My Life of Crime

1974: I was four. I stole a pack of Love Hearts from Wong's grocery down the street from where I lived. My mom had refused to buy me a treat that day, and for some reason my full-on tantrum didn't persuade her to change her mind. So, penniless and powerless, I did what any defiant sugar-addicted child would do. I took matters into my own grubby hands. I remember glancing around the store furtively, looking at Mr. Wong out of the corner of my eye, checking to see where my mom was in the store, looking to see if anyone else was watching...then slowly I picked up the Love Hearts and as discreetly as possible, I shoved them into my pocket.

Later that day my neighbour Stacey McCormick came over to play. Stacey had a voice so shrill she made Fran Drescher seem soft-spoken by comparison. My parents used to imitate her whenever she left our house. I couldn't stand Stacey, but I still couldn't resist the urge to impress her with what I'd done, so I pulled out the Love Hearts and gave her one. I explained to her in whispers that we had to hide them and she squealed, "WHY DO WE HAVE TO HIDE THEM?! I WANT ANOTHER LOVE HEART PLEASE!" My mother spun around, stormed over and pried the pack of candy from my clenched fist. The tell-tale lines of powdered sugar over our lips gave us away. I was busted.

My mom hauled me by my collar back to Mr. Wong's store and made me tell him what I'd done. I started to cry. Mr Wong smiled at me sweetly and waved his hands quickly.

"Is ok, is ok, she keep them--they free!"

"No, Mr. Wong, thank you, but it is NOT ok for Katie to steal from you. She has to pay for candy when she comes here," my mom said firmly.

"No, no!" cried Mr. Wong, embarrassed for me, "is ok--she good girl, she keep."

"No, Mr. Wong, Katie will pay for what she took," and she handed me a dime to give to Mr. Wong and made me apologize. I paid him and he smiled sympathetically at me, and I wanted to disappear on the spot because I was so ashamed.

1977: When I was seven, my family moved. My parents were busy getting the house finished. My sister and brother were in the grocery store next door, but I was killing time at Robinson's. Robinson's always had a bunch of cheap toys sitting in the front of the shop . It was summer and I remember being hot and incredibly bored. The girl at the counter was talking to a teenaged boy and laughing at everything he said. I looked around and no one was looking back at me, so quickly I grabbed a small ball, threw it in my pocket and walked out of the store.

I hurried around the corner and threw the ball around a bit, bouncing it against a concrete wall, but then I was hit by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made my stomach ache. I dusted the ball off, put it back in my pocket and went back into the store. I sidled up to the box I'd grabbed the ball from, and quickly dropped it back in. As I turned around the teenaged clerk was standing over me.

"I saw you take that ball!" she hissed.

"No I didn't!" I choked.

"I saw you!" she snarled.

I didn't have the ball anymore. I'd returned it. This hardly seemed fair.

"I don't have any ball! You can't prove anything!" I yelled and I ran out of the store. I was sick all night.

1986: I was sixteen. My friend Lee and I were hanging around downtown with nothing to do. We went into Fields and Lee shoved a pair of earrings into her purse. I stood back and watched her move through the racks of clothes like a seasoned pro--a scarf here, a lipstick there--I was in awe. When no one was watching I grabbed a training bra out of its box, caught Lee's eye and grinned at her as I shoved it into my own purse. We ran out of the store clutching each other and laughing hysterically.

Then we went to the grocery store. We didn't really need groceries, but there was nothing else to do. Lee's mom's boyfriend was over at her house and he was a jerk, and my parents were normal and that was too boring to subject my cool friend to, so we had few alternatives aside from hanging out in the Pay-Less Gas Station parking lot with the older stoners from our high school, and they scared the shit out of us. We fingered the different items along the aisles, commenting on what we liked or what was making us hungry, and I spied a pack of Chipits milk chocolate chips.

"God, I love those things," I told Lee. "I could eat a whole bag of those."

"Take it," she said.

"No, what am I going to do with a bag of chocolate chips?"

"You should," she said, rolling her eyes at me. "If you don't, I will." I laughed at her, but I was getting nervous. She grabbed the pack off the shelf and shoved it into the enormous pocket of the trench coat she was wearing. As we walked through the store she grabbed other items. Some candy, Teen magazine, a bottle of Ten-O-Six Lotion from Bonne Belle. Anything she couldn't fit into her enormous coat, she would shove into my purse. I was freaked out, but I wasn't going to do anything about it because I didn't want her to think I was worried about it. We continued down the aisle, and as we turned to enter the next one, I felt a hand land firmly on my shoulder. It was a tall skinny guy wearing a sweater vest who looked like Ichabod Crane. It was the manager.

He and another employee walked us into their back office. I could feel my pulse racing. I was shaking like crazy and I thought I was going to start crying. My parents would kill me. Lee would be fine. Her mom let her do anything. She used to drive her mom's car when she was fourteen and her mom told her if she ever got caught she had to tell the cops she'd taken it without permission.

He told us we had a choice. We could either call our parents and tell them what we'd done and get them to come and get us, or he would call the cops. He may as well have said I could either face a firing squad or run naked across a mine field while holding giant magnets.

He left the room. Lee called her mom and her mom said she'd come and get her. When it was my turn, I didn't know what to do. My parents would lose it. So, I dialed Lee's mom.

"Mrs. Mason, my parents aren't home and I need..." suddenly I heard a click followed by a dial tone. The office door swung open and the manager stormed in. He'd been listening to my call on another line.

"I told you you could either tell your parents, or I would call the police. You've left me with no choice."

Lee left with her mom. I sat in the office by myself, stomach churning, waiting for the police to arrive.

The police came and walked me out of the store. Everyone in the store, including kids who went to my school, stared as I left. When I got to the car, they put cuffs on me and made a big show of putting me in the back and locking it up.

At the station, they led me in and finger printed me, and then they stood me against a wall and took my mugshot which they displayed on a bulletin board with all the other pictures of juvenile delinquents. After that they moved me into a windowless office, told me my parents were on their way and that my dad was quite angry and said they'd be a while. I started bawling and a female cop crouched down next to the chair I was slumped in, smiled sympathetically at me and said, "don't worry, my sister used to get into all kinds of trouble when she was your age, and she turned out ok."

I don't know if this was supposed to make me feel better, but for some reason it did, and I gulped out a thank you through my tears and then waited for my parents. And waited. And waited. For three hours, in an empty office, with nothing to do except stare at the walls and worry about what they were going to say.

When they arrived they were very quiet. They thanked the officers and told me to go to the car. Neither of them spoke the whole way home. I cried, "I'm sorry!" They didn't even look at me.

After we got home and walked into the house, my mom burst into tears and yelled dramatically, "What did we do wrong?! First you fail algebra and now this! Why don't you move out if you can't follow the rules!" I tried to defend myself, but I knew it was a lost cause, so I ran to my room, closed the door and wailed miserably into my pillow for an hour or so.

I emerged from my room to find my parents sitting at the kitchen table looking very serious.

"We've talked about what we should do," my father said. "Grounding you seems to have no effect on you. I've called the manager of the store and volunteered your services. Every day for the next month you will report directly to him after school and you will work in their butcher shop until 6, at which time you will come directly home and do your homework."

There was no point in protesting. So, every day after school for the next month, I went to the butcher section of the town's only grocery store, donned a white coat and a hairnet and wrapped meat in the freezer while I shivered, surrounded by huge bloody cow carcasses. I was miserable and humiliated. Students from school who worked at the grocery would snicker and whisper when I walked past. A couple of bag boys would hiss, "Stop thief!" when they came by the counter and saw me working.

After I'd done my time, I refused to enter the grocery store for five years. By that time I'd moved away to go to school and only had to go in there when I was visiting my parents. Even then I still felt knots in my stomach just entering the place. I didn't eat meat for almost 4 years. I had a record until I was 18.

But, I didn't steal again either. I had finally learned my lesson. My life of crime did not pay. I'd been scared straight.

Well, almost straight, anyways.

Is it Friday yet?

Sunday night I went to bed, my head hit the pillow and I passed out as soon as I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew my alarm clock was honking loudly in my ear. I swatted at it blindly. How could it be beeping so soon? I had only just gone to bed!

But after hitting snooze five or more times, I knew I had to get up, and all I could think is, it has to be Friday, it has to be Friday, please God, whoever, just let it be Friday.

It was not. It was Monday. Oh Monday, I curse thee!

So I got up, went to my computer, started working (I start from home in the morning), had a shower, got my kid up, dressed and fed, and we left the house. I dropped him off with the neighbour who takes him to school, ran to the campus coffee shop (where I like to flirt with the coffee boy, who is oblivious or too polite to acknowlege my awkward early morning attempts to be cute). I grabbed my coffee, ran to the bus stop, hopped on a bus, read as much school stuff as I could, hopped off the bus, and went to work.

Around 10:30 I took a ten minute break to buy another coffee and a rice krispie square from my favourite close-to-work coffee shop. The owner is a young Chinese woman who wears a white frilly apron and looks absolutely thrilled whenever she sees a new customer--she's set up across from Starbucks--and every morning when I leave she sings, "Thankyouverymuchhaveawonderfulday!!!"

I love her. I'll never buy Starbucks when she is near.

Then I raced back to work, skipping lunch so that I could leave early to get my son from school. I left work, ran to the bus, read all my school stuff along the way, hopped off the bus, ran home, jumped in my car, drove to my kid's school, picked him and his buddy up, drove to the corner store to buy them a treat, drove home, ran and got the babysitter, kissed the kid goodbye and sprinted back over to the campus to get to my class, where I arrived sweaty and disheveled.

Then I sat through the class, tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about, managed not to fall asleep and was dismissed. Then I went to my next class. Listened to the world's most boring lecture and also managed not to fall asleep.

Class was over at 6:30, so I ran home, said goodbye to the sitter, helped the kid do his homework, made dinner for him, got him fed, let him play, got him in the bath, read him a story and kissed him goodnight.

I went downstairs, made myself dinner, grabbed a can of coke, sat in front of the tv and barely moved until 10. Then I did all the bedtime stuff (checked email, washed face, brushed teeth, removed clothing and jewelry). I started a little work that night so I could sleep in an extra fifteen minutes in the morning. Then I got up, and stumbled into bed.

And then I did this all over again on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today. And it wasn't Friday on any of those mornings. I have it on pretty good authority, however, that tomorrow is Friday. I don't have any classes on Fridays.

So I think I'm going to get a little drunk.

An open letter to the morons on the road

Dear Morons on the Road,

I know, I know...you have a licence, but maybe they didn't tell you at the DMV, a driver's licence is not a licence to kill. It is not a licence to act like a complete moron on the road. There are other people out there. I know. I've been driving alongside you idiots for a while, and I've held my tongue, but apparently we need to go over a few things.

1) Signal lights: These are those things you use to let other cars know that you would like to change lanes or make a turn. They are a great invention! Use them! Trust me, you'll have loads of fun with them. They signal an intent to move. Are you writing this down? I hope so, because I am growing tired of drivers who assume I will know they are about to cut me off, or who decide on a whim, "oh, what the heck! Maybe I'll cross over three lanes and take the scenic route today!" Hey, I have no problem with spontaneity, really I don't--just give me a second to adjust, ok? A teeny little warning...a...how shall I put this....signal?

2) Cross-walks: See those striped white lines across the road? Yes, yes, I know, they're so very, very pretty, aren't they? I know you're probably not aware of this, but they're not just there for aesthetic pleasure--they actually serve a purpose! Here's a hint: If you are approaching some of these pretty striped white lines, and you see a nervous pedestrian standing at the edge of them (you know pedestrian? Those human things unframed by racing metal boxes?) then SLOW down and STOP. What's really cool is that when you do this, you won't kill someone who's trying to cross the street! It's win/win for everyone!

3) Cell-phones: Fabulous inventions, aren't they? Not so fabulous on the road. Spend the extra three bucks a month and get the messaging service or pull over if the conversation about Britney's c-section is just so important it can't wait. Please.

4) School-zones: What a pain in the ass children are, always wanting to stay alive long enough to see their next birthday! I know, I feel your pain, friend, but let's humour the rug-rats, shall we? I know you just can't wait to get to work, but how about slowing down when you see the signs with the teeny little children on them? It's really in your best interest. Scraping blood and hair off the grate of your BMW can really be a bitch, and something like that can ruin your whole week.

What happens when we die, according to my weird but adorable kid

I'm not very religious. Ok, honestly? I'm not at all religious. I call myself agnostic because basically I'm too chicken to write off the possibility, and aetheism seems like too much of a commitment for me.

But my kid has suddenly developed an interest in all things God. He tells me all kinds of weird stories about God, or asks me questions.

I'm trying not to discourage him. I believe that religion is a personal choice and I don't want to scare him from asking questions. However, I'm not terribly well-equipped to answer most of them, so I direct them to my mom who is Catholic but laid-back about it.

The rest of the time my kid comes up with some pretty interesting theories about God and the afterlife all on his own.

Tonight he said, "Mom, I have a really, really hard question for you, and I don't think even you will know the answer."

I asked what the question was, and he said, "If we die, and it turns out God isn't real, what do you think happens to us?"

I told him, "Wow, that's a very tough question. I don't really know the answer to it. Maybe we just turn into air or something and become part of nature, like the wind or the ocean or something."

Then he made this noise like a buzzer on a game show, "aaaaaah!"

So I asked, "What, did I get it wrong?"

And he smiled and said, "yeah, you were way off. The answer is leprechauns!"

I said, "You think if God isn't real we turn into leprechauns?"

And he looked at me like I was totally insane and said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot, "Noooooo, we go to the leprechauns."

Then I asked, "Ummm, what happens when we get to the leprechauns?"

"How the heck am I supposed to know that?" he cried. "I've never been to the leprechauns before!"

The Marriage Scam

Many years ago, I was in love. With a perfect boy. He was sweet, he was funny, he was attentive, he asked me to come to Costa Rica with him. I booked our tickets, I was happy, I was overjoyed.... and then I found out he was sleeping with my roommate.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. My face puffed up from crying everyday. I couldn't have a conversation without bursting into tears. Friends of mine started hanging out with him and his new girlfriend (my former roommate) because I was no fun, and they were such a blast to hang out with. I wore pajamas everyday, rarely washed my hair, cried into my tub of ice cream every night and had anxiety attacks over whether I should stay up and watch Letterman or go to sleep.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, suggested I take my ticket to Costa Rica and trade it in for a ticket to London where I have lots of friends. Unable to make any sound decisions on my own at this point, I decided I would do just that. My ticket to London cost much more than the ticket to Costa Rica, so most of my savings went to paying the difference. But it didn't matter, I just had to escape. I couldn't be in the same city as that wretched happy couple and all of my back-stabbing fair-weather friends.

So off I went to England, with my shiny new ticket and probably about $800 Canadian dollars, which in my insanity I thought would be more than enough to last me 8 months. That's right, you heard me. 8 months! Yeah, I had free places to stay, but this is England we're talking about, not Thailand, and although it was about 12 or 13 years ago, even the most thrifty person can't make $800 Canadian last 8 months in England. Hell, most people would be lucky to last a week on that much.

My friend R and I decided to travel around together. Between the two of us, we barely had a cent, so we began sneaking onto trains and buses and crashing on couches until we got tired. R had a guitar and I can sing (well, I can kind of sing) so we began busking everywhere we went.

We did pretty well, and most days we'd manage to score about thirty odd pounds which would get us through until the next day.

But then I had an idea. An idea so fabulous that I know I'm going to regret sharing it, but you people have been good to me, so I'll reciprocate. This is like your grandmother's secret lemon cake recipe that she never shares with anyone, or like the secret to your mother-in-law's perfect lasagne, so I want you all to appreciate the value of the information I am about to pass on.

I call it The Marriage Scam.

R and I would busk until we had made enough to eat a nice meal in a decent restaurant. We would tidy up first though, because you can't pull a good scam unless you look the part, so we'd scrub our faces and clean the dirt out from under our nails and put on the cleanest clothes in our packs and then we'd go to dinner. Always a new place. Never the same place twice.

Then we would order our meals. Usually a salad to start. He would hold my hand on the table and I would smile at him like he was dipped in chocolate and diamonds. You know, like JLo does when she's trying to play the cute young ingenue type in any one of her many forgettable romantic comedies. Then I would leave and head for the washroom (the loo in England, for you international types). R would then flag down the waiter and hand him a ring (an old ring my grandmother gave me) and tell the guy he was going to propose to me. Then he would arrange to have the waiter hide the ring in my salad or on the plate somewhere.

Well, word carries fast in most restaurants, and generally by the time I got back to my seat, most places were buzzing with the news of R's imminent proposal. People at the next table would whisper and try not to be too obvious about staring. Kitchen staffs would gather at the swinging doors and peek out at us. And I would pretend to be oblivious to this happening all around me.

So, I would take a bite of the salad...sometimes two or three just to torture the crowd a little. And then lo and behold! I would "discover" the ring. Everyone loves a proposal, and I, the heart-broken cynic and theatre school drop-out, would milk it for all it was worth. I deserve an Oscar for some of the crying I did on these nights. And then R would get down on his knee, night after night, and say to me:

"Katie, the first time I met you I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. " Then, every night, he would go "off-script" and say something totally ridiculous designed to crack me up, like, "when I broke my leg in Nepal and you carried me down that mountain, I knew I couldn't survive without you in my life. You carried my body, now please, allow me to carry your heart forever. Would you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?" He should really be working for Hallmark, I'm not kidding.

And the best part about this whole thing is that women who've just been proposed to are nervous and crazy, so if I was feeling anxious about whether we'd pull the whole thing off, my shaking and laughing and crying only made it seem more convincing.

So I would stammer and cry, and try to get a reply out until someone in the room would say, "answer him!"

And I would shout yes! Oh yes R! I want to marry you! I love you so much! And the room would erupt and people would laugh and cry and clap their hands, and everyone around us would be so happy!

Every. Single. Night.

And, every single night, the restaurant would promo something--a bottle of wine, sometimes even champagne, a lovely dessert, and once or twice, our whole meal. And people at surrounding tables would send us drinks and start talking to us and asking how we met, and every single night we'd invent some crazy bullshit story and the room would be alive with happy people, celebrating the sweet young Canadian couple and their lovely romance, and they would order drink after drink after drink until most restaurant managers were in the back having orgasms over their liquor sales that evening.

And R and I would stagger out, holding hands and addresses of lovely people who insisted we come and stay with them while we were in England, our stomachs full, our livers hurting and our heads spinning.

Every. Single. Night.

Night guys--see you in a few days!

Alright, I admit it...I am having blogger's block.

That's not a gastrointestinal disorder, by the way...I have just had nothing to write about lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've had lots of things buzzing around my brain, but now so many people I deal with everyday read this thing once in a while that it becomes really hard to bitch about them or talk about the stupid things they did. But trust me, there are some stupid things happening all around me, and one day when you all least expect it, I'll write the tell-all.

Anyways, it's been a stressful couple of weeks for me recently, and I'm heading to Vancouver to see a friend and decompress. I'm hoping some really weird shit happens enroute for me to write about...preferably something not involving mimes or patchouli. I get back on the weekend and I've decided to screw the whole camping thing and go to Ted Leo, who I really want to see. Besides, it's raining here, and camping? Not so much fun in the rain.

In the meantime, here are some things that I've been thinking of talking to you guys about:

1) My hair. This sounds like a boring topic, but trust me it's not. So get ready for this, because oh man, the stories I will share about the hair....wait for it!

2) The day I drove to some horrible town in the middle of nowhere B.C. and decided I would introduce myself to everyone I met as Lola and speak with a really bad French accent all day.

3) This weird guy I saw who was yelling into his phone on the street. He was screaming, "She has to wear the bikini or the deal's off! Fuck that! She said ten thousand and I won't pay a penny more!" As I got close to him I noticed he wasn't actually yelling into a cell phone, he was yelling into his hand. His empty hand.

So, get excited. There's some stories coming your way!

Cancelled plans last night, wish I had some tonight.

Yesterday I would have rather had my legs sawed off without anesthesia than go out on a first date. I would have rather poked my eyes out with flaming Q-tips than go on a first date. I would have rather eaten a pound of raw hamburger than go out on a first date...you get the idea.

Tonight? I am so bored. Still not into the whole first date thing, but that has more to do with who the date was supposed to be with than anything else. I want to go see a movie. I want to talk with someone interesting. I want to take my shoes off and run around on the beach at night. No one I know is around to hang out with and I could use a little positive energy.

Last night, having a couple of glasses of wine and renting a video seemed like a wonderful relaxing choice. Tonight it feels like this might be the rest of my life.