Door to Door War; A Film by Jared Eves

A short film by Jared Eves, a friend from Calgary. Check it out.

No Job, But Free Yoga

A recent lock-out at the cemetery across from our house inspired me to record the unkept state of the grounds.

At 19, when I was young and idealistic, I started a BFA in theater performance. Despite the lectures and warnings of those around me, I was determined to do what I loved, even if that meant waiting on tables for the rest of my life. I dragged out the degree, taking five years to finish it in all. I walked the stage at Place des Arts, wrapped my hands around my degree and was suddenly hit with a wave of fear. I had fought to have the day off of my crappy union job to attend my graduation and realized at that moment that I was no longer a student, but suddenly an out of work actor. I got scared, suddenly realizing what I had done. I called myself a teacher and boarded a plane to Korea, returning a year later with teaching experience and a new outlook on life. I was optimistic, enthusiastic and sure that I could easily secure work back in Montreal.

It seems I was wrong. After two and a half months of desperately looking for work, I finally landed a job teaching English at a private French school. But it was short lived. The woman I was replacing returned from sick leave and I was job hunting again. This time seemed easier, however. I was only looking for something short term- just for the summer. I hit restaurants with my cv and was sure that I had landed the first job I interviewed for. A friend of mine was a manager there, and on top of that I had run into an old co-worker during my interview who already worked there. He sat down and told his manager all the reasons he should hire me and concluded my interview by informing him of all the hoops he would jump through to get me to work at his restaurant. The manager told me that as far as he was concerned I had the job and he would call me in a couple days. No call. I left four messages, no call back. I accepted that they had passed me over, for whatever reason and hit the street again with a stack of cvs. A new Irish pub downtown interviewed me twice, finishing the second interview by telling me that training would start on Monday and they would call to confirm. No call. I called them and the very laid back manager rudely informed me that they had not made any decisions yet regarding staffing. Click. No phone call back. Next, I interviewed at a language school. The group interview started with some chit-chat, revealing that I was the more experienced of the three in our group. The owner came in, going on and on about the school's new and innovative methods, without ever revealing what was so new or innovative about what they were doing. He was unable to answer any of my questions and hardly looked at me throughout what he called 'an interview'. It was obvious that the school's new and innovative approach included brushing off experienced teachers. I had accepted that I didn't have the job before I left the office. The man called me two days later to confirm that he had hired one of the less experienced teachers. Two weeks later, he called me back to say that they were opening another new class of students and he would like to meet with me to discuss the possibility of working together. We met, talked, and decided that I would start teaching at this 'new and innovative' school starting on Monday. I turned up for a few hours to observe a few classes, in an effort to discover what was so unique about this place.

Sunday afternoon, as I sat on the bus to the the hospital to visit Fred, the phone rang. It seems the plane load of Mexicans that made up the class I was supposed to teach had decided to postpone their trip to Montreal. They would call me when and if the Mexicans in question decided to reschedule their trip. A couple days before, yet another restaurant that had interviewed me had called to offer me a job. It turned out, however, that they only had lunch shifts available now. Since I had secured this teaching job, I had turned it down.



Hearing what happened with the school, Fred's mom called her work. Her boss assured her that there would be a job for me at Brother. A week later, the manager of the customer service department called me to schedule an interview. Despite the extreme sense of condescension, all went well and she told me to expect a phone call from the HR department. A week and a half later, they called to schedule an interview. I bussed all the way out to the West Island to sit in a room with a very simple woman who felt the need to take advantage of her status as interviewer and insist that I tell her about a time when I did something I was not proud of. To my surprise, I was able to find just the right words to tell her it was none of her business, without actually saying that. They told me that I would start on June 18th. Then it was pushed to June 26th. Now the official start date is July 3rd. I've lost my patience with this company, and with the employment options available in Montreal. In no other city in Canada would a bilingual university graduate with teaching experience and a brain in her head have such trouble finding a job. I may have been idealistic at 19 when I threw myself into theater school, but I never imagined that even the customer service industry would want nothing to do with me. Either this is a sign that I'm not supposed to be in Montreal, or I'm being given a very clear indication that customer service is such a part of my past that it shouldn't even be a fall back... Just as my frustration had begun to give way to depression, my yoga studio called. They offered me a position as receptionist on Saturday mornings, in exchange for free yoga classes and towel service. Woohoo!! I may not be able to pay my rent, but at least I'll be relaxed about it.

After spending months trying to secure work in Montreal, my mind is beginning to wander. Thoughts of life in Toronto or Vancouver have begun creeping into my head. I love Montreal, but if being here means being unemployed, I've just about had it. I know that I haven't finished traveling, but I had always imagined Montreal as home. Now even that is being questioned...

A downpour in our backyard.

Ignorance was Bliss

I was a tomboy growing up. I argued with my mother about wearing skirts to church and did much better in shop class than I did in home-ec. I wore baggy clothes and was likely to be at soccer practice after school than at the mall. I saw my strings of flings as reinforcement of my feminist beliefs- the image of the woman alone, refusing to be domesticated. As I got older, things started to change. I gradually began to buy clothes that actually fit and enjoyed wearing a dress every once in awhile. I met Fred and bit by bit began to feel more domestic. I remained quite unable to cook, and was rather proud of my incompetence in the kitchen- largely because it assured me that my roommates would always cook for me. When I moved to Korea last year, it was with a heavy heart- I knew it was inevitable that living alone, I would finally learn to cook. But when I arrived, I found eating out so cheap and easy that the effort simply wasn't worth it. Here I am, back in Montreal and still unable to cook. As Fred went into the hospital for his transplant, I realized this was the ultimate test- if I could just make it through the next three months... Unfortunately the other day, I caved under pressure when Fred complained about his three sandwich a day diet. I bought a pound of salmon, cooked it in maple syrup and served it with grilled vegetables and fettucine alfredo. Part of me hoped it would be a terrible failure, but Fred loved it and has spent the last two days accusing me of being a good cook. Ignorance was bliss. Now it's into the kitchen with me.

These posts are becoming fewer and further between. I'd say I've been busy, but I don't really feel like that's true. Two weeks spent hanging around the Royal Victoria Hospital virtually killed any creative impulses I may have had. I suppose I have been busy, but most of my time has been spent hanging around with Fred- and then all the cooking, cleaning, housework and running about that one would expect when you're the only one doing the work. I don't know how women do it. Three weeks in and I'm already burnt out from it all- while at the same time, I'm giving myself little credit for all the work I am doing. No matter how much work you do, there always seems to be more. That said, I've also taken to reorganizing the apartment.

Fred continues to do well. It's been easy to forget that he's just undergone major surgery. He's up and about, accompanying me on long-ish walks to Queen Mary street. He's exhausted when we get home, but he's getting out a bit. His incision became infected before they released him, so they had to take a few staples out. This resulted in a gaping hole in his stomach about three inches long and an inch deep. A nurse is coming to the house twice a day for the last week to change his dressing, which has been oozing goo. Last week-end I played nurse myself, cleaning the inside of the wound, stuffing the hole with saline gauze and applying the necessary gauzes and tapes. I never thought I'd be able to do that. How many people can say they've seen the inside of their boyfriend's stomach?

It is so difficult for us to wrap our minds around what we have just been through. Boxes of insulin sit lonely in our fridge and I pass my days calling charities, hoping someone will accept the donation. Fred takes his blood sugar reading four times a day- lately the reading has been between six and ten, within the normal range. Prior to the transplant, his sugar level could be anywhere between two and thirty. He has had some really rough days in his recovery. Four days after the surgery, the doctors dropped his steroid dose considerably, resulting in an unexpected mood swing and a lot more pain than he had previously had. The tube that had been going through his nose to his stomach, the purpose of which was to suck out the stomach juices, was removed at his insistence. The following day, they had to put it back in because he was vomiting too much. Initially the tube had been inserted when he was under anesthetic, but the second time he was awake. It was badly placed and stuck out from his face at a 90 degree angle. His throat bled, his ears hurt and it irritated his stomach. Four times a day, he pops a handful of pills- two anti-rejection, a steroid, two pills for hypertension and a collection of antibiotics to prevent infection. Sixteen prescriptions in all, which will eventually drop to three. I spent an hour at the pharmacy last week getting the run-down on each drug and left feeling as though I should have the bag shackled to my wrist. Two months worth of Cellcept, one of the anti-rejection drugs, came to 1200$. The Prograf, also an anti-rejection was 4000$ for two months, and the antibiotic Valcyte was 5000$ for three months. Fortunately, the bill was passed onto the insurance company and I paid only for the box of multivitamins.

The last few weeks have been so surreal for me. It's hard to believe that our wait came to an end so quickly and that Fred's surgery and recovery went so smoothly. We've been reminded that although all looks good, we aren't out of the woods yet. There will still be ups and downs as his body adapts to his new organs and as they continue to ease him off his obscene dose of steroids. I've taken to calling Fred 'Triple Threat' or 'Three-Kidney Freddy', but I'm at a loss for pancreas-related nicknames. I'm sure this will result in countless new names, and eventually speculation as to who it was that passed on their organs so that he could live.

All kidding aside, if you haven't signed your donor card, please do. While we waited a short time for Fred's transplant, we were very fortunate. We have a friend who waited two years for a kidney and we met a man at the hospital who had been waiting three months at the hospital (and who knows how long before) for a liver transplant. He was unlucky enough to be a very generous O blood type- universal donor, but picky recipient. In Ontario, it is not uncommon for people to wait eight years for a kidney. In the Netherlands, three hundred people die every year waiting to receive a transplant. Consider for a moment what a difference your organs could make to so many after you pass on. And it isn't just one person that you'd be helping, but possibly as many as ten. Not to mention all the friends and family of those recipients that would also be affected by your generosity. Allow the last thing you do to be the most heroic thing you ever did.