No news to report on the apartment hunt. I’ve gotten a chance to check out a few places, and I’ve gotta say – the whole writing-letters tactic generally works quite well for this. I would recommend it to anyone (especially those who are maybe living abroad and thinking about moving here for school) because it just gives landlords a chance to get to know you. Unless of course you are an ax murderer or have horrible grammar. Perhaps then it’s better to just keep that to yourself. Looking for places is always stressful, regardless. Craigslist is always a mad dash, crazy competition, gong show. The rental listings on there are usually quite a bit higher than they are if you just wander around the neighborhood looking for signs. And when you are going up against lots of others who are looking, you feel rushed to make decisions. Settle for places under pressure. I don’t want to do this. For once, I actually have the luxury of being a little choosy with this situation, so I’m holding out for just a little longer. Mostly for that damn bathtub. Curse you, clawfoot (kidding, I love you). Plus, there are cats here, which somehow make the situation quite a bit more tolerable.

In the meantime, I’ve hung out with many friends lately. Gone to dinner parties. Consumed a bit of wine. Walked over the Cambie Street Bridge with Meghan to watch the SUPERMOON! Enjoyed watching the blooms come out… even in the rain. Been pretty contented with life in general.

Vancouver, you couldn’t get more beautiful if you tried.

Unrelated side note: Despite being (somewhat) homeless, and living out of various boxes and bags, I took the plunge and bought even more crap that I can’t momentarily use… a set of cooking pots! Some of you may be questioning if I’ve suffered a mild concussion recently. But it’s true! I couldn’t resist. I’m envisioning my dream kitchen, in which I’m homey and inclined to cook things… in beautiful turquoise pots. They are almost too pretty to use:

I struggle on a daily basis with not feeling like I’m getting the “proper” experience out of being here. Preconceived notions of what I believe something is supposed to look like before I do it, and then ending up feeling disappointed when it turns out differently. Not letting myself just experience something for what it actually is. It’s a recipe for disaster.

I feel like since I got here, although I have been writing everyday, I have felt very limited in what I can truthfully share. It’s pretty much been a self-imposed publication ban. And after a month, I feel like that’s done a disservice to myself, and maybe to others who might be reading it. Even now, on the verge of clicking “publish” I feel torn about whether I should wait. People might think I’m being too hasty, too negative, too _________. [Guts churning]

Why am I feeling largely incapable of enjoying my experience here so far? Even though it’s almost nothing like what I was led to believe it would be? Still—what’s wrong with me? Everyone I talk to seems to think if they were in the same position they wouldn’t be worrying about it, they’d be snowboarding every day and having the time of their lives.

God. There must be something wrong with me. [Stomach knotted]

I was talking to a friend on Facebook about my experience today, mentioning that I felt like it wasn’t the quite the career opportunity I had hoped it would be. He asked if I was at least getting a chance to get out and take pictures? I said that yes, I had taken a fair amount of pictures, but I wasn’t feeling super motivated to get outside as much as I felt I should. Maybe, it was on account of the cold? And he said “yeah, I was sort of wondering how many pictures you would be taking… it doesn’t really seem to be your style”.

And a light bulb went off in my head.

Not my style. I had thought that internally a few times since I’ve been here, but was forcing myself to get out there because “It’s so beautiful here!” “I really should be wanting to take pictures!” But I’ve never rarely been drawn to landscape photography in the entire time I’ve been interested in shooting pictures. Truth be told, I find the majority of landscape photography fairly boring (unless you yourself are the one there to witness it firsthand, anyway). The most inspired with my camera I’ve felt here is in the middle of a cemetery. [Inner turmoil] I should be trying to find photo opportunities (contrary to the fact I feel a bit like I’m just going through the motions). I should want to go outside and enjoy the winter (contrary to the fact I’m chilled to the bone and can’t seem to shake it the entire day). I should… contrary to this being (me).

Why do I feel like I must apologize for who I am? To somehow gloss over my true feelings about this experience thus far? There are some people who just don’t enjoy sports, or who don’t like broccoli. And no matter how many times you explain that sports are really wonderful and broccoli is really tasty, it might not make it any truer to them. And that’s ok. It seems a ridiculous waste of energy to keep trying and trying to make myself like something that I just (mostly) don’t. To pretend like I’m having a blast when I’m really (mostly) not. How many times must you do something before you can safely say “no, I think I’m good”? How much sports must I watch? How much broccoli must I eat? How many days must I spend? 30? 60? 90? 500? I’ve spent days fighting off depression because I feel like there is something wrong with me for being disappointed about the situation—despite it being almost nothing like what I understood it was supposed to be. I’ve been beating myself up about having a hard time meeting people, when I have been shy my entire life. So much of life’s unrest comes from feeling one way, and wanting it to be different. [More turmoil]

You know how sometimes you get invited to a party, but you don’t really feel like going–but you go anyway, and ultimately end up really glad that you went? I feel like I keep waiting for this to get to the part where I’m glad I went to the party. Because so far, I sort of wish I had stayed home, washed my hair and just reveled in other people telling me how great the party was. Because at the moment, I feel like I thought it was going to be black tie, and I got there only to realize that it was being hosted by that creepy guy in IT that incessantly talks about his cat. Yes, it’s still a party – it’s just maybe not my kind of party. And (maybe) that’s ok. [Less turmoil]

Which brings me to the topic of this post: Being true to myself, and my experience. I feel like so much of my life has been spent living in the shadow of who I think other people want me to be, rather than who I am. This unbalance makes for so much internal tension and unhappiness. I’m not throwing in the towel yet and going home, but unless I start to be honest with myself about how I truly feel in this moment, this experience is going to be more damaging to my well-being than positive. Life is comprised of many different lessons, and maybe my lesson is this:  Be open enough to take the step, and wise enough to be true to yourself once you do.

[free]



I have this clawfoot tub in my apartment. It’s quite honestly my favorite place to be. I’ve been spending a lot of time in this bathtub lately, because I find I can just tune things out in there and just think, already. Quiet the voice in my head and just figure stuff out. This is what I was doing last night. I put earplugs in, and turned on the faucet so it was just almost unbearably hot. Then I turned out all the lights. It’s a strange experience—sensory deprivation. My eyes try to adjust to the blackness, and I can hear nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat and breathing. It’s both comforting and suffocating at the same time, but it helps me to really focus. I have a hard time doing that sometimes. I’m always flitting off in 10 directions, thinking about all the things I need to be doing, everything except what is happening right now.

I got to thinking about all the decisions I’ve made in my life. All the times I’ve succeeded, how far I’ve come. How many times I’ve failed, got my heart broken, been incredibly disappointed or devastated—and yet, learned. Grew from the experiences, as terrible as they may have felt at the time. And a switch flipped in my mind. Why am I being so protective of my ideas? Of myself? It’s like never eating off the good plates—those are for special occasions. And yet, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow having eaten off shitty dishes for the last 4 years, what a waste. I feel like I have so many creative projects in my head, and an exact idea of where I want to be with my life and career. I’ve been taking teeny steps hoping that they would lead to something. But teeny steps (although better than none) don’t make for big changes. This being scared thing isn’t getting me where I want to be, and I think it’s time to break the pattern.

(from my friend Georgina, not sure who the original quote was from):

I’ve decided to apply for a Literary Arts Work Study Program at the Banff Centre. It’s a 6 month program. I realize that although I have built my life here, in this apartment, in this city – I need to take drastic measures to move forward. So perhaps applying to jobs out of the city (in Victoria) or out of province would force me to change EVERY aspect of myself at one time. Frightening? Hell yeah. Exhilarating? Definitely. I want to work in publishing. I want to design children’s books. I want to live on the island in an fantastic character apartment downtown with an amazing bathtub and a short walk to the ocean. I want to take photos more than ever and build a website for them, I want to take the Bittersweets to the next level and market myself as a craft illustrator. I have this view in my head of who I want to be, and it’s starting to come into focus. I’m not exactly sure of when this will all happen, but if I keep it in my mind it will…  eventually.

“There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom.” -Anais Nin

I am back on the hunt, in search of a job where I feel like I can stretch my creative reach and do a myriad of different things. Although I’m trained as a Graphic Designer, this is just my title. A name I went after to somehow fit my artistic drive into something that could be translated to a bonafide career. But my passions are divided. I love photography as much, if not more than design. However, I would be equally excited about a position that would actually allow me to use my hands. The Bittersweets are an outlet that helps me make something tangible away from a computer. It is a challenge I made out of boredom, but I enjoy the act of bringing sketches to life. Tiny stitches creating personalities… It’s pretty amazing. But I also adore plants, and nature, and watching things grow. I am not above organizing files or fetching coffee. To be honest, it is the variety I crave, a chance to dabble in something different every.single.day. Or perhaps this is indecision, clouding my judgement.

Does this job exist? Because for the life of me I cannot think of it. I’ve poured over employment websites, and books on career changing. Although some suggestions are helpful, none have pointed me toward a position where I truly could do something different every day. Design. Photography. Building. Organizing. Writing. Making. What would it be called?

I’m hoping I’ll just stumble upon it one of these days. Like I will awaken from a dream and exclaim “YES! I was destined to do __________ as my dream job! Who knew?!?” I feel like I’m meant to do something more than this. Something more out of the ordinary that I don’t know the name for. I would love to travel. To document things. To be a historian. An artist. A planner. Again I ask myself, where do I need to be? I’m still awaiting a response.

Until then, I’ve made it my project to have one eye on the job market, and another on personal creative endevours. Have you been enjoying the leaves this year? Remember when you were a kid and you would collect them scattered on the ground and make rubbings with crayons? Remember the smoky smell of autumn, a new box of crayons, wax rolling over newsprint? I do. So that has been my project—although amped up a bit, grown-up style. The project, as well as my life at the moment, is a work in progress.

Currently I’m listening to the Talking Heads “psycho killer”. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and I’ve got nothing to do – but in a good way. In a lazy, wander-around-enjoying-my-space sort of way. A loving houseplants, reading old letters, drinking amazing coffee, windows-open, contented sort of way. Life is good.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to document the current state of my apartment. I feel like around the year and a half mark is when you really come into where you live. It becomes homey, yours. It doesn’t hurt to bake cookies in it, utilizing the vintage stove (how does this appliance work after 60 years?? It’s baffling. I’m currently knocking on wood as not to jinx myself), or stuff green, flowering plants in every corner. I love this time of year – the sun flows through my apartment for no less than 10 hours a day. It gets a little hot, but I still love it.

What will this year bring me? Will I find a new place to live? What job will I discover? Will I meet new friends? Discover a new inspiring project? Time will tell. Hurray for newness!

Incidentally, make these Oatmeal Raisin Cookies – they are probably the most amazing thing that has ever fallen into my mouth. Repeatedly. Beth’s Spicy Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

Hard as I may try to make it otherwise, my face makes me look like I’m on the verge of lunging across the aisle, grabbing your baby and throwing it out the open bus doors. Or perhaps shank you when you were considering getting off at a stop to pick up some bananas. I KNOW this. But I can’t help it!  My normal “not-thinking-about-anything” face has a natural downturn that just makes me look pissed off. I am so painfully aware of this now, that I spend much of my time consciously trying to look convincingly like I’m not agro. This involves a lot of awkward half smiling and wide-eye opening. Which when written down like THAT makes me sound like I’m in dire need of some medication. But you know when you are thrust in front of a camera and ordered to smile – nine times out of ten, that smile looks forced and contrived (which is why I like to be on the OTHER SIDE of the camera). But I fear this is how I look all the time, unless I can scour my memory and try to recall things that have recently made me laugh (like me trying to act casual when falling up stairs, or seeing a pigeon eating a cinnamon donut) and in this case I’m able to actually smile my REAL smile – my dimpled, eye squinty, genuine, ridiculous smile. But on days when the rain won’t quit, and I’m feeling a bit lonely, this is hard to do. I have thought more than once that I wish I could wear a full face covering balaclava, or perhaps a brown bag on my head.  Neither of these options work well in aiding me to look more friendly and approachable, however…  more psychotic, yes – but at least my facial muscles wouldn’t ache from trying to appear cheery and helpful. Cheery and helpful – this is the look I’m going for. Unfortunately, pained and confused (and mildly constipated)  is likely more the look I’m pulling off. The whole thing is just so tiring – perhaps this is the same issue the sleeping people have had to deal with, and after 7 weeks of attempting to look like they enjoy being forced into the armpit of someone who hasn’t showered in five days, they are just so exhausted they can’t help it. Maybe this is their coping mechanism? I guess having my eyes closed and drooling slightly is  a better alternative than potentially getting my ass kicked because my mind has wandered off and I’ve been caught glaring at some gansta girl for the last 2 minutes, appearing to challenge her to a duel – Fight Club style – at the corner of Broadway and Granville. So if you should happen to see me out and about, and it looks like I’m about to haul off and shin kick the grandma in front of me, please know that inside I’m likely thinking about picking up yogurt at the store, or if I have enough quarters for laundry. I can’t help it. It’s just my face! (I need to get that put onto a shirt, I think).

I’m sorry to have to be the one to break it to you, but the SWINE FLU has taken over the world, and here in Vancouver the delirium has reached a fevered pitch (literally). Every day the headlines get 30pt larger and bolder on the front cover–warnings to the ones who aren’t sick yet–it’s only a matter of time. Warnings to get your flu shot RIGHT NOW – except oops, there aren’t enough – sorry, you’re a goner. What, you aren’t dead yet? Any minute now, it’s coming – trust us. It’s probably best just to self diagnose any pain that you might have henceforth as the SWINE FLU just to be cautious. Knee hurt? It’s quite obviously the beginning joint aches of the SWINE FLU. Stomach sore? It’s not at all to do with the fact that you drank a flat of beer last night, smoked 2 packs of cigerettes and have eaten nothing but cheetos for 3 days, it’s the SWINE FLU (the fact you managed to pry yourself from your death bed long enough to type this – congratulations, you must be one of the heartier (temporary) survivors of the EPIDEMIC. Hell, epidemic doesn’t sound scary enough anymore – let’s try PANDEMIC on for size. That’s better… speaking of which, are your clothes feeling too tight? Yikes… you’re in the final stages my friend – your swollen extremities are an indication that you have but mere hours to live (so please spend those last remaining hours leisurely perusing the pages of our trustworthy and accurate newspaper). Coughing? It couldn’t at all be that  exotic mystery illness that rarely  descends the city in the winter months (yes, you know the one I’m talking about – the one that requires the stringent remedy of laying on the couch watching 80′s brat pack movies and drinking Nyquil by the gallon?). No, it’s undoubtedly and absolutely the SWINE FLU – best to make sure that all your worldly affairs are in order, like finishing your last will and testament and eating the rest of that 4-gallon tub of Rocky Road you bought on sale last week at Safeway. No one will care if you can’t fit into your pants in a few days anyway – it’s in poor taste to mock those who have passed on. Yes, you may have seen in the fine print on the 97th page of the paper (underneath the classified listings for farm machinery) that admits that far (FAR) (FAAAAR) more people die every year from the regular strain of the flu. But those people (those… scientists) they are underestimating the body count that is about to befall our city. It’s the best to sit here and give yourself a bleeding ulcer worrying about it, rather than to say, wash your hands like a civilized person and not hack phlegm directly into the faces of those who are sitting next to you on the bus. (SERIOUSLY – were you raised by goats? Where and when has it ever been socially acceptable to openly cough into a crowd of people in a confined space? To not even attempt to pretend like you are being courteous enough to care if those around you get infected and DIE?  The answer? Nowhere. Notime. It’s the polite thing here in North America ON EARTH to at least FEIGN that you give a shit enough about those around you to keep your diseases to yourself. No one cares if you secretly lick your hands and wipe them furiously on the bus poles AFTER you have politely covered your mouth and coughed gently into it like a dignified human being. Pretend. If nothing else than to quiet the mass hysteria that is about to bust out from the stampede of people who while attempting to flee this death pit of infectious germs will instead crush each other to death on their way out the door. But never, never forget – the SWINE FLU is lurking in the shadows waiting to overtake us all at any moment. In fact, just today in the paper “they” are predicting it’s going to be back… next year (but we’ll all be dead, so no need to worry about that).

My vision has become blurry while typing this post, and rather than assume that it has to do with the fact that I have repeatedly been pounding my own head into the brick fireplace mantle, I’m just going to go ahead and give my final word of advice to my loyal reader…

Wash your hands.
Don’t spit in strange people’s mouths.
Picking up gum off the ground may seem like a delicious and financially frugal way of saving a few bucks, but don’t.  It won’t have any flavour left, anyway.
… and most important of all – the most surefire way of keeping healthy?

Stop buying newspapers.

PS
**I feel truly sorry for anyone who has lost a loved on to this outbreak (or ANY outbreak of that matter) of the flu (or any other reason, death = terrible). It’s horrible, absolutely – and I’m not trying to make light of that fact. But this media hype is getting insane. At what point does the newsmedia step back and admit that they are contributing CREATING absolute terror among the general public, that is completely encouraging people to stop living life normally? When children are not allowed to trick or treat on Halloween, people are fist fighting in flu annoculation line ups, and paper masks are becoming more of a fashion accessory than tiny dogs in handbags, that’s when. It’s time to re-evaluate our priorities here in this city. Get your flu shots, by all means – but please, for the love of god, use common sense. If it sounds too sensational and tabloid-esque, well – it’s likely your brain rotting out from the SWINE FLU. Goodbye, reader – it was nice throwing words nonsensically in your direction.

I do however love the sudden splashes of orange that dot the landscape during October.  Last night I went to a small get-together with friends, where we drank wine and carved pumpkins while watching the original Nightmare on Elm Street. I don’t remember that movie being so ridiculous the first time I saw it. It borderlines more comedy than horror – although I must confess, it’s usage of 80′s synthesizer sound effects may have been the scariest thing I’ve witnessed in weeks.

I don’t really have Halloween plans tonight, which make me feel a little bummed out. What it is about the “fun” holidays that make being single feel extra lonely? Carving pumpkins, dying Easter eggs or beating pinatas senseless are just so much better when you have a sidekick. I’m trying not to dwell on it too much, but sometimes it still gets the better of me. This city makes it so difficult to meet people. I’m thoroughly convinced that there are 50 single girls to every one single boy. And that single boy is hiding under a rock right now, playing WOW in his mom’s basement. In all seriousness, though – how does a girl compete when there are so many attractive, talented, wonderful, intelligent single girls out there? It’s like being lost in a sea of  faces… the invisibility of it all so much worse than anything.  Today it’s made me feel pretty empty inside, and although I would rather be out in public enjoying the Halloween festivities, it’s making me feel more alone being around people then when I’m at home solo. I’m not entirely sure what I will feel like doing later tonight – maybe I will be inspired to venture downtown to the art gallery steps to check out the action, (sneaky wine-bottle concealed under my coat) but more likely than not I will just stay in and eat popcorn and Strongbow dinner, praying desperately for some horror-movie marathon on TV.

Speaking of horror movies, I’ve been fortunate enough to take in a few movies recently… both Where the Wild Things Are and Paranormal Activity in the last week. I had high hopes for Paranormal Activity, what with all the “THIS IS THE SCARIEST MOVE EVER MADE!!!!!!” hype on the internet and people mentioning “I had a friend who said he didn’t really need to sleep  for the next couple of weeks, anyway”. I could hardly turn down the opportunity to see a horror film THAT good – so I shelled out the $13 to see it in the theatre. My first mistake however, was going on a Friday night – to the Scotia theater downtown, arguably the busiest theater in all of Vancouver. In retrospect, I can’t believe I would have considered this as being a good idea, but I’m so accustomed to seeing movies alone, in cheap and crappy old theaters with decrepit balconies that usually contain only 5 other patrons, that I imagined it wouldn’t be that busy. But this movie was PACKED.
Full of teenagers.
Any sort of suspension of disbelief that could have happened during this movie was immediately quashed by the adolescent high-pitched screeching of girls throughout the audience, faces pressed tightly into the shoulders of their dates. Each time I found myself getting drawn into the heightened creepiness of the movie, the girl beside me would GASP and jump 1 foot out of her seat, squealing “OHMYGOD!!!” Seriously? This was during the scene that involved the understandably bone chilling and terrifying sequence of a door. OPENING… TWO INCHES. Yes, I said it – a door moved slightly open, and the audience of teenage girls went APESHIT. Which mostly just made me laugh out loud, destroying any feeling of dread that might have been building. I would imagine that if I was at home, in the dark, watching this movie with headphones on, it would have scared the living shit out of me. However, under these conditions, Johnny Depp’s hair from Nightmare on Elm Street was far more frightening than being in that theatre. Which is disappointing because unlike many horror movies, this film really is mostly scary in it’s frantic, inital unknown– and once you know what will happen, it’s unlikely that you will ever experience the same fright once you know what will happen. Curse you, teenage girls! But I imagine it was those very girls who gave it the headline of being the SCARIEST MOVIE EVER MADE… EVER. SERIOUSLY. Jesus, if a door opening has you peeing your pants I can only imagine what would happen if someone busted out a chainsaw…

… which reminds me – I also was fortunate enough to get to see Evil Dead the Musical recently! It was amazing, and hilarious. And there was copious amounts of blood. SPRAYING FROM THE CEILING! And singing! And sex! And self-arm-amputation! It was so great, I really can’t recommend it enough, despite it’s pricey ticket cost, it is really worth every penny.

Have a terrifyingly awesome Halloween, everyone! Watch out for the eardrum rupturing shrieking teenage girls who have desended upon the city… let’s just hope they have been considerate enough to do it while wearing costumes. And remember, the tiny nature of those little chocolate bars makes any caloric intake virtually nil, so feel free to eat at least 36 of them in a sitting.

I never take landscape photos. I feel like I’m completely unable to do the scene justice, certainly not more than just holding the memory inside my mind. Sometimes being behind the camera is amazing and I can capture tiny moments for later. Sometimes it’s best to just experience the tiny moments and enjoy them for what they are. But my neighborhood is better than I’ve ever seen before, so I was hoping to post some pictures. They still cannot do the trees justice – but I tried.

A couple of blocks down the street are tree canopies that span over the road. Currently the sunlight bursts through those trees, lighting up the changing colors, making them glow. And if you stand in the middle of the road the leaves fall all around you, like snow. It’s pretty magical. Last year I literally cried because just as the trees were turning gorgeous, a gigantic windstorm came along and blew all the leaves off of them – in one night. So I’m enjoying it doubly this year. Tripley. (Is tripley even a word? Tripeliciously!)

I wandered to the nearby bakery yesterday to pick up a pumpkin pie for an urban family dinner I was going to (urban family being my close friends, and my actual family dinner is today). I could have attempted to bake a pie, but I lacked the proper ingredients to prepare it… like flour, pumpkin, patience, and remote understanding of reading recipes. Aside from those things, I would have made the BEST PIE EVER. But, the bakery pie was decent and it gave me the excuse to walk through the trees. I picked out a tiny pumpkin (they are running quite the pumpkin extortion racket over at the little market – $3 for a teeny tiny pumpkin? Way to gouge the kids and girls (me) who find small gourds irresistible, y’bastards ). Also I’ve discovered another excellent pleasure to add to my fall addiction – Happy Planet apple cider. Words cannot properly convey it’s awesomeness! I keep telling myself that because it’s apples it’s absolutely acceptable that I’ve consumed three 1 litre bottles of it. In 2 days. Vitamin C, right?

It’s getting cold at night here, and I’ve tried as hard as I could to keep the windows open as long as possible in my apartment. But sitting in my overstuffed chair at night by the open window (even with big mug of sweet steaming cider) it’s now necessary to wrap up in a blanket. But combine those things with Iron and Wine playing softly on the stereo, and autumn air coming in, I’m trying to hold onto it for a few more days before the windows get shut in preparation for frost, and winter.

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada!

Until last night. I was having a rather lonely Saturday evening, as plans had fallen through, and I decided that rather than hang out solo in my apartment I would head on down to Main Street and sit in the window at JJ Bean and people watch while writing in my journal. I love JJ Bean. While there is really no shortage of decent places to grab coffee in my neighborhood, JJ Bean on Main St. just has this vibrancy to it. There are always a ton of people wandering around, and the ordinary americano ends up being several hours of observing hipsters in their natural environment. The concentration of skinny jeans and 80′s resurgence off-the-shoulder dresses and ray ban sunglasses is unbelievable. Every other time I’ve gone there during the day or weekday evening it is PACKED. The night I was hoping it was packed it was relatively dead, unfortunately…

Except for this 6 year old kid that dragged a stool over to mine in the deserted windowfront.
“Hi” he said.
“Hi” I smiled.
“My name is Kyle”
“Hi Kyle, my name is Chrissy”.

This turned into the most epic, thrilling conversation I’ve had in ages. He was showing me his meteorite (read: rock) and his fossilized dinosaur tooth (read: rock) and then his pocketful of vampire bat jewels (read: plethora of rocks). He was telling me about this symbol that was burned into the skin of his upper arm that when the moon summoned him he would turn into a vicious dragon. Not a fire breathing dragon I found out through extensive questioning, but instead a dragon that shoots fire AND ice AND lava. Lava! Then he proceeded to pull up the sleeve on his shirt to show me his muscles and challenge me to an arm wrestling match. This entire time I wondered where his parents were? He had been sitting beside me for a good 20 minutes by this time.  He didn’t appear disheveled or unkept – just very articulate and imaginative.

Did his parents want their child arm wrestling with a strange woman in the front window of JJ Bean? I could see no one around, but reasoned there was no other time I really got the opportunity to arm wrestle a 6 year old kid. So we did. And being the chivalrous girl that I am, I let him win (read: barely) twice! Then he challenged me to a thumb wrestling match. AND I KICKED THAT KID’S ASS! You can’t let them build up too much false confidence, right? If you do they turn into cocky, self indulgent teenagers (read: as I have learned through my own personal experience, sob).

So yeah, my lonely night was made slightly less so by the company of a 6 year old. This was both really entertaining and absolutely depressing at the same time. I can just see it now on Monday morning:

“Hey, what did you do this weekend?”
“I  had a heated discussion with a 6 year old in a coffee shop about vampire bats being immune to dragon’s lava fire breath because they have hoards of secret buried jewels back at their caves… then I thumb wrestled him and TOTALLY WON – how about you?”
Blank stare.

He was a super great kid, and after my attempt at trying to keep the conversation quiet and politely answering his questions as not to encourage him (so sad that we feel strange talking to other people’s kids these days), but then after awhile I realized our conversation must have been echoing throughout the entire place. I was arguing with him full volume about werewolves, and bats, and jewel heists. I was arguing with this kid as though debating politics and religion and Tim Hortons coffee. And then he told me about all his girlfriends, and said that if I wanted to, I could be in his secret dragon club.

I think this means that I now have a 6 year old boyfriend.

Progress on the dating front? I haven’t lost my feminine charms yet, apparently.