This week’s InfoNews column is up and it’s about perspective. And doubt. And looking at the glass half full. And it’s also about dessert. You can read it HERE if that sounds like a recipe for a good time.
This week’s InfoNews column is live and it’s all about fad diseases and why the real problem is that we refuse to attend church where they won’t allow you to bring your own Starbucks in. JK. It’s not about that at all, I just mention it once or twice. It’s about why we’re creating excuses for our unhealthy lifestyles. You can read it HERE.
The last time I ate cotton candy ice cream I was 18 and crying over it.
Actually, I was crying over my boyfriend breaking up with me, which he just so happened to do over a bowl of cotton candy ice cream, but I just naturally associate the two.
Thing is, before he broke up with me, cotton candy ice cream was my favorite thing in the world. The way it makes your poop blue for two days because of all the food coloring.
Just kidding, I liked it for the taste.
Anyway, after that whole debacle I kind of swore it off. The break up debacle, not the blue poop. Gross you guys.
I’ve been craving cotton candy ice cream since January, though, and as the most beautiful Indian summer (thanks global warming!) comes to an end, I thought I better woman up and shove my face full of it before the October rain makes me want cotton candy tea instead. Which I’m not sure is a thing, but it probably is.
As always, I made it a big deal. And by big deal I mean I made sure it was real ice cream and not gelato and that my boyfriend Steve would eat it with me so that I could consider it some kind of grand non-break-up feat and not like a re-enactment of the opening scene of Bridget Jones’ Diary.
“So, are we breaking up?” he asked me on the park bench over my cone of artificially colored and flavored frozen milk. He knew the story.
It was a good question. That would be smart. Complete the circle. Welcome cotton candy ice cream back into my life with a fresh new purpose. I could be in control of the dairy product’s fate once again.
The ice cream started to melt down my hand as I sat there contemplating half-heartedly his suggestion. I licked it up. It melted more. And before I could do anything besides Instagram it, the entire child-sized ice cream cone left my hands and landed face down on the pavement.
Now was my chance.
“No,” I said as I reached for the bowl he had in his hands, “nope, we’re not breaking up.”
As I spooned the ice cream into my mouth in a much less fashionable manner than I had been moments before I realized that sometimes we hold on to things longer than we need to, simply because we’re waiting until we’ll be able to appreciate the fact we have let them go.
I don’t know if cotton candy ice cream will ever be my absolute favorite again — I’m pretty partial to Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked — but I could certainly have a cone-full every now and then and bask in the glory of knowing I’ve let one more thing go.
Because let’s face it, if we’re going to make room to hold any grudges at all in our lives, it certainly shouldn’t be over something that makes your poop multi-coloured.
P.S. I want you to know I asked Steve if he minded being introduced to you all in a post where I talked about poop. He told me he trusted my creative judgement. So, a break up may still be pending.
“So,” she asked me over the clanking of ice in the shaker, “what do you do in real life?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Not that there’s anything wrong with being identified as a waitress, but I’m a shitty waitress on a good day and my maroon lipstick tells my patrons everything they need to know about how seriously I take my job. Oh, I like the small talk alright, but my ability to mix an old fashioned the same, twice in a row, is non-existent.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
Here in the dimly lit brick-enclosed space that smells of muddled oranges and spilled bourbon, I can be whatever I want. “Real life” is out there. In here is a three month overdue Telus bill and a used car with $11,000 of insurance on it’s back. In here is the blood in the veins of the hustle, and everyone knows there’s more to the story.
No one wakes up one morning and says “I’m going to be a waitress!”
Unless you’re me on Monday — I said those words because I needed some fast cash.
In here are ten fanny packs, six pouches of change and forty notepads from the dollar store, all waiting to have “medium rare, seat 1” written on them. There’s nothing glamorous about wiping tables and spilling mayonnaise on your Chuck Taylors — but at midnight on a Thursday, The Black Keys playing through speakers above your head, shoes sticking to the splattered patterns of Jim Beam on the laminate, $120 dollars in your pocket and $70 in the bank, you feel slightly superior.
Not because $190 is enough money to pay half of your overdue Telus bill, but because this is the one job you can have that people won’t use to define you.
“How about you?” I asked her as I handed her the whiskey sour to take to a table in the back.
“I’m in my last year of neuroscience,” she said.
We all have to start somewhere.
This week’s InfoNews column is up and it’s all about me in the kitchen. Some of it’s embarassing, some of it’s gross, and all of it is a testimony to who I am. If you want to know how to make Kraft Dinner without milk or margarine, you can read it HERE.
xo & yw
My newest InfoTel column is up and it’s not for vegetarians. You can read it HERE!