Stories from Caye Caulker, pt 1: Thug Taxi

February 1, 2018 - 10:14pm - by Alyson Shane

A small collection of memories from our trip in Caye Caulker, Belize, over a series of blog posts.

Cars aren't allowed on Caye Caulker so everyone drives around in golf carts, and some of them are available to rent as taxis so you can get around.

One night John and I needed to get back to our AirBnB and then get back into town, so we hailed a taxi and hopped on.

We'd seen the driver around before: he looks like he's straight outta compton, and since nobody else on the island dresses like that he stood out.

He gave us a lift there and back and was really quiet, which was unusual.

Most of the taxi drivers are super chatty and give you their name and phone number so you can call them whenever.

Some of them will even deliver your groceries for you.

Like I said, the Caye Caulker hustle is real.

So anyway fast-forward to a few nights later when we're out with some friends we made on the island.

We're talking about Thug Taxi and our friend Jenn gasps and says

"that guy isn't a taxi! He gave us a lift from the water taxi and someone told us later that he doesn't have a taxi license."

Whoops.

The next day we saw him as we were on our way to the laundromat and he waved at us. John yelled "hey, what are you up to today?" and he held up a bag of clothes and said

"it's laundry day, man."

I had a teacher from Haiti once

January 12, 2018 - 3:15pm - by Alyson Shane

My homeroom teacher in high school was Mr. Ismé, and he was one of the smartest and weirdest people I've ever met.

He spoke fluent Latin and spent most lunch hours tutoring this one older student just because she wanted to learn.

He was passionate as hell about teaching and would get super fired up during Social Studies and was way into French grammar which of course nobody liked.

He would walk around during tests or exams and steal people's pencils or white-outs off their desks, just to mess with you. Other times he'd sit behind his desk and play with toy cars, making "vroom!" sounds and crashing them into each other.

He drove this weird little Ford Pinto everywhere and we teased him mercilessly about it.

He was always super jacked about whatever he was teaching us. He was one of those teachers who you knew really cared about the impact he was making on his students.

I was in French Immersion, and every year Mr. Ismé organized these huge trips to take Grade 11 classes to Quebec City, and the Grade 12 classes on a trip to France.

All of the students in his class would go on these big, fun trips to see historic French sights and practice the language and generally have an amazing time making memories that would last a lifetime (I didn't get to go because my parents are small-minded and refused to let me fundraise; I'll never forgive them for it if I'm being honest.)

Mr. Ismé would tell us these outrageous stories about Haiti and his family there, and we never knew whether or not to believe because this all went down in the days before you could fact-check every single thing someone said.

He told us that he fled a violent dictatorship which I later learned was true, and once a year he would skip the lecture for the day and we'd spend the class assembling care packages as part of the Hearts for Haiti program.

He loved you if you tried hard but would give you guff 24/7 if you slacked off, which was what I did because I was pretty fucked-up at the time.

He was one of the first teachers to tell me "you're smarter than this and you aren't trying hard enough" which I later realized was true. One time after I put some real effort into a book report about Lord of the Flies he pulled me aside and said he was proud of me and I cried in the bathroom afterward because I didn't hear that a lot growing up.

High school was a shitty time for me personally and looking back I feel like I missed out on an opportunity to get to know a really interesting person with a unique background and perspective.

I've always regretted not making the most of that opportunity to be honest.

So yesterday when I heard that Donald Trump called Haiti a "shithole country" I thought of Mr. Ismé.

I thought of all the weird lectures. His purple dress shirts with big collars. His unusual accent and how it got stronger when he yelled at you. How he spent time every year getting students involved in creating care packages to send to kids in his home country. Still giving a damn after all that time.

I wondered how he felt to know that someone who has never had to work for anything in their life can completely disregard the hard work and efforts being done by Haitians at home and abroad to make their country better.

But then I remembered that Mr. Ismé didn't give a damn about what anyone thought, anyway.

I need a dang haircut

January 1, 2018 - 8:05pm - by Alyson Shane

Y'know when you've been putting something off for so long and you just keep procrastinating even though you know you need to just deal with it? That's me and this haircut.

Here's why:

I have my wavy hair keratin straightened about once a year and I'm trying to time it so I get my hair treated right before we go to Belize since I don't want to be dealing with some frizzy, annoying hair situation while we're down there. So it makes sense to get a haircut and the treatment done at the same time, right?

Total sense.

Except all these weird little things have popped up that have prevented me from booking it. I remember at the wrong hours; the line is busy when I call and I forget to call back; dumb shit like that.

You know how it is. We've all done this little song and dance before.

I'm not much for new year's resolutions but I've decided to commit to not procrastinating so much moving forward. Putting off dumb stuff just causes stress to pile up and if there's one thing I want to be in 2018 it's

more calm.

Earlier we were watching the final episode of BSG and I found myself doing my usual mental gymnastics where I hop from one worry to the next like a frog jumping from one big lily pad to another. I was trying to pay attention to all the flashbacks and emotional moments in the show and instead I kept getting lost in whatever I was worrying about, and I thought to myself:

stop, this is stupid.

I'm not thinking about how nice it is to relax with my partner. Not reflecting on the great night I had last night. I'm worrying about a bunch of stuff, none of which I can do anything about on New Year's Day, and letting it get in the way of actually enjoying my downtime.

I think I had one of those moments of clarity where it's like someone mentally bitchslapped you and things suddenly seem clear and make sense.

Because I realized that one of the reasons I've been feeling to tense and worrying so much is that I have all these small to-dos floating around that don't have a time, place, or action assigned to it in order to resolve them.

The more stuff piles up, the more overwhelmed I feel by all of it, and it gets to the point where I can't even focus on one of the best science fiction shows out there because I'm having a silent stress-out over on the couch over who knows what. My business. My clients. My personal life. Whatever.

So tomorrow I'm calling to book the dang haircut.

Cheers to the new year.

I've never been good with free time

December 27, 2017 - 7:45pm - by Alyson Shane

It's like if I have an abundance of it I get overwhelmed with the possibilities. Or I feel guilty for having free time at all since there's always business stuff I could be doing instead of stuff I enjoy, including:

- Playing video games
- Reading a book
- Writing for this blog
- Writing for myself
- Writing for the Starling blog
- Taking a bath
- Finishing Wormwood
- Taking a bath and finishing Wormwood
- Making snacks

you get my point. The possibilities are basically endless.

Usually when this happens I try to get out of the house and go for a walk somewhere, which doesn't always work during this time of year since I live somewhere where the air can freeze your skin in a matter of minutes.

When I lived in Hamilton I used to go for a lot of walks because you could go outside and only be moderately uncomfortable during the winter. This worked out well because the guy I was living with often worked weekends, which meant I had a lot of time to myself.

I lived at the bottom of The Escarpment (which is basically a cliff that keeps going after the drop) in what I presumed at the time to be a pretty dumpy area because a bunch of the neighbours in our U-shaped apartment building would get together and drink in the parking lot in the middle all day.

(Nothing says "good morning!" like country music blaring from a semi truck at 9AM on a Tuesday.)

There was a park nearby that nobody used, and a set of train tracks with a spooky-looking underpass that always gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I always remember it looking like the underpass Michael Caine is too scared to take at the start of Harry Brown:

But if I sucked it up and walked through the underpass and down a bunch of streets with mostly buildings and parking lots on them I'd eventually wind up on King St E which I loved because of the weird mish-mash of stores and shops.

Record stores and lounges and boutique clothing stores. Coffee shops and places that sell stripper shoes. Hair salons for every ethnic background. A specialty foods store (my favourite) that felt like a cool, secret little grotto where you had to duck underneath stuff hanging from the ceiling.

But I had to pass through this scary af underpass reminiscent of where the clown from IT came after young people in order to get there.

I'm trying to find it on Google Maps but I'm having a really hard time remembering where things are in this city.

I forgot my address a long time ago, and I haven't been back to Hamilton since I lived there. Once you've been to a few Ontario cities they all start to blend together:

red brick houses with large, stout porches

pools in everyone's backyards

roundabouts

hills

(I always forget how flat Manitoba is until I'm in Ontario.)

Oh my god I found it.

LOOK:

It's basically as creepy as I remember except now it's pink and has positive affirmations spray-painted on it, which is great because GIRL POWER but also at the same time

I'm not sure there's much anyone can do to tszuj up a scary underpass, to be honest.

I've always been a sucker for traditions

December 24, 2017 - 3:48pm - by Alyson Shane

via xkcd

There's something comforting about the familiarity of doing the same things from time to time, and Christmas seems to bring that out in people.

The best Christmas I can remember was when I was really small. I don't really know how old.

Maybe we were in the old house on Murray. Maybe not.

Doesn't matter, really.

My dad was working a half-day, so my mom, brothers, and I bussed to his office in the park across town. I don't know if I remember taking the bus before then. The city felt new from this angle, and bigger than I'd realized. The ride felt like it lasted forever.

My dad's office was down a bunch of winding roads in a lonely-looking building surrounded by trees, and he worked in a long room that smelled like cigarettes, with a window at the end.

The places my dad worked; offices, clubhouses, tended to smell old and it always made me feel safe to be in them.

We piled into the car and my parents took us for lunch at the nearby Pizza Hut. We continued that tradition for years, even after my dad's office moved downtown, and after we all stopped bussing there together.

(I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for those greasy, gooey slices.)

So tonight we're making pizza from scratch.

Because 1. Pizza Hut is expensive and not really worth it quality-wise and 2. there isn't one nearby and half of the tradition is sitting in that tacky lounge with the stained-glass lamps overhead drinking Diet Cokes out of plastic cups with straws.

So instead we went a little crazy at the Italian special food's store up the street.

Fresh pizza dough. Salami. Capicollo. Prosciutto. Mozzarella and omg mini mini bocconcini. Maybe toss some artichoke hearts or anchovies or crimini mushrooms on there - who knows.

The possibilities are endless.

And even though it won't be exactly the same as I remember, that's okay.

Because that's how new traditions start.

Pop-up tree shop

December 18, 2017 - 10:39am - by Alyson Shane

There's a pop-up Christmas Tree store down the street from my house.

It's next to the convenience store that I never go into, which is attached to a hair salon which is also offers sensory deprivation tank experiences

(a strange combo, if you ask me)

and 1958, which has one of the best breakfast bennies of all time.

I saw them putting it up the other day as I walked by on the way to a meeting

It's so hip and beautiful.

All greenery, gorgeous old wood, hay bails, and charming string lights.

One thing about us Millennials I've noticed is that some of us have, like, crazy-good style.

Maybe that's what happens when you spend all your time scrolling through highly-curated Instagram feeds. Maybe become hip by osmosis.

A few days ago I was sitting sitting next to the window at my favorite used bookstore and cafe and all these families from the neighborhood keep walking by as I'm sitting there with my London Fog.

Parents in big vintage jackets and lots of plaid. Fur-lined hoods. Cute kids in little knit scarves and hats. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. Everyone's bundled up, smiling and having a good time.

On second thought, maybe it's just that Canadians are hip af.

There's a coffee shop in my neighbourhood

December 10, 2017 - 4:48pm - by Alyson Shane

(image via Simone Noronha)

called The Neighbourhood Bookstore and Cafe.

Which is such a charming name I can't even.

I hang out here a lot since it's right in my 'hood, and all the walls are lined with books and I think better when I'm around books.

They sell good coffee, board games, used books, and little sandwiches and snacks and bananas. Their London Fogs are pretty stellar, too.

There's this little patio-style area next to it where they put out tables and chairs and fairy lights, and there's often live music there in the evenings, and sometimes inside, too.

Book clubs and student groups and writers circles meet here on a regular basis and it's about as perfect and quaint as one would hope a neighbourhood coffee shop to be.

And it's almost always packed, too.

Which makes me happy, because for a while it didn't look like the The Neighbourhood Bookstore and Cafe was going to stick around.

The city was trying to enforce a bylaw that requires restaurants to have grease traps installed, and since all they make here are sandwiches and deserts (not exactly "restaurant" food) the owner was fighting it in court on the basis that installing one was an unnecessary and unreasonable expense for his business.

I think they fought it a bunch of years, actually.

And shortly after I moved into Wolseley The Neighbourhood Bookstore and Cafe started having weird hours, and then closed for a period of several months.

It broke my damn heart because the reason I live in the part of town I do is because I love the small businesses and mixed-use space

(not to mention the big, old elm trees)

Small businesses are the heart of our economies and communities, and it always saddens me when I think we're going to be losing one - especially for such an unnecessary reason.

But then earlier this year it reopened! The news reported that then owner had come to some sort of deal with the city that allowed him to reopen.

The old, familiar whiteboard started popping up on the side of the building, saying:

"We are unequivocally, unabashedly, open!"

And though I try not to blow all my money on fancy coffees, London Fogs, and nice snacks

sometimes it's nice to come back here and listen to the chatter of a bunch of people having a good time,

listening to The Tragically Hip, writing this.

Eating soup slowly

December 8, 2017 - 12:58pm - by Alyson Shane

I'm bad at rushing through my workday.

I try like hell to sit and sip my coffee, read the news, catch up on some articles, etc, before I start my actual workday, but even when it's stuff relating to my business or industry I still have a hard time sitting still in the AM.

There are emails to respond to. Profiles to update. Trello checklists to check-off. Copy to write, review, publish. Tasks upon tasks upon tasks.

Y'know, regular workday stuff.

I'm my most productive in the mornings and it often feels like I'm "wasting" my time taking things slowly in the AM.

Which is why it's nice to force myself to slow down for real, sometimes.

If I need to dive headfirst into work stuff in the morning I try and take a breath at lunch. Come up for air, peel away from my desk, go into the kitchen and make myself some lunch.

I try not to listen to anything; no music, no podcasts. Nada.

Just spend some time alone, clearing my thoughts, making something tasty.

Most days I just make a smoothie or a snack plate or leftovers so I can get back into the swing of things and eat as I work (told you I have a problem)

but some days I eat soup.

And soup days are the best days

because you have to eat soup slowly.

You can't rush soup or you'll burn the roof of your mouth, which means taking a little extra time to sit and enjoy it. Take slow sips. Wait for it to cool. Dig out the noodles or veggies or other goodies. Gauge overall heat. Repeat until done.

No music. No work.

Just me, my thoughts, and a bowl of soup.

Oh, and toast for dipping because I'm clearly not messing around.

Shouting into the void

December 4, 2017 - 5:30pm - by Alyson Shane

Recently I've been struggling to figure out what to write here.

When I was writing content specifically for my industry it was easy; I just picked a topic, found some supporting articles, and wrote to my heart's content. I'm good at breaking down complex ideas into easy to understand written documents, posts, or essays.

Writing has always been my superpower.

These days, though, it often feels like it fails me. Not because I don't have the words, but because I often worry about the repercussions of what will happen if I say anything. If I open myself up, again and again, as I examine new and old wounds, learn from my mistakes, reflect on the past, figure out who I want to be... all that good shit writing has always helped me do.

But I've been stifling myself recently because I've been trying to avoid instigating any contact from my family. My brother, in particular, tends to reach out every few months in some sort of angry, nasty, or passive-aggressive way. His words don't hurt, but it's difficult to know that he's clearly grappling with some narrative of what happened between my parents and I, and why I'm not in his life, than what actually happened.

So I'm just going to lay it out here, simply, and put it to pasture:

In February of 2014 I asked my parents for space from my mom for a while. I was starting therapy and my therapist suggested I put a some distance between my mom and myself while I started to unpack the abuse I'd experienced growing up, and the anxieties and issues I still experience as an adult as a result of what I went through.

My dad suggested I write my mom an email explaining my reasons, so I did. My mom never wrote back. My dad, when he did, told me to "have a nice life," and said he hoped I was never in a position where "I had to choose between my spouse and my child."

That's it.

Since then I haven't spoken to my father. The only other time I've heard from my mom is when she left a series of comments here, on my blog, to let me know what a selfish person I am because I chose not to be present when my nephew was born.

(And really... oh well, if that's what she thinks. Not like I was ever winning her over, anyway.)

But my brother. The one who follows me online, reads my updates, and is clearly upset with me to the point of sending me multiple messages, comments, and tweets over the past few years. What does he want? An apology? Some sort of explanation?

Maybe he, too, is just trying to be heard in a family that doesn't actually listen to one another.

Sometimes I lie awake at night and I think about my siblings. So close, yet so far away from me. I say words, I type thoughts, but talking to them has always felt like I'm talking to a brick wall.

Like I'm shouting into the void.

It always has, honestly.

A few months after my parents stopped talking to me I received an email from my aunt in Toronto. She said "I would just have to say that it is extremely unfortunate that your distain for your mom has resulted in such complete alienation from the rest of the family" which came as a shock to me at the time because my aunt witnessed firsthand the abuse I experienced growing up.

She, more than probably anyone else in my life, should have been able to remember how things went down when I asked for space. She, of all people, should be able to look a lie in the face and say "no, that's not what happened." But she didn't, or couldn't.

And at that point I realized that, maybe there's just no going back.

I'm just never going to make any of them, my dad, my brothers, my aunt... any of them, see me for who I am. To them, I'm an idea of a person. A ghost version of myself who does and says things with a completely different set of morals and values than who I am.

The longer I keep my distance, the longer my mom has to gaslight, manipulate, and convince my family that I'm what she always told them I was: some selfish, horrible person who doesn't care about anyone but herself. The longer I'm away the easier it is for my brothers to believe it. It's easier for my aunt to believe that this is the way I wanted things to be. It's easier for my dad to believe it, and keep refusing to stand up and do what's right; to say "I'm sorry. I should have stood up for you."

Because at the end of the day all I've ever wanted is to be heard. To feel like my emotions, experiences, and thoughts have value. To not have to constantly battle against the false narrative that was created about me, and which persists to this day, stronger than ever, in my absence.

It's why I started writing.

It's also why I stopped. Or have mostly stopped.

I started feeling like here, too, anything I said was going to just get twisted around or misinterpreted. My blog, a place where I once felt I could be completely and utterly myself... became the void I've been afraid to look down into. To shout my thoughts and fears into.

But, y'know... fuck it. The truth, my subjective truth based on the actual facts and events that happened, is out there now. There's not much worse I can do to draw any ire than state the facts as plainly as I see them.

So now it's time to get back to the business of why I've always written: because it helps me as a person, and is something that I love, long for, and can't help but do.

I'm so ready, and happy, to get back to this place.

Sick days

November 29, 2017 - 1:54pm - by Alyson Shane

Went to bed feeling like hell last night and woke up feeling worse today. Aches, pains, lethargy, you name it I've got it.

Except nausea. Thank god I rarely get sick to the point that I throw up.

The last time that happened I was working in a small office and I took (gasp) two days off in a row because I was honestly just puking everywhere. It was awful.

When I went in on Wednesday the office manager said "hey just so you know our boss noticed that you took two days off and you're on his radar."

Apparently he had calculated that if I kept taking sick days at 2 sick days per month (this was in January) omg I'd wind up taking 24 sick days that year.

So I walked into his office and said:

"Hey, if you have an issue with the sick time I'm taking please speak to me about it directly. Making assumptions about my sick days isn't cool and if you're going to start accusing me of abusing my sick time in advance of me doing so I'd appreciate it if you didn't go through the only other person in the office to let me know you thought it was a concern."

Which I thought was reasonable. I like to think of myself as a relatively reasonable gal.

It didn't go over well.

A few months later when I left and started running Starling full time I promised myself that whenever I felt sick I would take the damn sick day if I needed it, and I've been doing pretty good so far.

There have been a few days when something unavoidable is planned/due, but overall I handle them pretty well, I think.

Usually my sick days look like this: sleep in as late as I need, tackle as much necessary work as I need (responding to emails, reviewing copy, reviewing reports, etc) and then I make lunch and engage in a low-energy task like reviewing ad performance or adding to a content library.

If I need to lie down and nap or something, though, I do it so I can get back into the swing of things in the AM. No sense over-exerting myself if I'm going to be useless for the next few days as a result.

I don't kill myself if I'm feeling sick, and I don't expect the people who work for me to do so, either.

Like I said, I like to think of myself as a reasonable gal.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go have a little lie-down. My head is killing me.