and red swollen lips.  I want to be ravaged as much I want to ravage.  Lay waste to our bodies, my sexuality and his.  And I imagine every single male I’ve ever found attractive sitting in the room watching me, in my savage, erotic fury.  I want them to digest, but never comprehend, what they are missing, what they could have experienced, in another age, on another planet, had I not met, loved and viciously fucked, a loving, beautiful, exquisite man.

I strip the sex off of me, out of me.  So that I will forget, for some period of time, what I think I may be truly afraid to acknowledge, afraid to know.

Sexy Times

Lately, my thesis work has got me thinking about sex. Oh, who am I kidding? I have always thought about sex. I should say: lately, my thesis work has provided a conduit for my preoccupation with sex.

The working title is Wicked Little Girls. It’s a sort of subverted dystopian feminist critique of the medical/psychiatric field’s co-optation of, and profiteering off, female sexual abuse narratives. Evolutionary biology and psychology, in the hands of the patriarch, have distorted these narratives, repackaged them, and sold them back to a generation of women in a box marked Survivor’s Guide to Recovery. Caution: Will Take A Lifetime to Complete.

Throughout my research and writing, I’ve been imagining an alternate universe. One where a woman (now comprehending, emotionally, the violations against her as a child) turns to an ‘expert’ and says: my father raped me. In this alternate universe, the expert does not begin listing, ad nauseam, the boatload of symptoms accompanying childhood sexual abuse, like PTSD, low self-esteem, dissociation, sexual deviance, suicidal ideation, substance abuse, anxiety, depression, etc. In this alternate universe, the expert does not go on to exploit implore the woman (‘patient/layman’) to recover more memories, darker memories, the most disgusting acts she’s surely repressed for the sake of her own survival.

Instead, in this alternate universe she says: WHAT THE FUCK? ARE YOU SERIOUS? SOMEONE CALL THE COPS, THERE’S A PERVERT ON THE LOOSE. In this alternate universe, instead of focussing on what is wrong with the woman, we turn with indignation to the perpetrator and ask what the hell is wrong with him.

“I believe child sexual abuse and violence against women are an integral structural part of patriarchal society and culture. They are how we–especially, but not only, women–are socialized to accept powerlessness. If this were any other issue with such a devastating effect, we’d have a massive mobilization of resources, we’d have comprehensive programmes, we’d have a blank cheque to enable us to do the work that needs to be done. If any other sort of plague or virus than the one called child abuse ravaged the children and left them crippled or destroyed, we’d find the resources to stop it.” — Elly Danica

Lately, I have been thinking about sex. Oh, who am I kidding? I have always thought about sex. I should say: lately, sex has been thinking about me. Sex wants to get to know me. It keeps asking me questions and stripping off its own layers to reveal more. It whispers words like ‘feminist’ and ‘patriarch’ and says: Hey, don’t run! You’ve always said you’re up for trying new positions!

A poem for all my girls (and you know I fucking hate poetry but I’ve been listening to way too much Patti Smith so I figured, what the hell, I’ll give it a shot.)

Each one of us is silent
and brilliant

as light on the water.

only the modern click clacking of keys
makes elegies
on computer screens

of times right now
of times gone by

of the pain in our hearts
and planes in the sky

the things that make us laugh
and the things that make us cry

a screen is a blank and empty place
(like distance)
a screen is a canvas
for wisdom unborn

for wisdom that ferments like wine
then open and drunk
sweet to our lips
when we casually dine

with the spouses we doubt
or the jobs we despise

or the friends we hide
or harbour inside

or all the blank pages
we can never seem to fill…

just remember

that we are a legend

we wrote together

we have our own song
to sing each alone
in the attics of our minds

but each voice echoes
twists around corners
navigates, negotiates

and together makes chorus

resonating
reverberating
reuniting
online.

Lying/Dying in a Field

Oh great, I think, the first time in thirty years that I’ve actually been alone – like *really* alone – and I’ve got a crow hovering around me. How symbolic.

I’m away on a cliché escape to a cabin in the woods, finding myself, because apparently I’ve been missing. Now why do we think we have to go somewhere brand new – somewhere where we don’t recognize a thing, where we can’t even locate a flashlight to help us to the toilet – to find our selves? I don’t know, but I promised myself I’d try.

Or maybe it’s not so much missing as it is knowing. I have a body that comes everywhere I go, but I’m learning that I know very little about it… and though I’m in it, living every second, I’m missing every second. I’m not present. I’m not here. I’m not now.

I live in my head, and I love with my heart, and that combination has proven to be fallible of late.

So I’m away, trying to find peace, and all I can fucking hear in my head is caw, caw, caw…

I know enough about Native literature to know that crows are not only shapeshifters, but also commonly thought to circle above scenes of death. I look up at the crow hovering in the tree above me and say out loud, (in my best Monty Python voice) “I’m not dead yet.” But he doesn’t leave me alone. I try not to think about foreshadowing.

Crows are also known to symbolize a guardian, and a sort of guide from darkness into light, so I feel as though I kind of have to let him hang around. Lord knows I can use all the help I can get to find some sort of clarity these next few days.

So I’m outside with my journal, hashing it out with my conscience and an acorn hits me square in the crown of my head. Bastard hit me on purpose. I look down and my writing to find some sort of significance – did I get hit on the head with an acorn to drill in a point? Like the exact moment when Einstein discovered gravity? “My parents just moved,” is all it says on the page. No symbolism there.

So Joe the Crow, as I call him, caw, caw, caws all afternoon. I go inside the cabin and cook a dinner I can’t even taste, and when I come out, he’s still there. So I decide to walk the grounds of this place, and Joe the Crow follows me. Just as I’m walking up a hill, he starts to dive-bomb me.

There is nobody on this “resort” – a few empty cabins next to a river. The only other person I’ve seen was when I pulled in with the car: a little girl of about five who stood beside the car as I pushed a button for the convertible roof to cover up. As it moved by itself, she watched in awe, “Wwaaaaahhww”.

She had a little dog. There are more dogs. Big huskies, and a few mutts. I think there is an accountant in the office, but on the phone, before I came, I told them to leave the key out and charge my credit card. I’m not here to make friends.

I walk up a small hill and try to hover underneath a tree, and Joe the Crow basically tries to kill me. I rock back and forth with both hands over my head, trying to shut out the piercing caws, which just amplify the other harsh sounds in my mind. You should have been honest. How are you going to forgive yourself? How the fuck do you think you can go on from here?

And then I see her. She’s breathing, but barely, and very slowly. She makes no attempt to move away from me. Most likely because she can’t, but I appreciate her motionlessness. She’s stuck. Like me.

Joe the Crow nails me on the head again with a twig from the tree that is covering me and his friend. Maybe his daughter, or her daughter, or son… Can you tell a crow’s gender? I don’t know.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” I say to Joe the Crow out loud, “I’m going to stay with her. I’m going to sit here with her until she dies.” I turn my attention to this little black, helpless thing, move closer so that we’re a mere foot apart (to the disgust of Joe the Crow), and I talk with her. I don’t know if it was out loud or not, but some part of me has to believe that she can understand me.

I will be with you when you die. I will show Joe the Crow that I won’t hurt you. I will shoo the flies away from you.

She doesn’t seem scared, but I am. She has a passiveness about her – a sense of calm, maybe – the kind I imagine you get before you die. Hopefully. But she doesn’t die. I sit with her for an hour and a half, and she just breathes and tries to move but can’t and Joe the Crow is going crazy and this little thing is my responsibility now, so what do I do? Nothing.

Actually, no. Not nothing. I take pictures. I fucking take pictures of a dying crow, because I think she’s the only thing that can feel as bad as I feel right now. Well, me and one other person, but this is one trip I’m taking alone, and I can’t let my focus break away from the purpose of this trip: to work on my self. Not the you-fucked-everything-up self, but the self that can actually learn and grow. It’s here somewhere.

Night falls and I get scared, so I leave Joe the Crow and his fallen friend. I actually pray. To whom, I don’t know. Please let the dogs eat her tonight.

I spend the next day secluded in the 200 square foot cabin, the faint caw caw caws not so faint. It’s not until seven at night, when I reluctantly go out for air, Joe the Crow is right there again. She must be dead, I think. But she isn’t. She’s about twelve feet away from where she was over twelve hours ago. The dogs didn’t get her. Now she just has more flies climbing on her. She blinks to shoo them off. That’s the only thing she can do.

I tell a boy who walks down the path to ask if someone can help. He looks at me with a that’s-just-a-common-crow look, says yes and then runs down to the river with his fishing rod. I don’t know why, but I don’t do anything. I don’t try to find anyone else. I don’t call wildlife rescue (it’s a crow… do they take in crows?). I don’t do anything except sit there, with Joe the Crow above and the little crow beside me, and I cry. She’s in pain and she can’t do anything about it. The symbolism finally fits.

I’m lying motionless on the grass, broken, fading, with nowhere to go. I want to give up. The only difference is, I don’t feel anyone above, a guardian, watching down on me.

Stanley Park is part of MY past, too

Today a Facebook friend posted an article, “Stanley Park is part of our past, too,” published today in the Vancouver Sun and written by someone who somehow didn’t have the nerve to include a byline (or an obvious one, if it’s there somewhere).

This article really struck me. And yes, I’m oversensitive and generally avoid newspapers because of this quality, but this made me equally sad and angry and made me want to say “Fuck you” to the writer. Fuck you for being such an ignorant, insensitive asshole. Fuck you for not having the courage to put your name on this. Fuck you for speaking for me. Fuck you for making me not only look bad, but feel badly about something that I don’t even agree with. (And fuck you for eliciting a childish stream of fuck yous from me, which I am openly sharing with the world under my real name.)

I’m not an expert on aboriginal issues or an activist or even that knowledgeable about the Coast Salish who originally lived off of our land. But I recognize that this lack of knowledge is something that I should not only be aware of but should also be ashamed of. I also recognize that differences between western concepts of “knowledge” and “learning” and aboriginal concepts of “knowledge” and “learning” present barriers for me — a non-aboriginal — to know and learn more about Coast Salish culture and history. Depending on who you talk to, it may or may not be my business (and I respect whichever opinion).

Not only have I lived my whole life in Vancouver, my ancestors at least as far back as my mother’s great grandfather also have, and on this side of the family I am 12th generation Canadian. This means that I, in particular, have something at stake in the argument being made in this article.

My grandma has told me stories about going on dates with my grandfather to Stanley Park. When I go there I imagine them there, young and in love and looking out at the same ocean that I am also mesmerized by. Stanley Park is also a part of my history.

However, this does not mean that I have a right to completely disregard the attack on aboriginal culture that was probably instigated by my very own ancestors. It doesn’t mean that I have a right to dictate what constitutes acknowledging the past. It doesn’t mean that I get to say what is or isn’t a true representation of aboriginal culture in Stanley Park (I haven’t looked into this, but the questions I would ask would be: (1) Was the aboriginal community involved in putting in the aboriginal components of the park? (2) Do they feel it represents them? (3) Do they think it is enough? (4) Do they feel acknowledged?). And, yes, I was just theying, which is a danger in itself and part of the problem and complexity of the issue.

Maybe the writer’s point was that it is time to shift to a we mentality. However, this is what he or she says:

Canada’s history has many narratives. The first nations say their story dates back 10,000 years. Europeans arrived here just 500 years ago. Neither narrative is more valid than the other.

So is the argument: Neither is more valid than the other so let’s just completely disregard the first nations’ story because Europeans are here now? Let’s claim their language is impossible to pronounce and therefore clearly not marketable!

Yes, we need to shift to a we mentality. However, this is extremely complex and requires a lot more respect and acknowledgment and participation from the aboriginal community. The entire argument is actually a rally for completely disregarding aboriginal culture (by simply posting up a plaque to “solve the problem that first nations were here first”), under the guise that this is creating a unified culture.

We don’t yet know what a unified, we culture looks like. The closest we’ve come is the current, still very white-patriarchal version of multi-culturalism. Admit that this is complex. That there is no easy solution. That — heck — this might even be too idealistic.

But please, don’t be so blind as to think (and so stupid as to say — in a PUBLIC, WIDELY DISTRIBUTED NEWSPAPER) that by supporting the status quo you are somehow supporting cultural inclusivity.

This newspaper article is not only a joke, but it is also only one perspective. My blog post is also only my perspective. Please consider that each individual — whether they identify as aboriginal or Canadian or whatever — has a completely different perspective, experience, and belief system and don’t let any of these stories speak for an entire group of people. This may be the first step in moving from they to we.

>>
PS To the ladies of Hello. I miss you., sorry for turning “Wordless Wednesday” into “RANT Wednesday.”

All the people who bought our things

It is fun to pack up and go to Asia, but it is not fun selling everything you own on Craigslist.  Over the last month, we’ve had a parade of people come through our home to inspect our belongings and see how low we’ll go on the price.

Brendan’s lovely parents left us nice things when they left Vancouver, and people on Craigslist hate nice things.  They want cheap things or funny things.

Here’s where our stuff went, in chronological order:

1. The rain lamp.

I bought the lamp for $40 at an antique shop. It featured a naked gold lady standing in a bed of plastic ferns, clutching a sheet. Surrounding her were strings, and when you plugged it in, she was bathed in an eerie green light, and mineral oil ran down the strings making it look like she was caught in the rain.

I posted it for $50 and a lady from New West called up and said “Ohhh please, is it still available? I haven’t bought something just for myself in 10 years, and I just know I have to have this”.  She cares for injured or otherwise unadoptable animals that overflow from the shelter, and currently has 30 damaged dogs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs that can’t find homes elsewhere.  Not for money.  Can’t just stop, she says, because the animals just keep coming.  She’d like to move back into Vancouver, but you just can’t do that with 30 animals. When she picked up the lamp, it made her happier than I could have imagined.

2. The love seat

Sold to a Surrey couple who took 40 minutes to decide.  Get out, couch or no.

3. The couch

Sold to the people who are moving in for slightly too much money.  We broke a wall trying to get it in here.  They’re gonna be so sorry.  Nice people– sorry!

4. The crappy barbeque

We got the barbeque from a friend’s dad for free, and it looks like it came from space, and doesn’t actually cook food.  I sold it “as-is”, needing a new heating element.  A silver-skull-shirt chach came to look, for his mom. Thought about it for like half an hour. Said he wanted to go to Canadian Tire to check for the part, then would call back to let us know.  Never came back, never called.  So heartbroken.

A young guy hosting his first barbeque for his friends bought it. I don’t think he knows what a normal BBQ looks like, because he didn’t even comment on the fact that the strange silver box body has an extra area for a fireplace.

5. The floral cabinet

I loved this cabinet– it had this silvery floral pattern on the front of an otherwise black wooden body.  Lena came to look at the dresser, first.  Then she saw the cabinet.  Ooh, she likes that cabinet!  Looks at the dresser.  “Mmm, not bad, but slightly the wrong colour.  I will take the cabinet. Although, you have a statuette of Ganesha there beside the dresser, so maybe that’s a sign.  No. Cabinet. No. Dresser. No. Cabinet.” She gave us a $30 deposit, through no request of our own, and left. The next day “Hi Jen, I decided that I really don’t need a cabinet, I need a dresser. Can I have the dresser?” Yes, Lena. The next day, while I’m at work, two missed calls and a panicked message “Oohhh Jen, I realized that the dresser is too big.  Oh, no, please call me as soon as you can”. I start to call back, but have to hang up because of a work call.  Another panicked message “Please call me, Jen, as soon as possible!!!”.  Call back, “Oh sorry, are you at work?” Yes. (No response to this) “Blah blah, 20 minutes of something about the dresser not fitting due to heating pipe positioning in her bedroom, blah, I’ll have to take the cabinet, how much is it?” 225, I think. “Oh, well, I saw it posted for $200.”  I guess Brendan must have posted it for less, 200 is fine. “Well, I just want to know what’s going on here, first it’s $225, then $200 and I saw another ad for $220.  I just want to know what’s going on.” Lena, if you saw it for $200, that’s fine.  She sounded like we’d betrayed her, somehow. She finally comes and gets it, can’t get it in her car, but leaves it sticking out of her trunk.  She tells us to call her when we get back from travels, we can visit the cabinet. 10 minutes later– “Jen, I didn’t get very far, can you come down the block and help me lift it into my friend’s van?” It weighs like 40 pounds. No. I bet they can manage, she just missed me.

Dear Lena, we do not have a personal relationship.

6. The dresser

Taken by a lovely expecting couple, did not haggle the price.  Thank you, lovely expecting couple.

7. My desk

Lady came to look at the table, decided it didn’t work for her, but liked the desk.  Assured her it was solid wood, not particle board.  Charged her more than I had it posted for.  As we were loading it into her car, we all realized that it IS particle board (who knew!).  She didn’t ask for any money back, but we rented a truck to drive it to her place at no extra charge.  Oops. She just split with her husband and moved into her own place with her teenage son.  We had a lovely conversation about her son’s band.

8. The bookshelf

I posted it for $15 because I needed it OUT. A woman calls to confirm, because it’s so darn cheap.  But then, when they arrive, her jerk boyfriend asks her four times, “Are you sure this is what you want? Yes, Yes, Yes, and then, she turns to me and says “I guess we won’t take it”. He looks surprised, and says “Oh, really?” So, they take it, but he tries to haggle me to $10 because it’s heavy.  Yep, it is. And, nope, still $15.  When he lifted his end, an old paint palette fell on his head.  I liked that.

9. The table and chairs

Older lady, just came back from working 15 years in the Caribbean.  She really liked the table, wanted to buy it.  She called later to let us know that she found it for less, new, at the Brick.  God damned Brick! We lowered our price, significantly, due to the Brick’s stupid sale on the identical table.

10. The $20 bed

A middle-aged couple decided to take it, and while the husband dissembled every part of the frame (for no apparent reason, it would fit in their truck fine), his wife told me all about her mother who has Alzheimers and the general sadness it’s causing for everyone.  She was very matter-of-fact about it. The bed will be for her mother when she stays there.

11. The Ikea kettle

I signed her up for Zipcar earlier that day.  Weird!  She was happy I could help her with her kettle and vehicle needs.

12. The people who bought the motorcycle helmet, stand mixer, plant, bedside table, crock pot

Thank you for being prompt and painless.

13. The low bookshelf/cabinet

There’s a guy in front of me looking at it right now, currently talking with his girlfriend on his cell to decide.  He’s been on the phone pacing around my living room already for 12 minutes. OK, he’s off the phone and is not taking it.  Thank you for coming into my house, talking on your cell for a while and then leaving– it was fun for me too.

14. The $1000 bed.

Can not sell.  Oh Lord, we’re moving tomorrow.