maryams brain has moved

to maryamaquarium.wordpress.com

gah!! in search for creativity...almost as difficult as my search for chocolate

i have nothing to blog about anymore other than my lack of things to blog about. i have no good stories! none! i mean, no one cares that i was kicked out of parliament, or that i dropped a banner in front of the CEO of RBC in front of all his corporate CEO buddies, or that i finally crossed the Canada-US border without being either questioned about the nuclear policy of my birth-country or being searched for hard drugs and being mistaken for a drug mule...nobody cares!

i have absolutely nothing to blog about. as i type i am in NYC, visiting my brother. for the weekend i escaped my incredibly mundane life in TO for a NYC vacation to visit my brother and search for blog-post-inspiration, and i have absolutely nothing!

thus i chose to compare my lack of inspiration to my current craving for a small piece of chocolate. just a little bit is all i want.

my brother bought three ferrerro rochers this morning, and instead of giving one to me, he ate two and allowed me a nibble of the last before he shoved the rest of the third chocolate into his mouth. he did not share. the garbage face was never a favourite on the playground.

the more i trace back the root cause of my current chocolate craving, the more i realize that it is because my brother has been spending the past three days actively depriving me of the things i love. not even the things i love...he will deprive me of anything he can

my brother goes out of his way to make sure that i do not get what i want.

Example:
I wanted to get a MUD coffee. MUD is a coffee brand typical of Manhattan's Lower East Side. My brother tried to convince me that there was a MUD coffee truck (it is served from a truck) around the corner. I have wandered enough around the Lower East Side to know this wasnt the case.
"No there isnt"
"Believe me. I live here"
"But I DONT believe you"

Giving into the physical force and shear whiny nature of my older brother, we continued to walk away from the MUD truck--both knowing very well that there was no other MUD truck and that the only reason we were not getting a coffee was because my brother was childish enough to throw a hissy fit outside the Astor Place subway stop. My brother had actively gone out of his way to make sure that i could be deprived of the simplest form of satisfaction. Now i will admit, that I was not prepared to hurt him over this issue, but i was prepared to complain. but if it has to do with something that will satisfy me--he is just always prepared to complain more.

I find the more and more i hang out with my brother, the more and more i am looking for little indulgences that can add to my happiness. Maybe it is because every time i come to NYC I:

• Am forced to find something vegetarian at a steak-house...which ends up in me eating meat (and in the most adventurous of times it has been to go as far as to eat raw beef)
• Walk with him to his office on a weekend so that he can pick up a file he forgot to put on his USB key--and then proceed to watch him google his name and read up on which economics-blog has mentioned him
• am reminded about how he is always right merely because of the fact that he is not allowed to be interrupted while he is making his argument, and i am simply not allowed to finish mine
• Told that i am too fat and that i should wax my mustache and that i should wear deoderant--all comments that would make someone feel like a sasquatch
• have him either rub soapy hands on my face, brush my face with his tooth-pasty toothbrush, or flick his snot at me
• end up being grumpy because of all of the above

I need to sneak in any form of satisfaction because i know if my brother finds out--he will get in the way!

Now there is the coffee example, but are there more examples of how he is in fact expending more energy than he would otherwise, just to make me grumpy?

Let's explore:

• He would ask for bacon bits on a salad, knowing very well i am not a fan of bacon (he actually only did this when i was a vegan...now that i eat meat, he will always recommend a vegetarian restaurant)
• He will have googled his name 10 seconds ago, and still insist that we stay and google his name...again! and then google-image it
• He wont just say "You need to lose 10 pounds and you need to wax your mustache and you need to wear deoderant," but rather he will wait till we are at dinner with all his friends. Then he will smell my armpit and then he will YELL the aforementioned quote
• Now COME ON! Seriously..it is easier for someone to just wash their hands, brush their teeth, or just simply pick their nose than it is to take the effort to open the bathroom door, walk down the hallway, pass the living room, and open the door into another room to bother your sibling

I dont even know what to say to people when they ask "are you close?" Well i wouldnt rub a pasty toothbrush on just anyone's face!

But then again, i wouldnt really do that to anyone

So while i still crave chocolate, i am also still sitting in frustration, thinking that the only reason i really want chocolate is because i have been deprived of enjoying anything this weekend. when we go to a restaurant my brother will always order two things because he cannot decide what he wants. so "we will get two things and split them, okay?" We will not be able to hang out with my friends because we have to go to a "boxing" party. We will not leave the house unil 3pm because he will wake up at noon and then insist on going to the gym, as well as taking about an hour to get ready for the gym--which requires nothing more than getting your shoes and t-shirt: "But i have to look for my GYM head phones...i dont want THOSE head phones."

If only he gave me the entire last ferrero rocher as opposed to 1/4 of a ferrero rocher i wouldnt be so grumpy. Maybe if he let me have a cup of coffee, i wouldnt be so grumpy. maybe i would be able to focus on writing a blog post and being creative, rather than focussing on how much i am craving something from a latin american BEAN!

BAH!

losing dimensions

as i have been writing less and less about myself, i find i am writing more and more about climate change. i have written several blog entries, but all related to climate change, and none realted to my life. Is my life no longer interesting? Or maybe it is just that my life is (get ready for cheese) being involved in the climate movement.

I am trying to think of how i can continue to make fun of my friends and family, but as soon as i do--my mind just becomes filled with issues of Canada's lack of climate policy and action on climate change; and safeguarding human rights; and protecting people within its own geopolitical borders as well as people outside; and shutting down the tar sands; and committing to science-based emission reduction targets; and passing a bill that would be the closest thing to climate policy that the country has ever seen; and protecting Canada's northern communities, and other marginalized communities such as indigenous peoples, rural communities, island communities, and coastal communities; and how to lobby our elected officials; and ....breathe....and listening to the many messages left on their answering machines, and

oh dear lord...

SEE!

Anyways...if you are interested at all in the Canadian Climate Movement...please start by visiting some of the websites above. Until then, i will be a one dimensional climate kid...

dear sasquatch...are you ignoring me cause im a beatnik?

Dear Sasquatch,
Please stop ignoring me.
Love,
-maryam

I went to my first Poetry Slam tonight. For those of you who do not know what a poetry slam is, it is a poetry contest. But since poets make very little money and the only way they can validate what they do is by being creative and using their poetic license--thus an average "contest" becomes a SLAM!

one of the lovely parts of the evening, were listening to the guest poets from Vancouver. these vancouverites made me feeel very at home. their poems were much funnier than the torntonian poets (which were much more dark and disturbing...more on that later). for me, this gave them more legitamacy as poets......it was as if they were not afraid of being HAPPY poets. they were so comfortable in their identity as poets that they could break the norm of being the "disturbed, beatnik poet" and could bask in the fact that they were HAPPY doing what they ENJOYED. i think the toronotian poets were still a little unsure of their poetry selves and felt that they needed to really fit the beatnik-mold and pretend they were unhappy before they would be able to admit to the rest of the world that they were generally content with their lives like the rest of us.

dont spread your negativity with US! blame your parents for giving you a generic childhood of playing in the streets and eating peanut butter jelly sandwiches. now i want to hear about a poem about a generic childhood!! (my attempt later)

now when you hear real poetry (and when i mean real poetry, i mean the general poetry you hear which is from beatnik posers who are not comfortable being poets and writing poems that are about being HAPPY) you will usually hear poems about their shitty life, death, love, or a broken heart.

Their shitty life:
Poets are ALWAYS suffering. Apparently their lives always suck. But i still feel like they make their lives shitty as a form of inspiration. Which gives me an entirely new outlook on self-deprecating writing. I mean....i thought i was a self-deprecating writer...but these guys REALLY put themselves down. yeesh. Oh...and poets also tend to live in the shittier parts of town. they use it for inspiration. which is ridiculous because why would you live in a shitty part of town and then go and make it your proffession to talk about living in a shitty part of town? wackos!

Poems about death:
Often include a gun. If the poet is not talking about suicide, they are probably talking about murder. Or they are talking about hell. Or the devil. These poems also often include drugs, most commonly crack or cocaine. Occasionally they will involve marijuana. this is rare, and mostly used in conjunction with one of the other substances and will usually only be mentioned if there is an allusion to abuse of the substance. alcohol...like marijuana, too common to be mentioned, thus will only be mentioned if the poet is alluding to an alcoholic (or being that alcoholic).

Love and heartbreak....
How can you tell if a poet is going to talk about love or heartbreak?
dude=love
dudette=heartbreak

Now before i go further, i will mention that when poets talk about love and heartbreak it is more often than not, heterosexist/heteronormative. Which is very interesting, because poets are progressive almost all the time. In most poems (be it about whatever topic of suffering) will often include satires on politcs, race, religion, etc. They will push the envelope on every controversial issue BUTTTTTTT....guys still like girls and girls still like guys.

Dudes talking about love:
they always compare their lady to an innanimate object. you think they would be original and use their poetic license to talk about something beautiful (you know, conjuring up images of love and whatnot). you think they would write poems that they would want to read to this special womyn. you would think that they write poems that make us swoon, and make us feel loved. you would think that they would write poems that make me look into their eyes. you would think that they would write poems that make me feel unique. well if you want to do all that, stop comparing me to toast!

Dudettes talking about heartbreak:
holy shit! dont mess with these ladies.

Now what are the kind of poems that I would write? The poems like the poem above:

Dear Sasquatch,
Please stop ignoring me.
sincerely,
-me

If i felt incredibly strong about this topic, i would make it a haiku.

So, i know what you are thinking: "maryam, why are you making fun of girls who write about heartbrake, and you yourself are talking about heart break?"
Well...since i am not really in love with Sasquatch and i am making a joke, it is okay. And since i am generally a content person, i will write about my generally content life:

This poem is called: maryam's generic life (insert beatnik snapping and hipster clothing)
When i was five years old my mom gave me multivitamins and i questioned her.
Why was she feeding me the vitamins and minerals i needed in pill form?
i questioned her. i questioned her but only in my mind
only in my mind-for i knew...i knew
that IF i said those words to her face she...
would question....
me....

She would question why i asked and what was my concern
she may even stop giving them to me so that i would stop yapping in her face
and i didnt want her to do that, to change her normal morning routine,
to change her behaviour towards her son and me
to change....
to change.....
to change herself
NO
i didnt want my mom to change herself

she already had so much to think of. and then she would tell my dad and he would worry
he would worry that i may doubt the way they were raising me
or maybe that i would doubt society
or maybe that i would doubt the fact that our pharmaceutical companies are making us injest all these vitamins and minerals so that we can later get tested by a doctor who tells us we dont have enough of a certain vitmain and/or mineral and then makes us go to another doctor who makes us buy bottles of vitamins and minerals and then...
and then....

breathe....
before....
they send you...
to...

a naturopath

but now you have a naturopath giving you pills
and then you are no longer questioning your mom and dad. and you forget how to doubt because by that time the pharmaceutical companies shove those pills down your throat you are too far in to "the system" to think for yourself

but i knew that my parents would never send me to a naturopath...
so i never questioned

END SCENE!

**now lets deconstruct what makes this stupid story a "poem"
1. lines are different lengths and there are at least TWO run-on sentences
2. there is EMPHASIS on certain words (somewhat randomly)
3. it makes my life seem so drammatic
4. i speak of my parents as if they ruined my childhood, giving me legitamcy within the poet world

snapsnapsñapsñapsñap........

***note: the ñ were inserted because now I have poetic license :)

people suck...generally....

I have always wanted to blog about my life in retail. I don’t know how to organize it, so now i am just gonna rant. Have fun!

people are:
1. weird,
2. douche bags
3. not funny, and
4. want to be unique
You are reminded of this every day you work in retail.

I never understand why they think that my being attached to a cash register automatically puts me in the roll of that person who will:
1. Entertain them
2. Listen to their offensive crap
3. Laugh at their awful jokes, and
4. Ooo and aaahhh at everything they say

Weird:
“Hi, are you going to be mad at me like the other girl?”
“Huh?”
“Last time I was here, the girl got mad at me.”
“Okay.”

Let’s analyze the situation and why this conversation is so unbelievably stupid. In fact, I actually think several seconds of my life went by and I am not going to get them back. This situation is so stupid because I have absolutely no idea what he is talking about, who he is talking about, and if he is trying to entertain people and crack a smile out of complete strangers with a line like this, he really needs to re-evaluate.

Douche bag:
“Cold?”
“no, why?”
“your hat? Why are you wearing a hat.”
“Oh..i haven’t showered in a couple of days.”
“What? Are you some sort of hippie?”

Now let’s analyze this situation:
I say “Yes, I am a hippy,” and i glare at him. He feels awkward and i continue to be grumpy.
He says, “No,” and i glare at him. He feels awkward and I continue to be grumpy.

Both situations end with my feeling grumpy. This dude is a jerk.
If he doesn’t feel awkward, then he is a bigger jerk.

Not funny:
“Oh, you cannot scan the item? It’s free!”
There are so many reasons that this is not funny. Mainly because i hear this every day, and also because the reason is not scanning is that this moron decided to pick the ONLY one without a tag. Thanks! You know that i am not just going to give you the item! If you rip a tag off a t-shirt it is not free! When you rip a sticker off an apple, it is not free! Your joke sucks!
Want to be unique:
“So, I am going to Mount Kilimanjaro......” (Pause where they expect you to ooo and aahhh...)
silence
“and i need a blah blah blah excessive unnecessary item that i really DONT need but am using my trip to Kilimanjaro to say that i need blah blah blah”
“Okay...well, i don’t know exactly which one would be the best for you because i have never been to Mount Kilimanjaro, but if you want to ask someone who may care you should ask those 10 people over there because they are also going."

You know what would make you unique? If you offered me oatmeal raisin chocolate chip cookies....MY FAVOURITE! THANKS! Going to Mount Kilimanjaro does not make you unique. It is like going to lingerie store and saying you are looking for something "sexy for your boyfriend." What does someone say..."oooo...boyfriend..."

get over yourself

booby blogging

When you walk into Mountain Equipment Co-op, you never want to admit to them that you cant tell the difference between a kayak paddle and a canoe paddle.

When you go to a hair dresser, you do not want to admit to them that sometimes you wash your hair with soap and that you do not even own a hair brush.

When you go to lululemon, you do not want to admit to them that you do not wear their apparel to your yoga classes, and that you only own one thong that you only wear on laundry day (which means you will only wear their pants on laundry day or dread the social crisis of panty lines), or that you are actually not going to purchase anything in the store because the bright lights make you dizzy.

And when you go into a bra-fitting store, you do not admit that you only own one bra, it doesn’t even fit (and you know that), and you have refused to go bra shopping because you know what an excruciating ordeal it is to actually find one that fits and doesn’t make you feel like a sixty-year-old who is just looking for something comfortable.

Now why bother going to a special bra-fitting store?

I was convinced by a former housemate who told me that 90% of women wear bras that do not fit them, and that when you have a bra that does fit, it feels as though someone is holding onto your breasts all the time. Hmm...thats nice.
“Well..I have a pretty good bra,” I tell her. “It feels pretty good...i think i have a perfect fitting bra.”
“I bet you don’t,” she responds.
“Well, how is it supposed to fit?”
“It is supposed to fit like this (insert extremely long explanation of how a bra is supposed to fit here)”
“Yeah, my bra totally fits perfectly!”
“I don’t believe you. Let me see.” She then grabbed my shirt and looked down it. i stood there uncomfortably as she compromised, “hmmm...i guess it is not so bad. But when you are in Toronto, you should go get fitted...that is where i got fitted.”

So a month later I moved to Toronto and my perfect fitting bra fell apart because it was about 7 years old (also never admit the age of your bra to a bra-fitting specialist or your girly friends...apparently it is gross or weird or smthg..i dont know). Fortunately for me I had one other bra at the time. Unfortunately for me, that bra was black (making it particularly awkward under all of the white shirts I own) and it did not fit (making it particularly awkward under everything else I own). I finally went to the bra fitting store. I was mentally prepared for the ordeal and I set aside an entire morning.

Now, for those of you who have never been to a specialty bra store, let me set the stage. The cheapest bra you will find is about 60$ and the most expensive bra is probably more expensive than a wedding dress. The people who work there know a lot about bras. EVERYTING! They will speak to you as if they themselves follow bra-ness as a religion...and i bet they don’t! They told me to pack my bra in a Tupperware when i am travelling. Good idea to maintain the bra’s lifespan...but seriously, how practical is that? Also, the people who GO to these bra fitting stores are not usually common proletariat like myself. I showed up wearing sweats...I went shopping in sweats! That is just not done. If you are going to walk into a small, specialty boutique, you must dress as if you belong in a small, specialty boutique. I do not know how to best communicate my sentiments to this social construction...other than, FUCK YOU!

The first time i went to this bra-fitting store, I went to get fitted and to try on a bunch of bras so that i could really understand how a bra is supposed to fit. I spent about an hour and a half trying on bras, and i left without buying a single one because they were all way too expensive. I cannot afford to spend that much on my boobs. I planned on learning everything i could abour perfect bra-fitting, and then going to La Senza (the proletariat/people´s bra shop) and buy a cheap one that fits. I would turn to the staff and say let them no that after so graciously spending 90 minutes of their day with me (working on commission), I appreciate it.

(As if someone´s “appreciation” is more satisfaction than a larger number on your pay check)
...for those of you who have never worked on commission....ITS NOT!

Anywhoo..since it had been a few months since my last bra fitting, i felt that my body had changed a little and that i may be a different size....

So i went to this bra store for the second time. Again, wearing sweats.
“Have you been here before?” she kindly asks me—even though she is thinking (duh, she has never been here before...i bet she doesn’t know the difference between padding and push-up! Ugh. And she is wearing sweats.)
“Yes.”
“you HAVE!?”
“Yes. But you are not supposed to question that...you are supposed to say, ‘okay, let me pull up your file.’” (yes...they keep a file on you. They know your size, which bras you purchased/liked, or which bras you put on your “wish list” ..it is a weird sort of bra-registry).

Wait...i wasn’t that snarky...

“Okay...do you have a file?”
“Yes”
“You DO?” I wonder why she was so surprised...it was as if i didn’t have boobs or something...? “Okay...what is your last name?” I told her my last name and she proceeded to look through their database of clients. They couldn’t find me....i totally knew they would delete my file after they found out i wasn’t gonna buy any of their overpriced bras.
So we did the fitting all...over...again.....
Ugh. I jumped into a fitting room and the lady followed me in with a tape measure and asked me to take off my shirt. I don’t understand why i willingly put myself in these vulnerable situations.
“You are a 32D”
“What!?”
“That is right..i will go find a bra that fits....” Please note that these bra shops are not your typical lingerie store. They are more like bra museums, or bra archives. There are only a select number of bras on display. The rest are in their basement/magical warehouse of bras. They bring YOU what they think you want/will be comfortable in.
“nonono..hold on....are you sure you measured MY boobs...i mean...i know i felt the measuring tape...but i don’t think that is right.”
“Umm...yeah it is.”
“But that wasn’t my size last time.”
“Your breasts and bodies are always changing.” Oh....so THAT is what puberty is all about... She continues, “Was that a long time ago?”
“No.”
“Well...how about I bring you some bras and you can try them on.”
“Sure. But i would prefer if you brought me a bra that fit! Considering you have all the control over which bras I actually get to try on.” I felt even more vulnerable. She had the future of my breasts in her hand...if only i had access to the depths of the bra basement!
The first bra she brings...
“This should fit.”
Should it? Give me access to your bra basement, bitch!
After bringing me an array of bras, we finally found a suitable bra that fit. Yay!
“Yay! Thank you very much. I appreciate (key word that indicates you are not actually going to buy the $300 bra in your hand because it is larger than your last pay check) your help!” I held the holy bra in my hand and folded it up how i usually fold my bra, efficiently and neatly as she asks if i know how to take care of my bras.

“Now....” i sensed the tension in her voice, “you never want to fold your bra that way.” Aaaa...i just performed bra-sacrilege! She gently took the bra from me as if i had proven that i was no longer worthy. “And I assume that you only hand wash your bras...”

Why would you assume that? Just simply because i walked in here? Eff no...i shove my bra in the washing machine like the rest of them....but i nodded my head kindly to make up for my previous wrong-doing of bra folding. She then continued to talk about bra-care and i continued to nod until i realized that i was actually thinking about how if i was Kelso from that 70's show, I would also cheat on Jackie...what a bitch! Oh right....drying my bra properly.

“So, now that we have found you a strapless, did you say you need an everyday bra?”

Oh dear lord..

We continued to talk about bras, and the number of ghasps that came from her mouth almost shocked me.
Even though I knew I should never have told her these things, in our coversation the following bra-no-nos came out:

-i do not hand wash my bras

-i will probably not hand wash the bra i buy today

-i only own one bra

-now that i have a bra that fits, i will probably stop wearing it and no longer wear my old bra that does not fit (bra-fitters truly believe you need many bras so that you can wear one bra while you tend to all the others....one bra is a definitely grounds for exhile)

-i wasn’t listening to any of the bra-care instructions

She carried the bra over to the counter, dissapointed as to the future of the bra she held. She looked at me with discontent, "have a great day and i hope you enjoy your bra." She then walked away closing her eyes as if she were trying to hold back her emotions...

I held my head down in shame behind her.