When the suit is off...adventures in my life.

The Fish who Vomited

2008-12-29T11:32:00.004-05:00

The fish lay resting at the bottom of the sea, warm and comfortable.

Suddenly, something inside him stirred, and he became aware of a different feeling.

The feeling inside him kept stirring, slowly, swirling, swelling and he was starting to swelter. The fishes body was moving up from the bottom of the sea, floating slowly up and all the while the storm in his body was brewing and growing in force.

His body swelled bit by bit with each sweeping wave, convulsing at times and making him lightheaded, dizzy, confused and panicked. His eyes opened wide, his thin mouth gasping for air, opening and closing in blip-like motions as the storm swirled like a hurricane inside him.

Panic grew and the panic was rising to desperate proportions, his mouth moved faster to gasp for air, his bloated body sizzling up to the surface of the ocean, his forehead sweating, his mouth watering, his insides in turmoil, swelling and convulsing his body burst through the ocean top, his eyes bulging. The fishes body was so bloated it looked as if his skin would tear, he swelled up one more time and at that moment, the cork was pulled... Bursting through his gaping mouth, angry spurts forcefully sliced high through the air, as if they were waves, some in perfect semi-circles landing on the ocean top as foamy and white wave toppers.

The fish was spent. His body slowly shrinking back to normal.. He gained his breath back and smoothly spiralled back down to the bottom of the sea to where he once lay, comfortably resting.

This short I want to do in claymation with narration. It needs a bit more polishing and directors notes.

Secrets and regrets...

2008-12-16T12:29:00.012-05:00

Last night I was in a nostalgic mood and thinking of all the writing I used to do when younger. I always loved to write, I can’t write for deadlines but write when the overwhelming urge hits me.

When a teenager, I read this book called “Go ask Alice” it was a teenage girls diary about her life and her darkest thoughts. I started journaling after reading that book. I’d keep a tiny book in my bedside drawer and write in it every night before bed. I shared a room with my sister. She eventually learned to put a pillow over her head to block out the light until I was finished writing, her complaining got her nowhere!

My father one day found out about my journal (maybe it was my snitch of a sister). He snuck my journal to the washroom with him and read its entirety. His English wasn’t good but he sure understood that I had kissed a boy, referred to wanting to lose my virginity, took a puff of a cigarette once and complained about my strict and crazy family.

I got in big trouble when he confronted me and when my mother heard of it, there was yelling for weeks on end and "I" became “the devil”. My solution to hiding my private thoughts from them was to rip up the pages, burn them and stopped writing altogether.

Regrets I have very few in my life and one of them has been the self-destruction of some of my writings over the years. I wish I kept them.

I have a secret.....No one knows that I was first published in junior high, a writing competition. I was asked to write a poem using the first letters of a word the teacher gave me. I was published in the Ontario separate school board elementary school’s budding writers. I don’t think my parents knew. I have the book still...buried in a storage box.

Tonight, I dug it out and scanned in my poem for all to see. It’s a simple poem, but has a certain feel ...I was only 13 years old and English was my second language.

It's not my first work of writing published. I won another top Canadian prize, when I was 15. This one is my biggest regret...I ripped up the copy I had...it was a short story for a Remembrance Day project written from the point of view of a Canadian soldier. Teachers were in awe, I never watched a war movie, I didn't have anyone telling me war stories, I didn't even have an interest in the war. Classmates were jealous, no one believed me when I told them I had no inspiration, the ideas just came to me that day and I wrote them out. I wasn't popular anymore and friends found other friends.

With the internet today, I've spent hours searching to see if I can find that piece somewhere and no luck. I will try harder one day. I'd love to read it and this time, keep it.

Note: Don't feel sorry for me, look at me now. Do you even want to know how those classmates ended up years later?...I found out not too long ago by accident....let's just say...Karma has a way of biting back! YIKES! :)

In Search of the Horsey Park

2008-12-15T10:16:00.012-05:00

From as far as I can remember, I have always been an independent spirit. One of my childhood memories is of my search for the Horsey Park, it was the first time I ran away.

I was 5 years old and was still an only child at the time. We rented a house on Major street which is in the Bloor and Spadina area of Toronto. When my father would get home after work and after his dinner, he would take me to the Horsey Park.The Horsey Park was a park in Kengsington Market that had a playground where the swings were shaped like horses. I loved those swings.

One day he did not want to take me to the Horsey Park. He must have been tired or not in the mood. I was 5 and did not understand, I wanted to go to the Horsey Park and was going without him and walked out the front door. I walked up the street and came across my boyfriend, a 2 year old Canadian boy called Andrew. He was playing in his front yard and I asked him, “do you want to go to the Horsey Park?” “ya I wanna go” “come with me” and I took his hand.

I can still vividly remember standing on the sidewalk looking north and looking south and thinking in my head as I looked north towards bloor street that for sure the Horsey Park was “that” way and pulled Andrew in that direction. I also remember he had no shoes on and we both walked hand in hand, a 5 year old and a 2 year old along bloor street in search of the Horsey Park.

With each block we passed, I felt the park was near, I didn’t see it and we kept walking. We walked without interruption until we hit Christie and Christie Pits was across the street. This had to be the park! Brickford High School is on that cornor and there was a crossing guard working that day.

She stopped me as I was crossing the street and asked me “where are you going little girl?” to which I replied, “we are going to the horsey park!”. “Where is your mommy?”, “i don't know, I’m going by myself!”. “Come with me" she said. This was the 70’s and back then police cars were bright yellow cadillacs. There was a yellow police car across the street and she guided us there.

The crossing guard said something to the policeman though the window. When he came out, he too asked me where I was going and I told him too that I was going to the Horsey Park , he also asked “where do you live little girl?”. Being new immigrants to Canada, and my parents being overprotective and fearful as English is not our first language, one of the smart things my mother taught me was how to say my street address in English. I had just learned it too so I said very proudly, “239 Major Street!”. Andrew and I were then put in the back seat of the police car.

I can now say that the first and only time thus far that I have been in the back of a police car, was when I was 5 years old! He drove me home.

When I got home, we were greeted by my screaming grandmother who promptly in front of the Policeman started hitting me. I don’t know if the Policeman really even talked to her as she could not communicate in English we were in Canada only 3 years from Azores (Portugal) and Grandmothers never learned the language aside from a few key words like “stop”. He took me to show him where Andrew lives and I remember pointing up the street and walking with him to Andrews house. His mother was outside but he didn’t get hit, she hugged him instead. I remember thinking that was odd.

Today, thinking of this story I am amazed at a few things…how far a 5 year old and a barefoot 2 year old walked in the streets of Toronto – from Spadina and Bloor to Christie and Bloor without anyone thinking its odd or stopping us and how my Grandmother could go bezerk and hit me in front of a policeman. It was the 70’s, the city was different back then. I guess we were lucky some pedophile didn’t find us first. I think about how I still have that stubborn independent streak and that at 5 years old , I already had this preference for younger men!

This story started out as a speech I wrote in 1994 for listeners to understand the speaker's background, at a public speaking group. I won the award for 'best speech". Since then it has evolved into a short story and is one of my most famous short stories in my collection.

Helen ps: Horsey was my 5 year old way of referring to the Horses

Fluttering in the Wind

2008-12-13T07:56:00.006-05:00

What do white balloons, tubed Christmas wrapping paper and wind tunnels have in common?

They are tools I used during my pigeon fight from last fall.

Children may find their light fluttering innocence delightful. I have a fear of balloons and to me, they mean fear! I don’t like the shrieking noise they make when blowing them up and am nervous of the unexpected explosions they can cause giving me an almost instant heart attack. But, I needed them to scare a pair of pigeons that have claimed my balcony as their home.

It’s not a large balcony, two small French chairs can fit and it’s nice to sit and enjoy a drink while people watching through the glass front. I guess the former owners of this condo didn’t appreciate the balcony as when I moved in, pigeons have claimed it as their territory and home.

I made it top priority to scrub the balcony clean as one of my first moving in tasks. I live downtown, I know it will get sooty again, but I'm sure it hasn't been cleaned like this in years! I felt like I scrubbed away the old owners along with the pigeons, all traces of them. I was proud of my accomplishment of no longer having to look out at bird poop.

The next day, one of the first things I did when arriving home was to check on my balcony and then I saw them! A grey pigeon and a white one perched on the railing and some white splotches of poop littering my newly scrubbed concrete! I flung open the sliding door, flailed my arms, made growling noises and shooed them away.

Being obsessive, everyday I would check and find them again trying to claim back their home! We would again go through the routine of me charging at them for them to fly away. I’d grab my dedicated pigeon poop yellow cleaning gloves, paper towels and cleaning spray to scrub away their presence like a madwoman while cursing. I would scrub in whatever outfit I happened to be wearing when I caught them, my suits, casual clothes, sometimes I’d run out in my pyjamas. Once, I caught them when I was about to change and ran out to scrub with only lingere on. I didn’t care, if people on the street saw me, this was war! My efforts were in vain, as they flew away only to come back a few hours later.

Building management was useless and shrugged off my requests for help. I researched how to get rid of pigeons using a variety of different tricks. I poked nails through masking tape to create a barb wire type of strip to tape onto the rails. The nails would fall to the floor as the wind blew creating a hazard for bare feet. The pigeons still perched on a section that the wind had moved. I decided against greasing the railing (another trick I learned) as I’d surely forget and would end up with Vaseline on my clothes! Besides, would that really work? I was grateful it was fall as I wore pants now. My knees were very bruised from all the scrubbing and this was not something I wanted seen!

“Owls will scare the shit out of them!” my brother tells me. “you sure?” “yeah, my buddy got one with big eyes that move and they are scared shitless. You get them at Canadian Tire, a plastic one”. “Oh my god, how tacky! I can’t believe this.” I said exasperated. Yet, I went looking for a plastic owl. With winter coming, gardening gadgets were no longer sold and hardware stores downtown are scarce and even more rare is finding a plastic owl. I settled for an owl piggy bank that I found in a dollar store. Due to it being lightweight and potentially getting blown away, I placed it on the bottom ledge on the inside of the window. It didn’t work.

My father’s idea of putting balloons out as the fluttering in the wind would be movement that may scare them off seemed good. I was now desperate and to try this, I had to conquer my fear of balloons if I was to win this battle. I considered buying a helium machine but, I’m frugal so this meant …blowing the balloons myself. I bought a bag of white party balloons, so it would look at least classier and neutral. Slowly, and with many breaks, I blew up six balloons. With matching white string, I gingerly tied them to the rails and the side lattice. The bounced wildly in the wind hopefully, doing their job. I checked the balcony every few hours when home and did not see signs of the pigeons. It seemed to have worked!

With time, the white balloons shrivel. Not seeing signs of the pigeons after two weeks, I became complacent in my pigeon war and didn’t check as often anymore. One cold morning, I decided to look outside for snow conditions. The balloons were limp and had shriveled to the size of a lime and on my middle glass panel was a huge streak of white….pigeon droppings! I was furious! Already late for a meeting, I snipped off the balloon remants and snapped on my rubber gloves to work on scrubbing the glass clear. I needed new full balloons. I had no time to do six. Slowly and shakily, I managed to blow two cantaloupe sized balloons and tied them to the lattice for now.

One drunken night, I came home and before retiring to bed, peeked outside to check on the pigeon situation. With limp balloons hardly being a threat, I saw them on the railing, the grey and the white pigeon, nestled together sleeping! “This is my chance to get rid of them once and for all” I needed a weapon….I started cursing myself for not owning a baseball bat, this is one time I wished I kept my long broom and if only I was a golfer! Ugh, I needed one of these items and quick! I looked in the spare closet and found a tube of xmas paper, it will have to do! Slowly I opened the sliding door enough to get my arm out with my xmas tube firmly in my grip and with enough room to take a swing at them. “Bonk! Bonk!” I caught them off guard, hit both of them and knocked them off their perch as they flew away confused. The white one attemped to come back in 5 minutes, but I was there…tipsy and watching with my xmas paper poised and ready to strike and strike again I did! I bonked white pigeon and off he fluttered. I spent the rest of the night getting up every hour to check, they didn’t come back.

With the balloons needing replacing every two weeks, to stay virile enough to ward off these air pests, and with spring coming, meant using the balcony without balloons hitting me in the face, I needed a better solution. One day in April, I saw on display at a dollar store these umbrella material tubes that floated in the wind with long strips of fabric like fingers (a wind-tunnel) and windmills in the distinctive colours of gay pride (which is every colour but white or black). I thought to myself, they may work as a less maintenance solution against my pigeon fight! No more blowing of balloons!

Arriving home, I excitedly snipped off all my white stringed balloons and attached the colourful new wind-tunnels. One on each side on the lattice and a windmill in the middle. I liked the subtle comedy of how I was now advertising gay pride with my wind toys when really their job was to move in the wind to threaten the pigeons. My friends find this amusing as only I would be cheeky enough to put up such symbolic flags confusing my visitors. Sometimes, I sit on my computer and watch as they blow gayily in the wind in soft flutters and other times with high winds, in wild flurries, all those colours a blur. Pigeons beware!

This piece I wrote last year sometime and to update you on the situation, to date, there has been NO sign of pigeons on my balcony! I won the battle! :) Cheers, Helen

Growing up Portuguese

2008-12-12T10:38:00.006-05:00

Portuguese was my first language and the culture I was raised in. My small family came to Canada when I was almost 2 years old, so by the definition of the culture I relate to and choose to live my life with, I’m Canadian, not Portuguese.

Maybe it’s just my family but they sure have a strange set of rules, weird ways of thinking and things from the culture and language is funny.

Later, my Grandmother came to live with us. I was in junior kindergarten then and had learned a few English words from a combination of school and watching Sesame Street. I had to teach my family a few English words to help them get by. I remember the first word my Grandmother had to learn was the English word for “knife”. Helping my mom cook, she couldn’t ask for a knife in Portuguese because the Portuguese word for knife is “faca” and one word my parents learned was that THAT word is a very bad word in English and she can’t be out there accidentally asking for a “faca”. So I had to teach her to say “knife” if she wanted the “faca”. “Grandma, you need to never say that word in Canada, just say knife, see…this is a knife” I said showing her our kitchen utensil. The second word she learned was “stop”. She used it against me many times!

As far as I can remember, my mother has been trying to "fatten" me up! I was the freak of the family because I was skinny. In our culture, being skinny or thin means you are not being fed properly and/or sick. I spent a lot of time in Sick Kids hospital being looked at and hearing doctors tell my mother each and every time "Maamm, your daughter is fine for her weight and height, she is not sick, no need for her to gain weight". My mother, "Aiyye no good, skinny no good!" Doctor, "no no no, skinny good, fat no good" My mother, turning to me in her language, "what kind of doctors are these! day dont know what day are taking about! Thiz is a doctor? You are going to diet from being skinny, you look lika those kids in Africa, look at doz bones!" "I'm going to take you to anodur doctor! I eard of dis one that will fix you with teas and special medicine!" I was too shy and embarrassed to say anything. I never did “fatten” up and today am a competive runner and healthier than the rest of my family.

At 11 with the first sign of womanhood, I was not allowed to wear socks with my skirts. I was a woman now and had to wear pantyhose and heels instead. My parents started trying to set me up with their friends sons, they were all in their late teens or early twenties and very unattractive. I would act bitchy so they would not like me, it worked. I also lost interest in showing off my fresh “home-ec” cooking skills because every time I cooked dinner my father would say, “see, you are now ready to get married, you can cook!” Today, I hardly cook and eat out a lot, cooking stresses me.

I moved out at 18 because I had to marry a Portuguese boy, he accidentally got me pregnant, so for both parents to save face, they arranged our wedding. I was happily divorced at 21 and NOT moving back with my parents. I lived freely and the Canadian way in a small apartment in an upscale uptown area of Toronto. My mother called me every hour and left progressively whiney messages on my answering machine as to why I was not home yet. “Maybe someone kill you, me scared, why you no answer! Aiiyyeee” Eventually, over a few years, she understood, I’m fine…alone…but the phone is always a pipeline to get to me.

Growing up, they deterred us for doing things by using fear. They continued this philosophy with my son. Every so often, I’d hear “Don’t go in dat room (my mother just cleaned it, so it’s a museum) very big monster! Oh my god, it almost got me, big teech and say.. raaaawwwr!!” To which my poor son’s eyes were bulging out of his head, and I’d get angry and say, “no Marky that’s not true, Grandma just cleaned that room and doesn’t want you to go in there”. My father did the same things, “In dis box, is a big Aairy spider, you no touch it bitech you!” to which I’d say “look Marky, I’m touching it, where is this spider? I dunno its gone!”

A few years ago I started to run competitively, my parents don’t understand why I need to do this. I will wear out my knees, get run over or whatever negative reason they can think up they will throw at me. There was a tragic passing away of a 36 year old man at the 2005 Toronto International Marathon. For such a sad situation, leave it to my mother to start my phone ringing. I was afraid to answer my phone that day. I can hear it now, her saying, "you crrrrazy girrrrl! You see somebody diet at diss stupid ruuun! Why you do tat!! you craaazy!" She does this all the time to me, once she called my son (during Pride Parade day) yelling, "Aiyyye you tella you muddda not to go outside today! Deez craaaazy gaayz people dancing on de street with no clodes! Verrry baaad she no go outside!" My son, "ummmm she’s down there already, probably dancing on one of those floats by now!" My mother, "Aiiyee my art!! You muddas de devil! Aiiyye!" CLICK! Luckily, my son listened to me first and had learned how to deal with them.

Today, they are less vocal and imposing as long as I take them in small doses. Spending too much time in close quarters will only open the door to their crazy opinions. My mother has accepted that I turned out better than she thought (mainly because I moved out and stayed out since 18). They still don’t understand my lifestyle and are confused about reasons behind the things I do.

This past weekend, I visited for a couple of hours and just before I leave my mother says, “come here I want to show you someding” and pulls out a newspaper clipping with an article on breast cancer with semi-nude pictures of the survivors. She points to one of them “is this you?” to which I say “yes”. It’s a picture I posed for to raise money for the cause and it only showed my torso and my face from the nose down. “See!!! I new it was you! I show your fader and he no believe me! I knew mine when I see it, I recognized dos lipz anywere!” “Ayyeee Johhny see I tod yu it was err!”

I guess they have come a long way too.

My First Half Marathon experience, March 2005

2008-12-11T15:24:00.005-05:00

Initally written, March 2005.
My first Chilly Half Marathon – 21km race

I first signed up for this event back in August, 2004 when I first started getting back into running competitively. Due to my busy lifestyle and schedule conflicts at the time, I didn’t take a formal half marathon training program. I made my own by loosely following Hal Higdon’s ½ Marathon program for intermediate runners and adjusted it to my schedule

Training started around Xmas and in early January my now ex husand and I brought our 8 week puppy, Shumi home. Shumi needed a lot of attention and ate into my available training time as well as other obstacles posed challenges. I worried about slipping on ice (never happened), getting the flu (never happened), getting injured (never happened) and many times just finding the time and motivation to kick myself out the door was tough!

At the time, I was living very north of the city in suburbia. I was limited in terms of time to do my training runs as I can only do them before 4pm in the winter due to visibility with slick streets and many people NOT shovelling their sidewalks, it’s dangerous out there! I found a route to train on in a small neighbourhood. It’s a 3km loop in a residential area with 2 huge hills about half a km long and a smaller hill later on. Quite a challenging route to train on and that kept me confident as I knew the race route would be flat!

The weekend of the half marathon finally arrived! My husband, Shumi and I made a getaway weekend out of it by staying overnight at the Travelodge in small town Burlington, a suburb west of Toronto. Before retiring to bed, I was aware of my hip joint on my left side. It wasn’t hurting or in pain but had a feeling of awareness and that made me worried that it would get painful during the run.

I felt good in the morning, my legs seemed tired but I wondered if it was my imagination. I had laid out my clothes the night before to be ready to go pretty quick. It was a beautiful day, sunny, crisp with an excitement in all the people milling about. My preparation for this ½ marathon was to do the same as for my training runs. I did not want to do anything different! I had a small bowl of raisin bran cereal, ¾ cup of coffee and drank a 750ml bottle of Gatoraide that I drank a half hour before the race. This was my fuel.

At the start, I was near the middle of the crowd. I wasn’t nervous like I normally am for my races. I was looking forward for this to be over with as it seemed like a long time in the making! I was calm and had my timer and MP3 player cued and ready to go. When the starting horn blasted off, as usual it was slow, and we walk a bit before the crowd thinned out enough for me to get into my running pace. When I did, I turned on my MP3 player and clicked my timer on to keep me informed of where I was in terms of pace.

I didn’t have a structured race strategy planned. I started off running in my natural pace. My plan was to pace like at home doing a training run. I was determined to keep all negative thoughts from creeping in my head early as they tend to do. I kept telling myself to trust my training. I trained on those tough hills through cold, slippery -40 weather, cars would slow down to stare in disbelief at the crazy runner so I most definitely can do this! The key is to keep my long slow distance pace and I was comfortable as my runs ended in good time anyway.

Going too fast at the start would tire me out by the end so, just focussed on my music which was the same as my training runs and I visualized my training run and my route. I periodically pictured where I would be by this time on that home loop, going down the hill, mid-hill, at the crest of the hill, back to last km, completed one loop and again etc. Visualizing that I was on my training loop helped a lot in keeping me focussed.

I paid no attention to anyone around me, this race was for me and no distractions. It was a beautiful route as we ran through nice neighbourhoods with quaint homes and some streets with big suburbian palaces. I have a few friends and clients from Burlington and kept an eye on some of the spectators in front of their homes in hopes of seeing my friends.

It’s funny on a long race like this, I felt like the only person on the road, crisp air on my face but my body warm. At some points I was so relaxed, I closed my eyes for a second and thought, wouldn’t it be nice to snooze and run and wake up at the finish line. Of course closing my eyes had to be cut short for fear of running into someone ahead of me and tripping. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing!

The same people would pass me and I’d pass them and there were breaks where I was in an air pocket by myself all alone out there. What I did different on this race is I didn’t stop at the water stations. On my 21 and 18K training runs, I would drink my fluid (water or Gatoraide) before my run, so again, keep it the same…no stopping for a fluid break and run through it.

There was some neat motivating messages on the roads that people scribbled for their friends in chalk. Out of co-incidence, one person had my name written down, “go Helen go” so kind of neat to see.

At the 9K mark I was starting to feel a bit tired. 9k means I completed 3 loops so what’s another 4 loops, I can do it! Disco music was playing on my MP3 and I was actually dancing to it as this pushed me forward and got a bit of a speed run in. This is when I glimpsed down at my timer and saw I was at 50minutes so, on pace to come in around the 2 hour mark. I had to pull back on the speed as I didn’t want to “waste” my energy mid way. What I like about the route is there was no KM markings for every KM as it made digesting the distances better as they were more spaced apart (or at least that’s what I noticed). At 15K, meant I had 5 loops behind me so 2 loops and 6K to go! 2 loops is nothing! I can do that in a half hour.

After 18K, it became tougher, I was counting down and felt like in my head I was becoming that annoying kid in the car, “how much longer now, how far is it, how long is this going to take” arrrrrh My hips, knees and left ankle was hurting. In my ears, 50cent rapping in my ears was getting irritating, looking up ahead, it looked like there was no end in sight just a sea of colourful jackets and toques still running. I know there was 3km left and I can whip through that quick in my training runs but I was starting to tell myself to shut up about it already! I pushed, pushed, the thoughts of “quit now” out of my brain. How can I quit with 3km to go? Why is that entering my head now?

You know the end is near when the sidewalk crowds get thicker. This is when I tried to push myself to go faster, but my legs were hurting and the last thing I needed was an injury or a fall so, I kept the pace, whatever happens happens!

As I turned the cornor to head toward the finish line, the photographers were out full force, there was this one guy who called out my # and said go #321, so I blew him a kiss and smiled for the cameras! I heard people clapping. That was a great distraction for the last stretch so I raced it in towards the finish.

I tried to find my husband in the crowd but all my surroundings was rushing at me too fast, the announcer calling out to me, I even heard others yelling for me (who I don’t know) and a big whoosh of people around me! As I crossed the timing mat, I was greeted by Kelly, the race director who was so excited to see me and we hugged. I had no idea what time I did and she told me 2hours on the dot! YAY! Seconds later Steve from Mizuno congratulates me and gives me a Cosmo Martini! Hilarious! I was surprised and appreciative! I downed it in 2 seconds flat! Much needed!! THANKS!

Relieved, happy, tired and spent, I went looking for my husband. In a big crowd of people, what stood out was a tiny furry face, overly excited to see me, it was my puppy Shumi. He has no concept of what just happened and what kind of effort went into it. He was just so happy to see me and that I had come back to him. At that moment, he made it all worthwhile!

The Other side of the Table (from Supplier to Client)

2008-12-09T11:10:00.003-05:00

The Other side of the Table (from Supplier to Client) – by Helen B *** Note not full version as this will be published soon....stay tuned.

I have been happily working in the IR industry since 1998. Most of this decade has been as a supplier selling IR services to IR Professionals, CEO’s and CFO’s. I started in this industry working as an Account Executive, for BCE Emergis, E-News (whom later was sold to CCNMatthews, now Marketwire) my main role was selling our services to publically traded companies and advising them on news distribution choices and other IR distribution enhancement tools that I resold such as conference calling, and the latest communication technology at the time, webcasting.

I methodically went about my calls, building relationships, attending all the IR and PR functions I could fit into my schedule. I was at every CIRI lunch, CIRI conference, IR Magazine Awards (I started the red dress craze), CPRS and IABC events. I ensured that I also built relationships internally as I knew this is where superior customer service from my colleagues would pay off. It was their service that my reputation with the new clients relied on. What I sold mainly was trust, and this was earned by listening to IRO needs and delivering exceptional service every time by communicating with both sides.

I took a genuine interest in my clients challenges and their interests and soon enough, I was involved in more than just providing them with great IR services through the company I was representing at the time. I was their consultant in all things IR and more. For some, I morphed into a confidant and friend and was making introductions to other IRO’s in their feild by setting up networking groups, one of the groups (someone’s birthday is our excuse) has been running consistently as a social/brainstorming group for IRO’s in mining since 2002. Being a supplier, I got to know most companies at the PDAC, (the world’s largest mining conference) and was “in the know” for all the good parties. Each year, my team of “party crashers” grew as did our memories, laughs and stories. For IR Magazine awards, the last five years I have had a tradition of making introductions to IROS who don’t know each other yet and I would arrange the meetings over a drink before the cocktail party, it’s been a hit thus far.

In my role as Account Executive and VP of Corporate Development later, I was successful and enjoyed my client relationships. The thought of becoming one of them, an IRO was frequently presented to me and dismissed. I knew I would cross over when I felt I was ready. Summer of 2008 was that time. I had reached my peak in Sales and was enjoying success in creative writing (Extra-curricularly, I write comedic stories based on situations in my exciting life-different from the business world). I know the IR role, the tools available but never had the challenge of being on that other side, research, writing, schmoozing, negotiating, dealing with crisis and providing strategic advice. And since I can do anything I put my mind to, I was ready to take this challenge head on!

****** note: more to follow on this article .... in the process of being published....stay tuned.

Be Careful What you Wish For

2008-12-09T10:19:00.003-05:00

Originally written: Tuesday, October 23, 2007 at 4:30pm

My trip to Paris started with a first class train from London to Gare du Nord, Paris. I was hoping for a short French romance and had a feeling my adventures have only begun. In my cabin, I was the only woman amongst a rowdy bunch of South African men all clients being taken out by a the whiskey company, Chivas Regal to Paris to watch the Rugby games as the finals was being played there.

The ride was two and a half hours and I was the target of a wanna-be comedian, Nicola, a testosterone driven greek guy from South Africa. He kept asking funny borderline inappropriate questions, making overtly flirtatious statements and kept insisting that when we arrive in Paris, I’m to go to dinner with him. After being a good sport I had enough and said a quick goodbye and dashed out of the train and into the station ensuring they couldn’t find me again in the crowd. They were not what I had in mind.

My days were spent shopping and my first three nights I would start alone eating dinner in some quaint outdoor café and eventually would be asked to join a group of tourists for after dinner drinks. I even made some new Parisien friends when walking the streets alone and ended up watching the Rugby game finals with a group of new University Student friends. All was well with the people I met, they were great new friends but there was no romantic intentions there.

I had one night left. Maybe this time I will finally find some romance, I had to, the options were there and easy to get. I was spoiled for choice yet, nothing had grabbed my attention that way yet. In asking my flirty hotel bartender for dinner and music suggestions, he called out to the cute hotel check-in guy to confirm the name of a club he was trying to tell me about. The cute hotel clerk and I gave each other the “look”. The look is a sign of recognition that something will happen between us. I needed to book my bus to take me back to the airport, so I needed to talk to this guy anyway. Drank that beer quickly!

In asking the guy to book my bus, he told me he is done work at 11pm and naturally, I told him to meet me at the bar called “The Frog” at 11:30 pm for a drink. His name is Marc-Alexandre…and looked like Olivier Martinez very sexy! As I turned around, the hotel lobby had filled with a bus load of young boys probably aged between 20-25 looking to check in. There must have been around 50 of them and all very cute! A very good sign, I think my luck is changing in the city of romance! I looked some of them in their “deer in headlights” stunned eyes, smiled and walked very slowly along the path they paved for me and out the door, ensuring they got a good look, for back up. No one said anything and all I heard was their teacher yelling for them to let me pass!

Marc-Alexandre arrived at The Frog a bit before 11:30. He was wearing a red shirt (which I later found out was a Toronto FC shirt worn to impress me) he came up to me right away with a big smile. He looked cute but as he got closer to me, to pull me in to do the two kiss hello, I smelled it…BO. He had major BO! I didn’t detect that when talking to him across the desk earlier! I can’t believe this. It’s a major turn off when someone does not maintain good personal hygiene! So much for finally snagging a French romance! He ordered a beer and I, a traditional French drink called Pastis. Pastis has a strong licorice odor so that helped when inhaling it to cover up the stench coming from my date. I grinned and beared it and kept the conversation friendly as it was interesting to learn about someone living in Paris.

We stayed till bar closing around 3am and Marc-Alexandre walked me home under the Paris moon. It was great fall night and perfect for a romantic rendezvous if only my date was clean. I awkwardly held his hand during the walk and as I was in front of the hotel he pulled me in for a kiss. I was trapped! I got what I wanted a romantic kiss on a beautiful Paris night if only I wasn’t recoiling because he hadn’t brushed his teeth! When he told me he wanted to stay with me, I thought to myself, “you would buddy, if you brushed your teeth and took a shower! I can’t, I just can’t!” I ran all the way back to my room confused and angry that on my last night in Paris I almost got what I wanted. I got a very cute French man, very interested in me but totally turns me off with his bad body odor and breath. This is the last thing I expected to happen!

The next morning as I was getting ready for breakfast, my phone rings at 8am. It’s him, BO Boy wanting to know if I wanted to see him before the bus picks me up at 10:30am. I told him there would not be enough time as I had to eat and pack. He insisted as I did have one hour from 9:30 to 10:30 to have a coffee with him. I agreed thinking I’d give him a second chance as maybe he was running yesterday and our date caught him off guard and he didn’t have a chance to shower. Let’s see what he smells like this morning.

He met me in front of the hotel dressed in an ill fitting suit, his tie was not tied properly and he had a small tear on his knee. I felt bad as he was clearly trying to impress me. We had a quick coffee and it was obvious he did not shower again and in the daylight I can see his hair was greasy. The fate of my French romance is now sealed…there will be none. I gave him a friendly kiss goodbye as he told me not to forget about him. Don’t worry, I won’t!

Two days later, I get an email from Marc-Alexandre saying he is very happy to meet me and hopes I keep in touch with him as he wants to see me again. He attached two pictures of himself and all I could think of was oh no!Be careful what I wish for alright as I may get it, but is it what I want?!?

A post from May 25, 2007

2008-12-09T10:14:00.001-05:00

A post I did once', 'I had posted this story a while back and some people found it funny so, I repeat it here

I am responding to a post on the tragic passing away of a 36 year old man at the 2005 Toronto International Marathon. For such a sad situation, leave it to my mother to make me think of how she would react!! He was only 36 and doing the half! Scary and sad sad sad.

Did he have some sort of existing condition or was he a healthy person that this happened to? I haven''t read anything yet on what caused it. I''m afraid to answer my phone today.

My mother is surely calling me (picture an old-fashioned latin woman) saying, "you crrrrazy girrrrl! You see somebody diet at diss stupid ruuun! Why you do tat you craaazy!"

She does this all the time to me, once she called my son (during Pride Parade day) yelling, "Aiyyye you tella you muddda not to go outside today! Deez craaaazy gaayz people dancing on de street! Verrry baaad she no go outside!"

My son, "ummmm she''s down there already, probably dancing on one of the floats by now!" My mother, "Aiiyee my art!! You muddas de devil! Aiiyye!" CLICK

Ah yes, the that crazy mother of mine!! I got lots of Wacko stories to pass on about things she says and does!