A Short Story From Yours Truly


November 6, 2014

Nothing. Once again, I had to awkwardly shove my empty screened phone back into my purse. Now came the decision to either look out the window, or take a quick scan of the bus.
Anything to keep myself from nodding off, running the risk of revealing to a bus of complete strangers how irresistible I am when my mouth hangs open with drool.
 I already knew how this would end, I lock eyes with someone, and I  then immediately regret my decision, darting my eyes to the ground in shame. There is no middle-ground when surveying a bus. There are only two outcomes; good eye contact and bad eye contact. When half your day is spent on the bus shuttling to and from work you pick up on such things.
Either a brief moment of mutual understanding occurs, where the two of you know that staring at anonymous bus patrons is an action of reflex; not the act of picking out your next victim to hog-tie in your laundry room.
  Which leads to bad eye contact, that moment when the person you accidentally focus in on is immediately terrified, insulted, confused, and just over all uncomfortable. Which I never quite understood; if they were not doing the exact same thing, this would have never happened! So in reality, this isn’t my fault god dammit.
 I should mention that I do realize that majority of people would not suspect a half-asleep 25 year old, female of being Canada’s Next Top Serial Killer. They would most likely just chalk it up to being creepy.

Just plain creepy.

 Anyway, I had already gone full circle in my thinking. My daily internal speech came to an end as I once again received the latter of my commute interactions. This time around from a poor, portly schlubb who then clutched onto his lunch bag for dear life. Spending the rest of his trip awaiting me to transform into an evil bus molester.
  Every day I would secretly crave one thing, only to have my hopes subtly dashed as I stepped off the bus at the end of my ride. I craved what most single women crave; attention, interaction, and excitement. Fuelled by my media-tainted imagination, images of a lusty cat and mouse stare off with a handsome stranger continued to grow in my mind. It was the only thing to nurse my bruised ego, repairing my self-image after the short, dumpy man of my reality brought it down.
Little did I know, as I stepped off at my stop that particular morning that I would get that cat and mouse game. But it would not be with a handsome stranger. It would not be romantic. This. This would just not be it.

November 7, 2014

 It was a brisk morning as I tried to distinguish my chilled breath from the tobacco smoke I steadily puffed. Not being used to being up at such an ungodly hour, I regretted choosing extra cash instead of my cherished sleep.    
I fed my grumpiness with an abundance of caffeine, nicotine, and really any stimulant I could get my hands on at 7:30 in the am.
  My ride burped its way up the street, making my shit mood all the more apparent as I mumbled criticisms at its pace. The bus was already a half hour late, and it was taking it’s sweet ass time chugging it’s way over to bring me to work, filled with my no doubt steamed co-workers. I smoked my cigarette way past its filter, leaving me with an unpleasant taste on my tongue as I stepped onto the bus.
  My attitude was immediately checked back into place when my detachment hurled me into an unsuspecting woman as the bus moved along.
“I’m so sorry”, I choked on my own embarrassment, but to my relief I was met with kind eyes.
The woman gathered herself, and flashed me a brief smile, “Oh that’s okay.”
I smiled back, and settled into the seat across from her. As per routine, I snuck glances at this woman, desperately trying to keep my eyes open as the low rumble of my ride attempted to lull me off to sleep.
 She was average looking, a woman I would expect to see in my neighbourhood. Her face was prematurely aged with years of tobacco abuse, making me nervous of my own bad habit. Five different tones of box-coloured blonde peeked out from her grown out bob-cut.
 Her eyes met mine and my gaze was returned with a nervous yet understanding smile. Black liner smudged her lash lines, matched with a metallic blue shadow. She was a child of the disco era that was for sure. Her thick heeled boot, dress pant and blazer were tells of civil service status. Her worn ID badge with the name too small to distinguish told me she had been at this job for quite some time. She had an overall vibe of regularity and schedule. She was comfortable with her life, used to the whole bus scene. Which is most likely why she made no attempt to stop my surveillance.
 It was only the screams of police car and ambulance sirens that broke my focus, they were a usual occurrence once my ride veered into the downtown area. It provides a moment of bus solidarity as almost everyone will crane their necks to watch them zoom by in hopes of catching some of the action.
Once the excitement passed, I went back to the woman. Who then had an intent focus on the sirens, with a calm but pained expression locked onto her face. Her eyes remained in that direction even as she stepped off the bus.
 It was as I inadvertently dozed off that I caught her stare and smile again as the bus pulled out and forward. I missed my stop that morning… I was late, and was reminded of it for the rest of that day.

 November 8, 2014

I found myself cosily nestled in a corner seat when I once again noticed the woman. I decided from then on I would call her Gwendoline, on account of an uncanny resemblance to a co-worker of mine who shared the same name. Only we called her Gwen, she thought the whole name made her sound, “like an old bag”.  
The more I examined Gwendoline, the more curious I became of her to cure my own boredom.
 I wondered if the caked on make-up was a result of similar circumstance.
  I had archives of stories about Gwen, who had a habit of repeating stories and anecdotes about her life. Tales of her one bedroom condo, of her multiple divorces, of her son Ryan; whom she tried to play match-maker with myself this one time.
(Little did she know that a kind of relationship did form between her son and I during her cupid schemes. Ryan is now my pot dealer. So thank you Gwendoline, for supporting yet another of my bad habits.)
 I began to wonder what Gwendoline’s life was like. What gave her this air of nervousness, this overall look of calm acceptance of her hard trodden life? What gave Gwendoline this appearance of understanding?
  Does she, like Gwen, also have more than one failed marriage under her belt? Does she also have a one bedroom condo in the dumpy end of town? Does her son also deal pot to me when my regular dealer goes A-WOL? Does she even have children?
 I was too busy creating bus Gwendoline’s life story to notice she was eyeing me as she stepped of the bus. My cheeks flushed red, and I planted my eyes to the ground for the remainder of the ride.  
 That’s when I realized I had formed an odd obsession with her, a relationship she had no idea about. A relationship I would not take home with me, a relationship that starts and ends on my daily commute to work. When I went home that night I would not think of Gwendoline.

November 9, 2014

My curiosity had turned from innocent speculation, to being down right nosy.

I would eventually learn to regret my actions.
I would regret the second I stumbled into Gwendoline for the first time that morning.
I would end up spending many nights forcing myself to sleep with hits upon hits of Ryan’s sub-par pot. With relentless thoughts of coincidence, and morbid serendipity.
I didn't get a seat that morning, the bus was unusually packed. I overheard murmurs of a traffic build up here, and sections of down-town being closed off there because of an accident, or construction; the usual.
 Either way I didn't much care, I was too preoccupied with a man’s gut being shoved into me, or a backpack I can’t quite remember these days, forcing me into one of the back doors.
I was growing more and more annoyed until I saw her. She became my daily breath of fresh air. My main focus that kept me from my eye-contact dilemma. I hadn't realized she was sitting right behind me.
I wish, I wish so badly I never noticed her.
I wish that I didn't squeeze my way into the seat behind her.
I wish I didn't look over her shoulder to catch the screen of her outdated flip phone. 
I wish I did not see the message she received from (613)8996773.

I fucked up.
Please answer me. Please.

November 14, 2014
My day and my work were finally over. My mind and my phone would usually be buzzing, excited to turn my work week into the weekend.
 I wouldn't have even been bothered by not seeing Gwendoline those last couple of days.
 If not for that fucking text message.
 If it weren't for my barging into Gwendoline’s life the way I did. The image of it was branded into my memory, the message sounding more and more ominous as I repeated it to myself over and over and over. All I wanted was to keep myself awake on the bus, all I wanted was to avoid awkward eye contact. She was supposed to be my hobby, a woman I was getting to know in silence; just to pass the time.
  The reality of it was, I did not know her, and never would. I knew nothing of her life, but still felt I had a right to be a part of it, whether she knew about it or not. I still know nothing beyond what bus she takes, the face she puts on every day, or that she has a brick for a phone.
But more importantly, I knew something had broken her down.

   I unlocked my front door, and collapsed onto my couch. Undoing my work pants I sparked             up a roach, and inhaled my work day away. The silence of my house unnerved me, so I          flicked on the television for company.
  The roach wasn't enough, so I started to roll another. The TV was only loud enough to hiss white noise to break the silence and ease my grass fuelled paranoia. I felt my shoulders sink as I breathed in the musty smoke. I zoned out into a lovey-dovey-supposed-to-be-inspiring tale of an over-privileged local teen. Whose only accomplishment was being the Mayor’s daughter, one of those stories saved for supper time news.
 I turned up the volume when a ridiculously handsome stranger appeared on my television screen. I was too busy staring at his face to realize words were coming from it, until his face disappeared and was replaced with a shaky, live broadcast.
 My television projected the image of a young man being lead into a patrol car, a beaten up leather coat draped over his handcuffed shame.  A crowd had gathered, and inaudible screams and heckles attacked him, each of them leaving a mark on his tired expression.
Words ticker taped along the bottom of my television screen.


Naturally my compassion for the victims kicked in, and my hatred for this strange man grew. In a pagan like fashion, I jumped on the band wagon and silently attempted to send my ill-will via television to this murderer, this scum. This cowa-
 That’s when I felt my stomach hit the floor, and I could feel its juices gurgle into my throat leaving it raw and stiff.
  She was there. Tucked into the modest doorway the suspect was just dragged from.
Gwendoline. Gwendoline. What the fuck Gwendoline, what are you doing here!?  I had screamed this out loud, my disbelief sent me into a spiral.
 Her quaint nervousness was gone, her thick liner, and disco-tech shadow; gone. Her name tag was gone, along with her understanding smile. All that was left was a broken woman, spent and emotionally worn out. Fragments of someone I didn’t even know. She held herself as no one else would do it, clutching onto her own shaking arms as she sobbed in shock, as if to keep herself from shattering to pieces.
Broken by the sight of the impending incarceration of her son.  

I fucked up.
Please answer me. Please.

I sat bewildered even as the story wrapped up and the handsome newscaster returned. While my brain fidgeted the pieces together.


I listened to the news anchor offering his scripted condolences for the victim’s family.
He did not extend condolence to Gwendoline.
No condolences of any kind were offered to Gwendoline.
I doubt there ever will be.

November 17, 2014

My weekend came and went in a haze, and the new week started with yet another brisk morning. Colder than last week, a bitter wind trailed me onto the bus shivering me down into the closest seat.
 I looked up and Gwendoline was not sitting across from me.
She was not beside me.
She was not near the back of the bus.
She was gone.
I would never know what came of her. A bitter-sweet ending to the cat and mouse staring match I hadn't originally wished for but received. Leaving me with haunting vignettes into a life I had no business entering. Bringing on a whole new terror to my bus interactions.
  That’s when good looking boy, about my age, with tufts of a winter beard shadowing his jaw flashed me a smile. An invitation into the romantic interlude I wanted in the first place.

I stared into his eyes.
Studied them.

Held his gaze until…

I turned away, and focused out the window.
Not this time. I’d rather feel alone and creepy on the bus, scare fat men with lunch pails, fall asleep and miss my stop again; then enter the unknown of a strangers life. Or worse, let them into mine.


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Sara Myers

Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot. 

Pintrest |  Blogs I Follow: The Gouda Life | I Believe I Can Fry

Pecan Pie, and Powdered Cheese

Baked Wet Socks


I don’t believe I will ever understand life changing moments. Now that’s not to say I don’t understand how the death of a loved one, or a near death experience, can change your world or anything like that – those are pretty obvious. What I'm talking about are those small moments that go relatively unnoticed, and severely unappreciated.
 The moments I'm talking about are ones like the first time you make yourself Kraft-Dinner when you're five or six years old, having that feeling of pure independence even if half the powdered cheese fluffs onto the burner, making your kitchen stink of baked wet-socks. In a way - as small as it is - your life is changed forever. You can officially fend for yourself, and don’t need mom or dad to come running every time you’re hungry. It’s one of the first feelings of accomplishment, like being able to colour inside the lines, or ride a bike sans-training wheels. You’re now old enough to feel accomplishment, and realize what that really means. As we get older, we don’t notice these small accomplishments as much as we should. It seems so trivial amongst all the other goings on in the big, bad world.  

For me once I sat back and really thought about it, I have so many of these little memories to revel in. They may not all be accomplishments, but they all changed me, and gave me a different sense of being.

One of my favourite moments was prompted by finding an old Polaroid photo of me and my father sitting in a bowl chair, watching the hockey game. I couldn't have been more than two or three years old. I have to explain this was during my “I'm a teenager and my parents don’t know jack about shit, I hate them blah blah blah” years. Once I found this photo, I got a swift kick in the arse and remembered how much my father loved me, and how much my hatred was completely unfounded. Another marking time would be the complete sense of calm, something I hadn't felt since my mother passed away back in 2013, when I walked along the red-sanded beaches of PEI.


The last I’ll write here was finally perfecting a pecan pie; mastering the pecan to filling ratio. I was almost scared to taste it, because all my failed attempts were either dryer than Ben Stein, or sweet to diabetic coma levels. But this time, this time I nailed it. So much so it was gone not an hour later, how much I ate of it I’ll never tell.

So I suppose I just want to leave you all with a question, more so a request. Take a minute and give thanks to all the tiny things, and moments in your life that make you, you. You, and those itty-bitty things deserve it.

Sara Myers

Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot. 

Pintrest |  Blogs I Follow: The Gouda Life | I Believe I Can Fry

Kitchen Party

  A Sweet Generational Love of Food

The hollow chop, chop, chop of veggies; the spit and bubble of a chunk of butter hitting a pan; the smells and all-around serenity one can enjoy while cooking - all in hopes of seeing the red-cheeked, child-like enjoyment of those you are feeding - that unique serotonin surge when you taste your own success; these are the things to savour in the kitchen.

This is what drives me to stove-front time and time again. Nothing else matters when you're cooking for others, each soon-to-be-edible morsel begging for your patience and attention. Cooking is in fact, one of the only things in this world that is guaranteed  to be worth the effort if you’re willing to give it the time.

 I gained this downright love and appreciation for food from my father. Originally I thought it was my mother, whose spaghetti sauce is still frozen in batches, locked in the basement freezer patiently waiting for the winter months. Little did I know she was not the mastermind behind this childhood favourite, just the whip master. Driving my father through “subtle” nagging to cut up this, and spice that, even taste test to see if it was done right.

As the years went on, I would not have had any other person [my father] taking a note from my mother’s book, nipping at every move, flip, and oven prep I made. I still can’t wrap my head around my father trusting that girl (psst, it's me) getting steam-rolled anywhere near a hot stove, let alone sharp objects.

Memories such as these forced me to wonder where my father truly gained his down home culinary talent. My question brought him back to his own experiences, to my great-grandmother's house on the hill; a house I remember with such surprisingly vivid adoration. It had a southern style wrap-around porch, like a withered leather belt set around a picturesque harbour side home. It was a place where, my father explained, you either helped out packing bread dough, or went down to the basin to giddily await one of the dinghy’s to be hurled over by the tidal winds, and the inevitable scramble of their owners to save them.

He helped craft loaves upon loaves of home-made bread, and mounds of boiled dinner; both which are still family staples down in Halifax, and here in Ottawa. Now sadly, if I were to handout my great-grand-nanny’s bread or boiled dinner recipe, I'm damn well sure she would climb right out of her grave, and whip me in the arse for it. So those will have to remain in that ancient cook book (seen above) until myself and all the Myers (originally Maillette back in the day, but that’s for another day) clan are long gone.

I am a tad more adventurous in my cooking ventures, but I can’t not stress the love and admiration you will have for French-toast if it is made with a home-made loaf. It’s truly a big thick hunk of densely fluffy, decadent purgatory.  I should explain that I don't say heaven because the bread is too delicious for enlightenment, it's more of a sugary take-down of all your basic functions, leaving you comatose until you shovel another bite into your face.

So, stop reading this blog like everyone else and go try some!

Sara Myers

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Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot. 

Pintrest |  Blogs I Follow: The Gouda Life | I Believe I Can Fry

The gloves are off


How Bras Changed Canada

This whole conversation started off when my father and I decided to take on the awkward conversation of our dating lives. Most of the time, this father/daughter parallel is not breached. It is a weird grey area where you cannot exactly be truthful, in order keep the innocent perception you have of one another intact. To put it simply, we narrowly avoided admitting to each other that we are both big, confused tramps, like most folks are.
Quit lying to yourself sir or ma'am, you have respectfully, at one point, pulled a trampy stunt or two (I'm not here to judge: Tramp it up). 
His main argument, which could be used as a giant cop-out for the millennial generation, is the whopping change in relationship expectations. Or more so, his introduction to sexuality itself, and its then-still-conservative ways. In his time, all he had to worry about was being nice and holding hands, until as a certain sassy R&B singer would say he: Put a Ring on It.

Now, pre-pubescent boys and girls are bombarded with images of half-naked celebs and all their much-expected debauchery. Sexually charged pre-teens are forced to be more creative with all this texting and social-media jargon. They are expected to meet standards that they have no way of actually understanding, but have all the means of acting out.
Gone are the days of the bra-burning '60s, when exposed nipples were a way of the future, instead of a fairly regular thing, especially after a certain ‘”wardrobe malfunction." (Okay Ms. Jackson, take your missing nipple slip and go home.) 
It was this comment that led to the thought: What if bras were never burned? What if all the empowered flower-women and feminists never realized how quickly and powerfully those suckers would burn? Would this liberal-minded gentleman come in to power? Would his overtly liberal ideas and practices be accepted? We didn’t think so. If breasts were never exposed, if feminine equality was never forced down the throats (I say this with all the love and respect I have for my now-accepted human rights) of the general North-American public, how would many of his policies be introduced, let alone respected. How would this man, who blatantly shoved a well-played vocal middle finger to Nixon himself, come into power? Canada needed this liberalism, free breasts, bras or the lack thereof, to become the nation we are today. 

So ladies, for chucking your lacy symbols of oppression: Thank you. 

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Sara Myers

Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot. 

Pintrest |  Blogs I Follow: The Gouda Life | I Believe I Can Fry

Well Hello There!

This blog, or at least the idea of it, was created in one of those last-second, what-the-living-hell-do-I-write-about? moments. Just one of my crafty (I think I'm giving myself too much credit here) ways to weave my everyday life into school work. Two birds with one stone. But it turned into something more meaningful than that.
Not to whip out a Halle Berry Oscar speech, but my father is the reason I am who I am today. "The apple does not fall too far from the tree" is an eloquent way of saying I've become the sarcastic, cranky shite behind this rather ridiculous blog.  Biology aside, and not to dramatically admit I’d be dead, or a meth head, or a drug lord if… you get the point; without him the person I am at this moment would not exist. I cherish that fact, even if the result is less than glamorous.

I can’t say our musings serve a greater purpose, or that they ever will. I will say that our conversations, like those I will record here, have salvaged my sanity. Or at least serve for a good laugh.

My hope is that a scrap of this might turn some lights on for all you fine people; that maybe through reading this, a moment of your life can look manageable, simple even. We’re not claiming to be knowledgeable, or to have all the answers. All we have is our thoughts, and if they make you at least think about your own answers to life, we've done what we've set out to do.

To raise a red flag that might deter or inspire you to follow along: My father, Tony, is a self-described simple man, living his life through film and music. Mix in a dash of bluntness, a pinch of vulgarity, and a crap-shoot of sarcasm and that's my dad, Anthony R. Myers. 

Now take all that and apply it to your average 21-year-old girl… that's Sara A. Myers (oh dear that’s me D:)

A real gem right? (Said no one ever.)

It gets better, I promise. If not, complain in the comment box. Maybe I’ll look into it.

I probably won’t. 


Sara Myers
Sara Myers is an aspiring writer struggling to be a productive member of society. Born and raised in Ottawa, she has spent many summers in Nova Scotia with the rest of her oddball family. Which, as you will soon discover, explains a lot. 

Pintrest |  Blogs I Follow: The Gouda Life | I Believe I Can Fry