Rebecca Grenier

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Sometimes I call knowing that you have call display and that you’ll never pick up, just so I can hear your voice on the outgoing message. The times when I call a few times in a row and it forces you to turn your phone off are my favourite. Because then it starts going straight to voicemail and I can call as many times as I want after that and you’ll never know if it was just once more or a thousand more. I know I could just record your outgoing message and listen to it whenever I feel like it, but that would take away the thrill that maybe, just maybe, this time you’ll actually answer.

I was in a fuck buddy agreement that always had an end. It was nice. Maybe a bit of the girlfriend/boyfriend experience involved, but it always had an end date because someone will invariably catch the feels. And when it ended, the next day was as if we never shared anything together. It hurt. I plead to remain friends. He remains cold. During that argument I saw a side of him that was so callous, it couldn’t possibly be the same guy that was intimate with me the day before.

Then he says your name.

I get defensive. I was already in so much pain, why bring up another man who has crushed me. He told me to call you. I lie and say I don’t have your number anymore.

“I have it.”

But how? You guys had never met. Turns out when he borrowed my phone the other day because his was dead, he saw I had seventeen outgoing calls to a number saved as “Him.” He thought I was cheating so he called you himself. Did you have a full-blown conversation? Or was it just an awkward chess game of trying to figure out who each other was and why you’re both on the phone with each other? He told me he hung up after you said your name, a name he had heard me mention in the obligatory love life backstory that comes out when you’re intimate with someone for a while. I’m jealous he got to talk to you in real time.

Again he tells me to call you. So I do.

“Hey, you’ve reached [Boy’s Name], I can’t come to the phone right now, but–”

I hang up.

I plead to him for an explanation. He tells me to call again but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hear the beep, because then it’s not just us talking, but instead a pre-recorded message that you never intended me to hear. I refuse. He gets more angry, insisting. Can this really be the same guy who was twirling my hair and kissing my cheek as I fell asleep last night? I dial again. He tells me not to hang up.

“Hey, you’ve reached [Boy’s Name]…”

As you rhyme off the same message I’ve heard a thousand times, I think of the possible things I could say. Do I explain that I’m being forced into this? That my former fuck buddy who you are now acquainted with is putting me through some perverted game and I’m scared to disobey his request?

“… I can’t come to the phone right now…”

I could stay silent. You already know who it is. And you know I never leave a message. Maybe my silence would trigger you? Maybe you’d wonder if something was actually wrong and that I needed help in some way and despite the myriad of people I could have called for help, you’re still the only person I want at my side when things aren’t going well. Maybe you’d call me back. It’s those ‘maybes’ that do the most damage, and even though I know it’s stupid to think ‘just maybe,’ I can’t fuckin’ help myself.

“… but I wanted to tell you that even though what we had is over, I don’t look back on it in a bad way…”

What?

“The hours spent in my van on Gladwin. The movies. The shitty movies. Leaving work when that douche sent you that email. Croaking contests. Card games. Better man. We had a badass past and no one, not even you and these incessant calls, can fuck with that…

…I just played air guitar…

Bye Rebecca.”

I crumple to the floor in a heap of tears. He watches. His face isn’t angry or forceful anymore, it’s pity. But I don’t care. I dial again. I listen. He leaves.

I had a dream about you that was so damn real and in that dream you showed a modicum of sympathy because you acknowledged my existence.

That’s how I knew it was a dream.

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I recently avoided falling victim to the “pink tax.” Never heard of it? It’s when an item for a woman is more expensive than the same item for a man. The culprit? Payless Shoes. Like many creatives, I daylight in the service industry. One must? Non-slip shoes. Spills, dirt, snow, crackers a parent brought for their two-year-old which their two-year-old felt belonged on the floor (sometimes they actually improve the look of the otherwise tacky flooring, but I disgress). Mostly it’s the dish pit: often a nightmarish lake similar to the bog of eternal stench from Labyrinth except without the comical fart sounds and pirate fox riding a dog.

I had overextended the 4-6 month shelf-life of my then current shoes because I just didn’t want to invest money into something that wasn’t writing. Sadly, the feeling of dish pit scrap stew seeping into a hole then soaking my sock was enough to send me running to the store.

So there I was, staring at the wall of options for ladies. There were sneakers of many kinds, oxfords, converse, boots, heels, and flats. No shortage of options BUT upon looking at the prices, I found myself frustrated. They had gone up! And having worked in this industry for a long time, I know that there have been NO advancements in the world of non-slips that could warrant such a price hike. So WTF?

To the men’s section I went. And I wish I could say my jaw dropped, but what actually happened was an audible, “of course.” The same exact style was $10 cheaper in the men’s section. I grabbed my size (8 in men’s) and ran back downstairs to confirm with the women’s shoe that they were in fact the same. And yes. There was a slight difference in the width of the toe area, but otherwise the same. So why the price difference? Especially when typically women’s shoes of the same style require less material as women’s feet run smaller?

I really don’t know. But what I do know is that it shouldn’t be called “pink tax.” Pink tax is too polite for this form of prejudice. Can we please stop shrouding sexism and gender inequality in cute pastel colours? It should be called “no dick tax.” As in if you don’t have a dick, so you have to pay a tax. It gets right to meat of the issue by saying women are without and that’s why we pay more.

I bought the men’s shoes. And boy oh boy, did they ever get rave reviews:

“Those shoes are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen.”
– Single White Male Coworker

“You know Becca, I can get behind your gender-bending style, the suits, the hats, suspenders, I’m into it. It’s sexy. But those shoes do not make me want to fuck you.”
– Different Single White Male Coworker

Instead of crying myself to sleep after failing at my only objective in life, I came up with an idea for a new tax. I propose a “no vagina tax” wherein every time a man thinks he has the right to comment on a woman’s body or how a woman chooses to dress her body, he has to pay a fine. As in you don’t have a vagina and because of that you say and do wildly inappropriate things, so you have to pay a tax. And we can then use that money to support victims of sexual assault. Now there’s a tax I think we can all get behind! #novaginatax

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A coworker asked me the other day if I ever just talk to myself out loud. I was flabbergasted. The answer to her question is hell yes. All. The. Fuckin’. Time. What shocked me is that somehow, somehow she had yet to be catch me doing it?!

I guess I’m better at knowing when to let my words run free and when not to. If I’m at home alone, it’s open season. All waking hours. Usually start my day off with something like “Charlie, you don’t get fed for another two hours, “ “I don’t want to workout today,” or “that’s enough Instagram before nine a.m.” And then there are the times when I’m walking in public with headphones in but no music on. I’ll be talking to myself and the second I suspect I’ve been caught, I break into song.

One day I thought I was home alone and so was yammering on like I always do and then my roommate emerged from her room. Surprise! I was instantly coated in head to toe shame. But why? Everyone does it. And I think it’s healthy. I mean, when I’m alone, I’m able to get out all the garbage. I congratulate myself for pooping by saying, “I pooped” multiple times to myself for about an hour after this achievement. It’s out of my system. Figuratively and literally. And that way when I go out in public, there is no longer a desire to share said information. Or rather I’m able to bury the desire to share it (If it was up to me, I’d throw a parade every time).

My dad was an out-louder. It drove me nuts as a kid, but now as an adult I completely understand. So many thoughts are running through your mind at any given moment that it can be grounding to get out the fluff. The “no, I don’t want to eat that” an answer to a question that was never asked but prompted by seeing the can of olives you bought in an attempt to snack on “healthy fats” instead of all the popcorn and m&ms the world has to offer. Or the “I gotta wash a load of underwear. Meh. Later.” Or worse, the “fuck, I knew I’d forget to do that load of underwear?!” Now there’s room for genius to come through. Well. Room for something that isn’t celebrations of poop to come through, genius not guaranteed.

I’m done with being embarrassed for being human. For doing something that everyone does, whether they cop to it or not. I know who I am and I am proud and confident in my skin. And I don’t want to waste anymore time apologizing. So next time I’m walking down the street and someone catches me saying, “did I put deodorant on today?” I’m going to lock eyes and smile and quietly whisper, “in case you were wondering, I pooped earlier.”

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“I love your androgynous style.” This is something I have been told on more than one occasion. And I am happy to use hashtags like “genderbender” when posting pics of myself in a suit because I realize suits for women aren’t the quote-unquote norm for a fancy occasion. When people think red carpet women, they immediately picture a dress. I, however, more often than think pant suit. It’s not a comfort thing. I love dresses and have many comfortable ones. It’s not a statement about my sexuality, my gender, or me taking a stand against how women are treated on red carpets. Though they are often treated like a mannequin with no talent beyond wearing a designer dress, but I digress. For me, it’s as simple as this: I feel sexy in a suit. And powerful. And clean. And head-turning. I do it for me, because that day, I want to wear a suit so I’m gonna to wear a fuckin’ suit.

And I know you have the best intentions when you tell me I’m “androgynous.” But effectively what you are doing is robbing me of my femininity. The suit does not do this. You do this. You and your ideas of the suit. Your ideas of fashion. Your ideas of what you feel welcome to comment on. My “genderbender” is mine. And you commenting on it is for one: unsurprising, but more importantly: unwanted.

Confused about where to go in this “new” politically correct world? Let me help. Consider noting the feeling evoked by the look that the person has thrown together. “You look commanding.” “I love your presence in this outfit.” “You look radiant, powerful, unstoppable.” Or perhaps the person looks delicate, full of grace, classical, poised, fierce, inspirational, mysterious, confident. Trust me: if you cut through the outfit itself and opt for what is inside instead, I guarantee that that person will remember that compliment over the thousand other “you look beautifuls.” And they will definitely appreciate it more than “I love your androgynous style.”

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A folder on my Thinkpad laptop circa 2011 of tbt photos

A folder on my first iPhone circa 2007 of tbt photos

A folder on my Toshiba laptop circa 2005 of tbt photos

A second edition of framed concert stubs

Learning how to enhance video quality just because

Enhancing an old dance video

Learning that video enhancers can only do so much with a tiny blurry video shot on someone else’s phone

Scanning my DVD collection and taking one movie from each shelf to donate/sell/swap

Vowing to take my donate/sell/swap pile to Sonic Boom/BMV/Value Village soon

Youtubing Graham Norton clips

Youtubing Lipsync battles

Youtubing Veterans being reunited with their family

Youtubing makeup hacks to make it look like you haven’t been crying after all the reunited veteran clips

Following my cat around on all-fours just to see what life might be like from his vantage point

Making a folder of knitting patterns

Sorting through my collection of half-completed knitting projects

Knitting a few rows on the cardigan that WAS a Christmas present for my friend in 2014

Googling how to make homemade Larabars

Venturing to Walmart, Bulk Barn, and Sobeys for ingredients to make homemade Larabars

Placing ingredients on kitchen counter to make homemade Larabars at a later date

Scanning the Recently Added folder on Netflix

Rewatching Buffy for entertainment

Rewatching Buffy as a writing case study

Rewatching Buffy as therapy

Organizing my books according to genres: Read, Not Read, Will Never Read but Won’t Get Rid Of

Brainstorming ways to make my procrastinating from Writing at least benefit my Writing in some way

Write a blog about it

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Netflix dropped a bomb on me this week: To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. It’s a movie about a junior in High School whose secret love letters somehow get mailed to the five loves of her life. Teen melodrama ensues. And it’s fuckin’ magic.

This is the kind of movie that I would normally put on to lull me into a deep sleep. The mindless fluff that promises sweet dreams. Or so I thought.

Instead, I found myself giddy with all the feels. I was utterly invested in the leading lady’s journey. I was kicking my feet with excitement when she and her co-star finally express their feelings for each other. It didn’t hurt that John Corbett, or rather Aidan from Sex & the City was also in the film. Remember that episode when Carrie finds out he’s using Rogaine and he’s all “I don’t want to talk about!” Well, it worked. The man still has a damn good head of hair.

I used to think maybe I’d grow out of my appreciation of a teen rom-com, but now I know it’s here to stay. And I’m okay with it. Riverdale, Love Simon, The Duff – I eat it up. And I’m no stranger to rewatching the faves from my teen years either – Clueless, Mean Girls, 10 Things I Hate About You, 10 Things I Hate About You again because it’s so beyond brilliant. Unlike Zac Efron, I have no desire to be seventeen again, but fuck if I don’t love watching stories about that time in my life.

Maybe it’s time I write one myself…

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Standard party conversation, or perhaps late night talks under the stars, or stoned moments of clarity: if you could download any skill like they do in the Matrix, what would it be?

Some people need time to think. They either haven’t thought of their answer before or perhaps they’re searching for the answer that will make them seem the most… intellectual? Or the most virtuous? Or just the most. These people eventually come up with answers like “infinite patience” or “the answer to ending world hunger.” Which makes them sound much more like a contestant in a Beauty Pageant than having their desired effect.

Other people have quick answers. And I would be of the that category: Guitar.

“But Rebecca, guitar is something you could pick up and learn at any time.” And to that I would say, you are right. But then I would present to you my 15 year-old acoustic guitar that I have had re-strung 3 times by three different men, all of whom I had a crush on. I would follow it up by saying when I was 16 I took a few lessons, and then again when I was 25. And every year it appears on my list of new years resolutions and vision boards acting as a regular reminder that I have been failing at this goal for fifteen years.

Like I said, you’re right, I could learn guitar. But then I’d have to learn guitar. And I don’t want to learn guitar. I want to be able to play guitar. I want to go over to a girl’s apartment for the first time, see a guitar that happens to belong to her roommate, pick it up and play a few chords. She’d melt. I’d shrug and put the guitar down. Fire would ensue. And I don’t mean to say I’d like to be able to play guitar so I can get some, although yes. What I mean is that I want to be able to play guitar for the social benefits. Music is universal. Tell me you’ve never been envious of the person with the guitar around the campfire? If you haven’t then it’s because you were THAT person. Heeding requests and controlling the vibe of the evening, all eyes on you waiting to fulfill their individual musical desires. I wonder how that feels? Is it a partnership? Are you every bit as focused on the people listening as they are on you?

To the people concerned about what their answer says about their character, I feel you. Not being consumed by what others think of me is a day to day struggle. Let it be known that I don’t judge you. So when you say, “I’d want to download the ability to perform any surgery so that I could heal the world” the most you’ll get from me is a knowing smile.

Then I’d follow that up with, “I’ve been thinking about learning the guitar, any chance you know how to play?”

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Ingredients:

1 cup English Breakfast Tea with unlimited hot water top-ups to stay caffeinated
20 oz of Water in enviro-friendly water bottle that sends the message that you are a nerdy, strong feminist – pretentious peacocking
1 Bic Pen
1 Notebook with quote that makes you feel equal parts generic and accountable
1 Coffee Shop that has private restrooms because all that caffeine is going to go RIGHT through you
1 set of Headphones because the coffee shop playlist has too many recognizable songs that distract you from writing

Substitutions:

1. Substitute the Tea for Coffee

2. Substitute the Notebook and Pen for a Laptop (Note: this may result in decreased productivity due to: (1) lack of generic and yet TRULY inspirational quote, and (2) easy access to distractions like social media and online shopping carts. Both can lead to an underbaked script).

3. Substitute the Coffee Shop for Park Bench, Library, Subway, Home Office (Note: Home
office may have increased distractions like cats, laundry, and/or a bookcase that totally needs reorganizing this second because who could get any writing done with the chaos that is THAT shelf?! This may also lead to a Pinterest board full of other beautifully baked scripts and an accompanied self-loathing due to how much of a stupid procrastinating shitty script baker you truly are).

4. Remove Headphones all together. (Note: Be wary of uninvited conversations from other coffee shop (or library or subway) goers that may cause an allergic reaction resulting in red face, rapid heartbeat, twitchy eye, and an urge to shout at a stranger
because SERIOUSLY, don’t they know you’re writing the script that is FINALLY going to let the world see how amazing you are and that you’re the writer Hollywood has been waiting for and this script of yours will probably also cure world hunger and save the planet and that their trivial conversations about how their husband just doesn’t get that women prefer romance over porn IS LITERALLY KILLING THE FUCKIN’ PLANET!?!

Directions:

Mix all ingredients.
Repeat everyday until the script is done. Then re-bake script starting from the very beginning over and OVER until you’re certain it can’t be baked any longer.

Congratulations! You’ve just baked a First Draft.

Bake time: ~3 months to 3+ years… with no assurance it will actually ever taste good.

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I live in the wrong place. Or maybe I live in the right place but in the wrong time. Wrong time not because I am plagued by nostalgia for a different era like Owen Wilson’s character in Midnight in Paris. Although, the 50s – am-I-right? But wrong time because the weather is going fuckin’ loco. I love Toronto. It is a city that literally never sleeps. And as someone who comes from a government town or as I’ve heard it called “the city that fun forgot” the liveliness of Toronto is exactly what I need. The weather though? Enough.

I remember driving from Ottawa to Toronto as a kid in the winter months and marveling at the fact that the closer and closer we got to the city, the less and less snow we saw. It wasn’t the snow-covered roads, five-foot high snow banks, and seven layer outfits, that I was used to. It was just enough snow around Christmas that Toronto could maintain Canadian status (because what isn’t more Canadian than the idea that we live in a snowstorm?) and once the Christmas trees hit the curb, the snow left the ground. It was, in a word: perfect. I needed to move here.

So I did. But after seven years of living in Toronto, I am broken-hearted. It is not the idea of perfection I once thought it to be. It’s turned into seven months of winter, plus one month of rain-shit-storms before and after winter. Really we have three months of sunshine, if we’re lucky. The reasons for this are clear. But this isn’t a post on global warming. It’s a post on change. Toronto has changed. And maybe it’s time I did too. The sunshine is calling me. And I’ve hit ignore on that call for way too long.