Money Money Money. Must be funny. (For Hugh.)

The following is an endorsement of Hugh Jackman's live show in Toronto (in the meagre hopes that someone wealthy will bestow a couple of tickets upon me.)


Money is a funny thing. Everyone's relationship with it is different. And in the greedy, corrupt, capitalist world we live in, it drives much of what goes on around the globe (watch Dealers in Death).

For a person who has never really made a lot of money, I think we've had a good, casual time of it so far. Like a chick flick on a rainy day. It's there when I need it and I've got low expectations, so I'm usually pretty satisfied.

• it paid for my undergrad (where I spent the last two years brainstorming for my book)
• it got me to europe for 3 weeks (to research for my book)
• it enabled me to quit my job and move to Toronto without one. For 3 glorious (stressful) months (to write my book.)
• it enabled me to quit my job again, less than a year later, so that I could revise my book for a month. (And take that math course, so whatever.)

I don't own a car. I'm nowhere close to making a down payment on a house. And given the fact that I'm paying for policy school come September, I won't be going on any lavish vacations or even ramping up my savings for the next two years.

But if I died tomorrow, I'd be 90 -100% satisfied with how my money's been spent so far.

Why am I thinking about all of this?

Because today concludes week one of pure joy. I get to write. I get to work on my book all day long, as if it was my real job, and it feels AWESOME. And I'm not making a red cent. (minus one day a week when I go into work to train my replacement. but I've pretty much already spent it on shoes and nectarines.)

Don't get me wrong - I enjoy working in the typical 9-5 set-up. It's social. There are rewards. There are challenges. There's much to be learned. And you can say things like "let's do lunch" or "up for grabbing a drink after work?" or, to gain immediate respect and sympathy from your peers, "oh, man, sorry, I've got a deadline this week so I'm workin' late preetttyyy much every night." 

But as much as I've enjoyed my jobs, I'm one of those people whose never been able to work in my 'calling' or my 'profession.' (Partly because I don't know what that is yet). So while there are comforts to paycheques, stability, and resume building, I couldn't ever shake the feeling that I was faking it. And I don't think I'm alone here.

This was never as apparent as when I, with my political science degree, suddenly found myself the graphic designer for a marketing department in one of the largest business schools in the world. (It's a long story.) 

Musician boyfriend happens to be a web/graphic designer by day. (I know, he's brilliant.) Musician boyfriend got a lot of texts and phone calls between 8:45 am (okay, 9:15) and 5 pm for my first 2 (okay 4) weeks.  Then he got a new job (bummer) and henceforth, became way too busy 'climbing the ladder' (pffft). So I cozied up to Google, instead.

To the right  is a screen shot of some files on my (former) desktop. I think it sums up my day-to-day work experience pretty well.

Yes, I enjoyed the challenge (eh, eh boss?) And the insight into musician boyfriend's day world (am still slowly and strategically clawing my way into MB's night...musically speaking). And the general task of 'making things pretty.' But at the heart of the matter, I have little to no interest in ever being a graphic designer. Or in marketing. Soo..

In day 5 of pure joy, I'm a (penniless) writer. And it's hands down the best thing I've ever bought for myself*. 

Although, tickets to Hugh Jackman at the Princess of Wales Theatre would be nice. (If I were in my mother's demographic and had $300 to blow on a totally different kind of pure joy. Did you know Hugh Jackman is an amazing Dad? Hugh, if you're reading this when you're still in town, let's do brunch. Or whatever works with your schedule. I'm flexible. And poor, but that shouldn't be a problem. Oh and if you need me to write a song for you I'm free for that too, Hugh. It's how I snagged musician boyfriend...but that's another story. Maybe you could turn it into a movie? You'd totally fit the role of MB. I could play me. If you want. Whatever.)


*Sidenote: just worked out how much this 'gift' to myself costs, and am having a great deal of trouble breathing.

Yoga Aficionadon't know what I've done.

Call it whatever you want. But I'll think you'll agree that this is not a blog post. It is a desperate cry for help.

Ask anyone. Particularly my ten followers and closest friends (and Mom). I'm a firm believer in and advocate of 'health and wellness'. I drink green tea everyday. I take probiotics and digestive enzymes. I keep my stress levels low and my time for relaxation...ample. I go for the occasional massage. There was a period (2.5 years) when I went to see my acupuncturist twice a week and began to refer to him as my surrogate Chinese father. Yes, health and wellness is something I pride myself on.


Ask anyone on the planet and they will tell you that yoga practice is part and parcel of health and wellness. So it seems only natural that this is a world I would explore, and have (somewhat) for the past few years.

1. From 2005-2006 I went to pilates religiously. Everyone knows that pliates is just like yoga, only harder.
2. In 2009 I paid my naturopath to develop a personalized yoga routine for me. We did it together once, she and I. It included chanting and song. I think my voice sounded okay. (She was a little pitchy.) 
3. I own a yoga mat.
4. Sometimes I roll out said yoga mat on my apartment floor, put on my yoga playlist (with songs like "Angels Flight" and "The Beauty Within") and breathe deeply for a while. Stretch out my hips. Wiggle my feet in the air. Relish in cat pose. Child's pose. Couple of downward dogs.  You know, just practicin' yoga no big deal.
5. I appreciate eastern philosophies.
6. I read Eat, Pray, Love and added 'sanskrit' to my vocabulary. (Not the language, just the word - 'sanskrit').

So it seemed only natural that I would seek out yoga class once I felt settled in my new city.

My yoga journey started through working on campus at U of T. Human Resources sent an e-mail around advertising 'lunch time' yoga. I signed up right away.

"Oh sorry, I can't make that meeting - I have lunch time yoga on Wednesdays, you know no big deal."

Our classes were taught by an amazing woman in her fifties...or sixities...or seventies...you can never really tell with these free-spirited types (I hope people say that about me one day). She had awesome hair that stuck up in every direction. She wore flowy pants and an anklet. She had a soooooothing voice.

There were three...max five...people in the class. I was the youngest by twenty five years.  I was the star.

Free-spirited yoga lady had a distinct philosophy to her teaching. It went something like this. Do whatever feels good. That's right. Whatever feels good, your body likes. So do it.

We came to our own poses naturally, with little guidance. It was the Montessori school of yoga class. We were always right, and doing great, as long as we listened to our bodies.

I loved that woman. Saw her in my neighbourhood once. (Saying hello would have been too much of a collision of worlds.)

Anyway, somewhere in between work and yoga, my passion, I bought a deal for 10 classes of hot yoga. It was only a 7 minute walk from my apartment. I could start when I was off work. (It's on my summer to-do list.)

That was today. Day 2 of revising (re-writing) my book. I would need to run out and buy one of those straps or tiny backpack apparatuses for transporting my mat (all the yoga aficionados have one on my block). I would give the guidelines a quick check, as they recommended. And at 5:30 pm I would reach new heights in my journey to health and wellness.

A 'quick check of the guidelines' threw me a bit of a curveball. The website recommended wearing as little as possible. Like a bathing suit. Or, if it would make you more comfortable, shorts and a sports bra.

I don't wear shorts. I don't own shorts. Correction - I only own pajama shorts. Blue and white ones from Joe Fresh. But, after entertaining the idea of wearing a black and gold floral string bikini for half a second, the PJ shorts would have to do. There's GUARANTEED to be an out-of-shape weirdo or two in this class that would make me look good in comparison, thought I. So whatever. Outfit - check. 

The hot part of "hot yoga" I didn't think mattered too much. I'm from Thunder Bay. I sauna at friends' cottages in the summertime. Two of my closest friends are Finnish. Kiitos. 

First, let me describe to you the class make-up, or demographics if you will. I fear that it fits all urban hot yoga classes, and if you've done it before, maybe you can relate.

One of the girls from class doing the "Eagle".

1. Hippie with a (large) boner.
 2. Alarmingly flexible and absurdly strong hairy Argentinian man wearing a gold necklace.
 3. 55 year old tiny Chinese lady with an elastic body. Who did not break a sweat, by the way, despite the 105 F room.
 4. Fifteen former female dancers, either tanned, or ethnic.
 5. Ex-Cheerleader yoga instructor.

Halfway through the class I realized that I must be the only person of Irish heritage. How do I know this for a fact? Because I am the only one whose pasty white face and head turns beat red 7 minutes in. And then proceeds to deepen in colour for the next hour and a half. (It looked great juxtaposed against the glaring white of my sheath dress tan lines*.)

And so the brutal pain and discomfort and humiliation began. Worsened only by the creepy way the class exhaled their 'stale air' through wide, gaping mouths. (Did they not see The Ring?) Worsened only by ex-cheerleader singling me out to correct me on every move. Most maddeningly:

"Brianne it's right leg over left, not left over right." (How did she learn my name so fast?)

LADY. WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE. WE'RE GOING TO SWITCH.
(Oh yeah, and I'm a little busy down here trying not to pass out and drown in a pool of my own sweat. So maybe give me a break. Okay? Christ.)

What happened to 'do what the body likes'? What happened to my free-spirited yoga lady who spent 30% of the class explaining the importance of visualizing roots growing from the parts of your body touching the floor? What happened to my class full of middle-aged public sector workers, who more often than not came to class still dressed in business casual?

Did I mention that there are only 3 showers in the women's changeroom and they are open?

Yup, I got fully naked in public for the first time. MMMMHHHMMMM. I had no choice. I was dying.

Yoga Aficionadon't know what I've done. But there are 9 classes to go. 

What's that you say? You're actually going back?

Well of course I am. I paid for 10 friggin' classes and I intend to attend ten. Did you miss the part about me being Irish?

PS Comments are still broken for some. But am transferring this over to brisnonblog.com soon. So sit tight, St. Martin's Press. We'll connect soon about my book.

*Note to self: You're a long way from evening that out. Consider tanning naked on your balcony tomorrow.

Sunday ROM'bling's

Get it? This is a rambling. On a Sunday. And I was at the ROM looking at jewelry today.

I am fortunate to have a friend whom I've known from the age of 8 months. She is four years older, so I suppose our friendship couldn't have possibly started before the age of 2. And even then it was not likely a friendship forged on equal footing, no matter how I perceived the situation at the time. 

We went to the same elementary school, and I distinctly remember the grade three class being brought in to help the JKs make stained glass.

Tall Megan and me, watching the fireworks on Canada Day.

"Can I go with Megan?" I asked the teacher. "She's my friend! Right there!"

"Sure, sure," said the teacher, with a frustratingly amused smile. "Now go sit down and drink your juice."

My friend is tall and she is an artist. Her name is Megan. She is like a sister to me.

On Thursday night, Tall Megan came to visit me for the weekend. Thursday was also my last day of work. The office shut down at 1 PM and I spent the afternoon sipping gin and sodas in the sun with my lovely work ladies (and now friends) and receiving things like tea cups and necklaces and a whopping gift certificate to anthropologie. (Quit your job, everyone.)

Then I went home and cleaned (low point). Following that I journeyed to check out musician boyfriend's TO jam space and hear his new  band. Any circumstance where I can refer to a 'jam space' won't fail to make me feel ridiculously cool. Especially if I'm in one. (The dirtier the better.)

Then at 11, after a delayed Porter flight and my not answering the buzzer to my building (phone was on silent...), Tall Megan finally arrived. (Minus the cleaning, Thursday was possibly the best day of my life.)

Tall Megan works for Mappins and has aspirations to become a gemologist. She likes diamonds. A LOT.  She is also a visual artist who works primarily with graphite. Today, whilst browsing precious and unique minerals at the ROM, she informed me that graphite and diamonds are made of the same carbon, just arranged differently. Which makes me think that Spencer Pratt might have been on to something with his crystal therapy, as Tall Megan's destiny is undoubtedly linked to this carbon. But this is not about Spencer Pratt. Though I do wonder what he's up to these days.

I was thrilled to be able to accompany Tall Megan to the Gold and Gems room at the ROM. Musician boyfriend and I had been previously, and I'd made him take photos of everything with his phone to send to her. Overzealous, you say? I've known her since I was 8 months old, remember. I know how much Tall Megan likes rocks. 

Mrs. Rose Torno's Pearls. Photo credit: Tall Megan

By the second case, I noticed that a Mrs. Rose Torno had donated an AWFUL lot of million-dollar jewelry to the ROM. An awful lot. Rooooosssee Tooorrrnnoo. Who was this Rose Torno? I googled her instantly on my iphone as Tall Megan ogled multi-coloured sapphires and mixed-cut bullet shaped fluorite. 

Rose Torno, married to Noah Torno, a philanthropist and businessman who had made his money in booze, was one half of Toronto's most fashionable power couples. Rose Torno was a socialite in the 50s. Rose Torno loved haute couture and was a private client of Christian Dior. Rose Torno lived in the 10,000 square foot "Torno Penthouse" atop 130 Bloor St. West until she died in 2002. Rose Torno owned an awful lot of rare jewels. The penthouse (now selling for $15 million) has been empty since her death.

Where did she get these pieces? How? Were they gifts from her husband Noah? Did he cheat on her a lot? Was Noah Torno a philandering philanthropist? Or was his wife the love of his life?

Mrs. Rose Torno was one fascinating, fabulous lady. Her jewelry is immortalized in a museum. Her penthouse has been designated a heritage property by the City of Toronto and must remain virtually untouched. And as striking as her pearls, she didn't hold a job. 

Yes, she was the founding president of the Mount Sinai Hospital Auxiliary. But Mrs. Rose Torno was virtually unemployed. Thus, I think Mrs. Rose Torno and I would have been great friends. 

Tall Megan, Rose Torno, and me.

Happy Birthday to You.

What's that? A blog post you say? Why that's crazier than the murderous Mrs. Edward Scissorhands that spooked me during a walk n' text and from whom I (quite coolly) screamed and ran. (She tried to grab my phone. Or my boobs. Or my soul. I'd tell you the story but if I tell it one more time I won't have a musician boyfriend to write about any longer. And I'll be paying full rent.) 

What you are about to read is a birthday wish for a dear old (spoiled) friend. (And a bit of non-blog housekeeping.)*

I'm starting to think that I suffer from a yet-to-be-discovered disease. I am not a doctor, but if I were, I would classify this illness as a strain of verbal diarrhea.  It seems that when around friends or family from outside of Toronto, I just can't stop talking about how flippin' great this city is. (I use 'talking' loosely, as..it's bragging.)

I diagnosed myself over all-you-can-eat sushi last night with a couple of visiting friends. It was sometime after I spent a good ten minutes 'talking' about how many pet owners there are in Toronto. So many in fact that neighbourhoods (which have EVERYTHING) are equipped with their own veterinarian (are they?) and specialty pet stores, not to mention the lush parks and greenspace that make up for the small square footage and no backyard. 

Since when did I start caring about urban pet population and care patterns? Since when did I think other people would? I don't even own a pet! Musician boyfriend hates pets! (No no, you read this wrong. He does have a soul, he just hates pets.)

Yes, there are many conveniences of living in this city I will still tout to anyone who cares to listen.


1. The calories laden in the groceries I buy are conveniently burned off on the walk there (and back).
2. I conveniently don't have to pay attention to the insane price of gas. And, quite conveniently, am never required to be a DD.
3. I can conveniently hop on a plane to NY (and back) for under $300. And will one day, when I can afford  the insane prices of NY hotels.

Said BBQ, assembled inside.
Moments before MB learned that it
doesn't fit through the balcony door.

But there are also many inconveniences. Inconveniences I've been ruminating on throughout tonight's trek (with musician boyfriend and fold-out cart in tow) to Canadian Tire to buy a BBQ and transport it back to our apartment.

It reminded me of the early days of the move, in blustery February, when all things related to home reno became the definition of inconvenience.






1. I cannot conveniently throw some cans of paint in my car and drive the ten minutes back to my house.
2. Price comparison is not necessarily a convenient option.
3. Parents and friends (okay, Dads) are not conveniently nearby with their circular saws and concrete drills and advice on mounting 30 lb shelves.


But a most inconvenient truth came to light this evening. Which actually tops having to help schlep a fold-out cart full of lighter fluid, charcoal and a damned cumbersome BBQ up and down stairs to the subway.


I am not conveniently close to a dear friend's birthday celebrations in Thunder Bay. A friend whom I miss whenever I see a hot skinny blonde (your welcome) walking down the street and I swear, for a second, that it's her.


A friend without which I wouldn't even be writing this, because a) well...frankly she demanded a special birthday post and b) (more importantly) she pushed me to start a non-blog in the first place. My reasons why I should not be writing a blog was in response to her goading me on a phone date. And this supportive and thoughtful skinny blonde is admirably hard to deny.


The birthday lady is pictured to the right, during a candid moment from a girl's trip. She looks sad, and I've always kind of wondered why, since we were all so f*ing excited about being in the Dominican Republic together. But now I know she's thinking, "...Damn I'm going to miss Brianne on my 27th birthday."


Right?


Right?






*Several of my 11 readers mentioned that they were unable to comment on my posts. In summary, their comments included: a menacing threat to make sure I was actually going to work on the blasted book this summer, a promise to stop going to the very same drycleaners that swindled me (SUCCESS!) and the fact that quinoa, like tomatoes, is also a fruit (blew my mind).


Anyway, I think the comments are fixed. Try leaving one.

Bill Nighy Was Here.

This could not be further from a blog post. It is a personal invitation to Bill Nighy to get together with me tonight.

Every morning on my way to work I cut through U of T main campus. Why? Because it's f*ing gorgeous and looks like you're at f*ing Cambridge in 1886 or something. It's magical. And it actually does cut down my commute. 

Filming of "Total Recall" at Knox College 

Anyway, for the past couple of weeks I have been idly following the assemblage of film production equipment in front of Knox College. I didn't read too much into it until I got an e-mail from U of T Operations regarding parking on campus. Parking would be limited, it read, due to the filming of the feature film, Total Recall, from 7am - 11pm, June 26th and June 27th. (Apparently I should never work in operations, as my announcement would have read BIG NAME CELEBS ON CAMPUS SUNDAY AND MONDAY. BAHH!!! And that's it.) A quick google search informed me that Total Recall, based on it's cast, is actually a massive deal. And my personal favourite, Bill Nighy, is one of the castmembers.

Why is Bill Nighy my favourite, over Colin Farrell, Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel, and Ethan Hawke?

The answer should be obvious, but in case it isn't, I'll give you three reasons:

1. He contributed greatly to my favourite film of all time - Love Actually.

2. He contributed greatly to a much loved film (by me) - Pirate Radio.
3. He's simply hilarious.

Love Actually has withstood the test of time (8 whole years) as my #1 favourite movie. So much so, in fact, that over time Love Actually became a screening mechanism for love interests and full-fledged boyfriends alike. Come Christmas season, if they could sit through Love Actually and admit that it was a fantastic movie, for all audiences, despite the romantic title and lack of bloodshed, they could stay.

Then musician boyfriend came along.

"I've already seen it." He said, taking a sip of red wine and leaning against the sill of his beloved apartment window. "Great movie."

Foiled! I clenched my own glass harder and narrowed my eyes at him as he stared, meaningfully, as artist-types tend to do, out at the street below.

Maybe he really had seen it. Maybe he'd just been smarter than the others and read that it was my favourite on my facebook profile, and then lied to increase his chances of sleeping with me again. Either way, I respected it. And so ended the screening process. (I guess that's when you know it's meant to be?)

But Bill Nighy wasn't out of the picture quite yet. 

Musician boyfriend has very...discerning tastes. Let's just say he is hard to impress. In all areas. But, with nothing to lose (see reference to looting of the heart that had taken place previously), this was a challenge I was eager to accept. 

Musician boyfriend also hates movies. (No no, you read this wrong. He DOES have a soul, he just hates movies.) Let me rephrase - he hates most movies but for High Fidelity, Hard Core Logo, The Devil and Daniel Johnson and Once. And apparently Love Actually. So, in the early days of our relationship, the 'hanging out' days to be exact, the pressure was on to counter his last, deep date movie pick. 

I chose Pirate Radio. It was set in the 60s. It was about rebellion, freedom and rock and roll. It took place almost entirely on a boat. It starred Bill Nighy.  How could this fail with the red-wine-drinking-motown-loving-dark-curly-haired-muscian-movie-hating type?

Needless to say it was a success. A success at the early-dating stages no less, when the stakes are high and the probability that you can escape any decision without judgement is low. And with this selection, my relationship with Bill Nighy evolved from determining the longevity of boys in my life to, well, increasing my chances of sleeping with musician not-yet-boyfriend again.

So if you're reading this Bill Nighy, and you are in Toronto, nay - merely a twenty-minute walk from my apartment - please, let's go for a drink. Or a walk. Or a coffee. Just comment on this invitation with your number and I'll call you. (Or I'll text you, and you can call me since you're probably here with a UK number and it would be expensive.) I may be a total stranger to you, but to me you're like an old, trusty friend, who is great for my love life in a completely non-physical way. Is that weird?

You'll get your just desserts. (...I hope.)

Yes, the last post was a blog post. But now that I've got that out of my system I can (quite happily) return to not writing a blog.

This is a lament on the state of integrity today.

I have many food allergies, including wheat, dairy, sugar and egg. Because of this, I am often deprived of dessert. Fortunately for me (and occasionally the sanity of those around me,) I live five minutes away from a raw food restaurant called Live Food Bar. Live's menu is wheat, dairy, sugar, and egg free. I can eat their dessert, or anything else on the menu for that matter, and it is amazing. Amazing. So on Thursday I was happy to accept the invitation to have dessert at Live with two small blondes. (By the way, if you're reading this Carlee and Megan, I also referred to you as two small blondes to the Red Tea Box staff when your streetcar was delayed, and they suggested I start a band under that name. They must know how talented I am.)

Right beside this wonderful raw food haven happens to be my drycleaners. Pick up some freshly-hemmed jeans, eat some freshly-baked dessert, head home to a working fridge. That's the kind of simple life for me. But when I stopped at the drycleaners (en route to dessert) for a quick pick-up, they explained to me that the sweater I was getting cleaned had been stained (read - ruined) in the process. They offered to give me back the sweater at no charge after they had sewn up two tiny, worthless holes, for free of course.


I'm not good at these things. I was in a rush. There was a language barrier. I said OK. I paid for the rest of my items. I went to meet two small blondes for dessert at Live.

Half-way through the meal I mentioned what had happened.

"What?!" (Cried the two small blondes).

"You shoudn't have paid!"

"They should have offered to replace the sweater! That happened to me in Ottawa with a skirt & I got reimbursed."

"Oh god. So what do I do?" (Me.)

"Go back and tell them you were in a rush to meet your friends, and ask if they can do anything else."

So I did just that. Today.

I came back empty-handed.

I had politely explained my point of view to the owners and asked for a $75 credit. Reasonable, right? Half the price of the sweater. They said no. That was too much. Their time was too valuable. They'd give me $40. I said that that wasn't good enough and I was taking my business elsewhere (I despise saying things like this. I don't know why.) They could keep the sweater.


I took my things to the cleaners last week, and this week discovered that I'd taken myself instead.

(Musician boyfriend thinks I should have made a bigger stink about it. I like to think that they can see how short I am, and assume I must buy a lot of clothes based on my obvious fashion sense, and then calculate in their minds how many things I will not be paying them to hem in their future.)

Like many "take my business elsewhere" scenarios, this was not about the money. It was the principle. I want to get my drycleaning and tailoring done at a place that values their customers. A place that recognizes the disservice it has done unto others. A place that I can trust. A place I want to support. A place that cares. Etc. Etc Etc. (Quit your gagging, it's the truth.)

So why couldn't they have just apologized and then made a decent effort to make it up to their fellow human?


I got to thinking.

Michael Ignatieff, why did you miss so many days in Parliament?

Stephen Harper, why did you cover up the Alberta oil spill?

CEO's of big business, why are you just such all-around greedy bastards?

Even as I write this, an "energy salesman" knocked on my door and tried to scam me in my own home. Literally, I just got up from my computer mid-lament on integrity to answer the door to a swindler.  (Summit Energy, in case anyone cares.) How did he even get inside the building?

And so, lying glumly on my couch on a muggy, rainy Saturday, sweaterless and alone, I lament the lack of integrity in these people. In lots of people. In people I know and in people I don't. I just don't think it's that difficult to do the right thing. 

And all I wanted was a wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, egg-free nainamo bar.

Super My Ace

Mmmm. The super. Who would've thought it possible that someone so elusive could be such a present, nagging factor in your life?

Landlords are owners. They get your rent. They are making lots of money off of you. They work for you. 

Supers are not owners. Supers want free rent. Supers aren't making lots off money off of you. Supers work for the property owners.

Supers, in a way, are like serfs. But with human rights. And (fortunately) no threat of violence or mistreatment to keep them in line. The Russians emancipated serfs in 1861 for a reason. An economic one (for a second there you thought rulers did things out of the good of their hearts.) A serf-based economy is not a competitive economy. Clearly, in 19th century Russia, nothing was getting done.

Sounds like my building. Sounds like my apartment. 

Here I demonstrate that my problem with supers is not the people themselves, but the system under which they are employed. A system that has been PROVEN INEFFECTIVE FOR CENTURIES.

But I gots big problems with my not-so-super. And I gots to find a way to deal with it. 'Cause stress is bad for your health. And I ain't gonna let no super (or her creepy, criminal, angrily tattoo-ed husband that answers her work phone on occasion) shorten my life span.

Here is a post-broken-fridge example of a super frustrating super situation:

Super: "No problem. I'll be there in twenty minutes with the key to the vacant apartment so you can store your groceries there for the time being."

Me: "Oh great! Much appreciated. I'll be here. Thank you so much."

An hour and a half later.

[Ring Ring.]

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Hello?

Me: Hi is Agatha* there please?

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Nope she went out.

[Long pause.]

Can I uh take a message?

I explain the situation

Angrily tattoo-ed husband: Uhhhh...she should be back in twenty ok?

Me: [tight-lipped] Okay! I'll try back then.

%$@$%@$. Text musician boyfriend to explain frustration. Twenty minutes later Musician boyfriend enters apartment, breathless.

Musician boyfriend: Did he show up here?

Me: Who? That guy who answers Agatha's phone sometimes?

Musician boyfriend: Yeah. Her husband. Just uhh..just wanted to be home in case he did. 

Interrupted by sound of jangling keys. Knock on door. Musician boyfriend opens door to be met by criminal angrily-tattooed husband.

Angrily-tattooed husband: I uh, I talked to Agatha and she won't be home for 'nother couple hours so uh. I can take you up to that vacant apartment now with thick cement walls, blinds and a deadbolt.

Awesome.

Musician boyfriend volunteers to go without me.

I could go on, but I need to get to my point.

To begin with dealing with my not-so-super, I'm going to start looking on the bright side more often.

Watch how I do it.

Depressing Fact: Broken fridge needs to be replaced.

Bright side: A mug of tea I was cooling off in the refrigerator (morning rush) spilled in there the other day. No longer my problem.

Depressing Fact: We've been storing what's left of our groceries in a vacant apartment on another floor.

Bright side: It's practice for when my house is so huge that I need to take an elevator to the kitchen.

Depressing Fact: When I called my super at 8:15 am the other morning re: broken fridge, she was still asleep. She has two small school-age children. It was a Monday.

Bright side: As long as people like my super exist, I'll always feel like a successful human being. Even when I forget someone's birthday or give my boss the wrong directions or realize that I've been calling tomatoes vegetables and the blasted things were fruits all along.

Depressing Fact: This latest fridge/super ordeal has inspired musician boyfriend to suggest we look for a new apartment when our lease is up. 

Bright side: This fridge ordeal inspired perhaps the funniest joke I've ever made.

Depressing Fact: I may be educated. I may know about serfs in pre-Communist Russia and be taking a math course in August so whatever, but in any apartment building, the super reigns supreme. Ultimately it's the serf's turf and I'm just the fool who has chosen to live on it.

Bright side: In 15 plus years I can look forward to owning a home.

Yes. This is a blog post.
And I'd appreciate your suggestions on how to deal with not-so-supers.

*Name changed to protect identity.