05.02.13
by

Whiny Whiny Bright Side.

There are a great many reasons why today sucked.

1. We were understaffed at work, but only because we’ve become outrageously busy since the weather got nice. It made running breaks and getting all that manager stuff I have to do (read: the daily and weekly orders, deposit prep, and bank trip) a massive fucking challenge. We barely had time to wipe the sweat from our collectively furrowed brows this morning. Customers were cranky because the line was so long. I missed a drink and left a customer waiting for, like, ten minutes.

2. The line at the bank was also disgustingly lengthy. Not only did I have to wait forever, but they did not have nearly enough change to supply my store for the night. This is a running issue at my cafe’s bank, and my fellow supervisors and I have literally been begging my boss to switch. I waited EVER SO PATIENTLY for my requested rolls of quarters and loonies and one of the tellers had the audacity to say to me, “Oh, we usually get a call so we can prepare the change before you come.” UM, EXCUSE ME. I would have called but I was about two hours late actually dragging my ass to that godforsaken branch, and it was so busy I could barely find time to call two baristas in early, let alone chat with bank folks about how many rolls of fucking dimes I’d need to pick up. Calling ahead wasn’t really a priority today. Also, every time I call, nobody answers. So… yeah.

3. For whatever reason, the supervisor who opened yesterday was unable to put the daily order in on time (cutoff is 11AM), so we’re being shipped a psycho order tomorrow morning. Not only will we have the weirdest number of sandwiches I’ve ever seen, we’ll only have three bags of whole milk. Considering the crazy special we have on blended drinks happening tomorrow (in which the default milk is whole), we are going to be screwed. Three is not enough. I had to order 20 for Saturday, in case you need an example of the volume we’re expecting.

4. I got off work an hour and a half AFTER my scheduled end time, making my shift around ten hours, during which I only got two breaks. This means I got home nearly thirteen hours after I left this morning.

However, there are also a great many reasons why today didn’t suck that badly and actually got better.

1. My coworkers rallied behind me and prevented me from having a meltdown. They were cool about getting their breaks a tad late and they helped keep me sane. My coworker Simon left me a note telling me I handled today’s insanity “like a BAWSE”. Having such amazing coworkers really really helps.

2. The weather is seriously fucking beautiful today. I know I usually stay inside where it’s cool and dark and there are snacks and TV shows, but the walk from the streetcar stop to my house was really nice and I may even venture outside to get some dinner later.

3. Free drinks from work. This is always a plus, no matter how crazy the day is.

4. My Ultimate HIM Fan Pack thingy arrived in the mail sometime yesterday. When I left this morning, it was perched on my doorstep and since I didn’t have time to open it, I left it for after work. Two T-shirts, a hoodie, two LPs, a CD and a massive poster — it felt like Christmas. I even sat on my kitchen floor to unwrap everything. Also, the concert is in seven days, and I’m all ready to wear my T-shirt to the show and fangirl the shit out of it.

5. I have enough tip money to scurry out and get myself a bottle of horrible, delicious Coke Zero.

6. Payday is tomorrow. I skated by with $24 left in my bank account, but all my bills were paid in full and my rent check didn’t bounce, so that makes me very, very excited. Also, May is a Three Paycheck Month, which means one of them is ENTIRELY EXPENDABLE. I could save, but you know, I’m still in the midst of decorating my apartment so most of it will probably go to that.

Moral of the story: I need to stop complaining so much, because clearly the good outweighs the bad.

I hope you’re all having beautiful days! Remember to (try to) look on the bright side. To aid you in this, feast your ears on my ultimate cheer up song of the century: David Bowie’s “Modern Love”.

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04.26.13
by

Hello Spring, Goodbye Pants.

It’s spring, and you know what that means.

Hello rain, hello sunshine, hello warmer weather, GOODBYE PANTS.

I hate pants. I mean, really. Unless they’re my favorite pair of ugly track pants, anything that isn’t a dress or skirt can just gtfo. This winter was far too cold for me to do anything but give in to wearing the damn things, so I settled for compromise and bought myself a few pairs of jeggings (heaven help me) in order to retain some level of comfort and warmth.

I went in to work the other day in a skirt. “Look at you!” my boss exclaimed. “You’re all dressed up!” I suppose since he hired me in the midst of winter’s coldest, nipple-freezing days, he didn’t know he’d be seeing a lot more of my tights-clad legs as the weather warmed. “I hate pants,” I deadpanned. “Oh, really?” “Yes. I’ve been incredibly unhappy all winter.”

And that last part is true. I’m one of many first-world humans suffering from seasonal affective disorder. It’s possible I’m part bear, and that’s why my instincts drive me to binge eat and marathon sleep my way through most of my winter days off, but it’s more likely I’m just SAD.

It doesn’t help that the world seems to have straight up gone insane. It’s hard to write happy things when people are hurting each other left and right. I was going to write a post about it, but I knew it would further depress me and besides, THIS POST is so much better than anything I could come up with.

Anyway, in celebration of spring’s return, I’d like to present you with this list of things that make me happy.

1. Coffee first thing in the morning. There’s nothing quite like it and I’ve become quite accustomed to wandering out to my kitchen and flipping the ON button, then listening as my $15 Wal-Mart coffeemaker makes its magic. That first sip is amazing, possibly because I sleep with my mouth open and have probably been swallowing spiders all night. Bonus: My stainless steel tumbler doubles as a weapon, should I happen to need one.

2. The smell of freshly shampooed hair. For real. I work with food and drink so I’m required to rein in my hair during my shifts. At the end of a long night of ass kissing, there’s nothing better than letting your hair down and catching that fruity, clean scent all up in your nose. I purr a little, which makes my coworkers more than a little uncomfortable.

3. Tea. Need I say more? I drink herbal tea at night because it doesn’t keep me awake and I’m clearly 85 years old.

4. Marathon walking. I can only do this on days I don’t work, but believe me, it’s worth it. I walk all over Toronto, with no set destination in mind. My boyfriend usually accompanies me and I always end up smoking too many cigarettes so by the time we get back home, I’m all Kathleen Turner. Worth it.

5. Visiting my family way the fuck up north. Ever heard of Cannington? No? Well, fear not, you’re not the only one. I spent some time there in my wayward youth, and my mom and aunt both live there now, so whenever I can manage it, I shove a change of clothes into my obnoxious rainbow backpack and make the three-hour bus trip to go see them. I spent Wednesday and Thursday there this week to celebrate my mom’s birthday. I came back with a new pair of shoes and three mega-cute leather jackets (FAKE leather ftw). Not to mention a fistful of delectable Caramel Log bars. Again, don’t worry if you don’t know what I’m talking about — I’ve never seen the damn things outside of Newfoundland but they’re a HUGE DEAL in my family. We get them shipped up via my kick ass grandmother.

6. The sun. No, really. Vitamin D is amazing and boosts my mood so much. When the sun is shining, chances are I’m in a decent mood.

7. Discount dresses. I buy them practically in bulk. I harp on and on about how we’re living in a consumerist society and we’re so wasteful and take everything for granted, so naturally I tend to buy my clothes from Goodwill and Salvation Army. Sally Ann, as we call it, has been stepping up their dress game lately and I’ve bought no less than ten dresses in the last couple of weeks. Reusing stuff is awesome, especially when that stuff is cute as fuck.

8. Learning new chords and cover songs. Being a writer of original songs is wicked cool, don’t get me wrong, but there’s a lot to be said for learning how to play some of your favorite songs by other artists. After all, I never came across Amanda Palmer‘s music until I heard her cover of “Polly” by Nirvana. With a couple important shows coming up next month, I figure adding a couple covers to my repertoire could go a long way.

Well, that about sums it up. No matter how crappy the weather, never mind that it snowed three damn times in April, I’m looking forward to spring, sunshine, and focusing on positivity.

Have a beautiful Friday, everyone!

04.23.13
by

Birth Of A Coffee Jockey.

I recently celebrated my one year anniversary at the coffee chain I call home. As I contemplated that auspicious event (and graciously allowed my coworker J.L. to take the one year pin that had been left for me), I realized it’s been one hell of a coffee journey for me.

I don’t write about coffee much, in spite of the title of this blog. If you didn’t know any better, I’m sure you’d expect this to be a blog all about the different types of coffee in the world, and the different methods used to prepare them. However, I’m a flagrant narcissist, so this blog is essentially a platform for me to whine about work and people being mean and my thoughts about the state of the world. But after spending the last six years of my life slinging the stuff at the fine people of Toronto, I’ve learned a thing or two about coffee and the people who serve it.

In light of my coffeeversary, allow me to share.

I was maybe ten years old when I tried my first cup of coffee. My sis and I got into my mother’s Nescafe instant coffee jar and mixed ourselves up a cup. Have you ever had instant coffee? It’s basically liquefied shit. Ash and I had been lifelong tea drinkers (and when I say “tea” I mean Tetley, with four pounds of sugar and a shitload of milk mixed in), so we had no idea what we were in for. Bitter, hot, and no matter how much milk and sugar we added to our cups, the taste refused to not linger. It was gross, but I got a definite thrill from the fact that technically we weren’t allowed to have coffee. We were such little rebels!

After I drank it, I promptly fell asleep. I was not impressed.

When I was a teenage miscreant creating drama all over Uxbridge, there was a cafe that sprung up on Main Street called “Beanz”. Whenever I had extra money (which wasn’t often), Ash and I would go there and buy fancy blended drinks. As I watched the folks behind the counter work their magic, I longed to be like them. They were cool, edgy hipsters long before the word became part of modern vernacular.

At nineteen, my misguided little wish came true.

When I moved to Toronto, I’d had very little notice or time to prepare for such a big change. I was flat broke and in need of a job. I knew I sure as hell didn’t want to work for McD ever again, and I remembered loving the atmosphere at Beanz, so I applied at a coffee shop. Before long, I found myself lost in a sea of fancy espresso drinks. I was overwhelmed. At that point in my life I had no idea what espresso was, I’d never heard of or tasted a latte, and I thought I was going to lose my mind.

I worked at the Second Cup on Bloor and Avenue, conveniently located across from the Royal Ontario Museum and directly beneath the Park Hyatt Hotel.

For the first month, I completely avoided being on bar. I did NOT want to be responsible for creating my own brand of liquefied shit and having Yorkville’s finest bite my head off with their perfectly white, capped teeth. I would yell for a coworker every time someone ordered something other than brewed coffee — which we ran out of more often than not during my first couple weeks. I remember my boss yelling at me, “IT’S UNACCEPTABLE FOR US TO RUN OUT OF COFFEE. WE’RE A COFFEE SHOP. IT’S LIKE MCDONALD’S RUNNING OUT OF HAMBURGERS.”

As if I’d needed a reminder of my former source of income.

In any case, I discovered that most of my coworkers were just like me, creative types who needed to cover rent and bills. Unlike me, most of them were pursuing post-secondary education, but none of them judged me for being full time workforce. Two of my former coworkers, Alex D and Alex B, became fashion bloggers (among other fabulous things), and another of my former coworkers is a runner and blogs about it here. I’ve lost touch with a few others, and recently reconnected with a couple.

It’s one of those things.

When my sister joined me in Toronto, she also ended up working at a Second Cup location. It’s become a running joke that we’ve had all the same jobs since we were teenagers. Once Ash and I had moved to our own place in the St Clair W & Bathurst area, I quit one Second Cup and switched to another. For several years, I worked at the Second Cup right on the corner, the very same one mentioned in Bryan Lee O’Malley’s Scott Pilgrim series. I found a new home there, with new coworkers who quickly accepted me as family. I even managed to make friends with many of the customers, one of whom eventually became my roommate for a short time.

A friend recorded a few of my songs there one night after we closed. My poetry reading for Black Coffee Poet was filmed there. For a short time, we were happy. One night, as we were closing up shop, a regular customer pointed out that what we had wouldn’t last forever. As I sat there, surrounded by some of my closest friends, I took a moment to appreciate everything.

Soon afterward, everything changed. The owner sold the store, management changed, and all my coworkers quit. I was the last one standing, but eventually I had to throw in the towel for many reasons, mostly personal ones. I quit in November 2011 and moved up north soon after. I recently passed by the Second Cup I called home and was a little shocked to see it had been closed. I joked about it with my new coworkers, but to be completely honest I was kind of sad. Working there with so many amazing people had a huge impact on me and every time I walk by in my mind’s eye I see Louise and Mark behind the counter waiting for Julie and I to show up and take over the closing shift. It really was a family, but we all scattered to the wind and most of us don’t talk much beyond a Facebook “hey” once in a while. But life went on, and I ended up finding a brand new coffee family all over again.

It was in Newmarket that my coffee journey truly began. I was hired by my current employer and although I had several years of coffee history under my belt, the training for this company was a lot more comprehensive. I learned about coffee beans, pull times for espresso, the different tastes of coffee and how to describe them… the list goes on. I also discovered a taste for darker roasts (I was an avid americano drinker in my Second Cup days). I learned the finer points of steaming milk and how to pour the perfect cappuccino. Most of it came fairly naturally to me because I’d had so much practice before, but I enjoyed the challenge of learning to use a completely different espresso machine.

But no matter how much I learn about coffee and fancy espresso drinks, the truth is that the friendships I’ve fostered during my various coffee shop jobs are some of the most important ones in my life. Folks who sling coffee are my kind of people, no matter what kind of personalities they have. When I look back over the last six years of my life, it’s not so much the coffee I remember, but the people with whom I served it.

04.12.13
by

In The Words Of Her Father.

It’s raining as I write this. The bad weather means my bottom left wisdom tooth is broadcasting aching weather warnings throughout my lower jaw and only cup after cup of herbal tea provides comfort.

I’m upset as I write this. Words locked inside my brain, unwilling or unable to come out, trapped inside the maelstrom in my mind.

I’m typically guilty of allowing myself to get wrapped up in the more negative aspects of life. I find time to appreciate the beautiful moments, but as a person prone to depressive episodes it’s hard for me to ignore the darker side sometimes.

I’m talking about Rehtaeh Parsons, a seventeen year old girl who was the apple of her father’s eye, a kind and giving soul, who committed suicide five days ago. She had been raped, and the justice system was failing her.

She couldn’t take any more.

I didn’t know her. She was an East Coast-er like me, hailing from Nova Scotia (I’m from Newfoundland, NS’ friendly neighbor). I heard about her a couple days ago and although I’ve been thinking about her, her situation, and the whole fucked up misogynistic patriarical rape culture slut shaming society in which we live for days, I’ve been unable to write about it.

I’m just too upset.

Rehtaeh’s story deserves to be told. Not just the bad stuff, the stuff about her rape and suicide. She was NOT what happened to her. She was so much more than that.

Her father wrote a piece for The Huffington Post, which I read while choking back tears.

I don’t think I could say it any better than her father, so I encourage you to click the link and read her father’s words.

Rehtaeh, you will be missed by more people than you ever knew.

My thoughts are with her family as they go through this. I hope they find peace, and I hope the pressure from the public forces Nova Scotia’s Justice Minister to do something about her attackers. Show them their behavior was a crime.

Punish them accordingly.

rehtaeh-parsons

Rehtaeh Parsons Was My Daughter – By Glen Canning
Justice for Rehtaeh – Sign the petition to reopen her case.

UPDATE: I just found out the RCMP is reopening Rehtaeh’s case. I hope her attackers will be brought to justice and we make sure no other cases like hers get swept under the rug ever again.

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04.09.13
by

Dust Jackalopes & The Misery Of Overworking.

Work has overtaken my life, hence my lack of posts over the last little while. Believe me, it’s not because I don’t adore the folks who have chosen to follow this little blog, because I love the shit out of each and every one of you (in an intense and potentially carnal manner). It’s work.

I have a tendency to say yes to every extra shift that comes my way, and I am always drawn by the prospect of extra dollars lining my bank account. I am, by most definitions, a workaholic. It’s a fairly lucrative addiction, especially when compared to my penchant for cigarettes (though I never stop TRYING to quit). I’m convinced if not for free coffee from my job, I would probably go bankrupt trying to support my crippling caffeine addiction.

The problem with working so much (like, 50 hours in one week followed by a six-day work week with a dreaded “clopen” — where you work a closing shift directly followed by an opening one) is that eventually you’re going to sleep in.

I slept in this morning and was an hour late. I made up for it by staying an hour later, so essentially I’m still tired.

Also, insomnia. So much insomnia. I’ve been plagued with it since I hit puberty so I’m at the point where it doesn’t even bother me anymore, I just accept it as reality and move on. Some nights I lay awake in my bed, willing sleep to come and before I know it I’m still up and my alarm clock is screaming its morning serenade in my ear.

Too many hours spent working means I’ve let a lot of my personal tasks slide slowly but surely to the back burner. My laundry has grown steadily into a mountain and my floor is overrun by dust bunnies that can be said to have sprouted horns and gone full jackalope at this point. Tuesday and Wednesday are my two days off (woo! Jen Weekend!) so I’m playing catch-up all day today.

On the upside, I spent the beginning of last week in a little town I like to call Cannington working on some lyrics my aunt penned. Songwriting has been a solitary activity for me for as long as I can remember, although I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of co-writing. She was nervous about singing her songs in front of me, but I explained that in order to work out chords for her melody, I’d need to hear it. With a little coaxing, she overcame her fear and I was able to do her lyrics some justice.

Here are the two videos we shot while I was there.

It was a lot of fun, and we ended up finishing two of her songs. It was a great creative refresher. When you’ve been doing anything for too long, sometimes you just need to look at it in a new perspective and it restarts your engines, especially when it’s not music you’d typically make.

For now, I’m off to buy food and tackle my chores.

Being a grown up sucks.

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Featured image from HERE.

04.01.13
by

Dear Head Office, I Am Not Sorry.

I work across the street from a bus station in downtown Toronto. Our clientele is mostly transient, made up of travelers from all over Canada and the world. They come in, ask for coffee and directions to good places to visit, and then they move on. Most of them I never see again.

We have our core group of fancy well-paid businesspeople as well, but they usually come for coffee in the mornings and early afternoon.

At night, my store gets ugly.

Plenty of Toronto’s homeless hang out around the bus station hoping for a well-intentioned traveler to toss a few dollars their way. Some of the more aggressive ones just go ahead and rob the unsuspecting person and come use the bathroom in my store to empty their pilfered wallets. Some of them seem to think that my cafe is a bank and we’ll willingly and cheerfully convert their dimes and nickels into toonies and loonies while the line of paying customers begins to stretch out to the door.

I had a lot of closing shifts over the last two weeks of March. I’m a tough chick who has no problem coming out from behind the counter to inform a panhandler that they can’t do that inside, so I’m not worried when I’m scheduled to close. One night I had a panhandler come in, dump his change all over the counter, and ask us to change it for him. When we informed him that A) We’re not a bank and B) We can’t open the till unless there’s a transaction, he stood beside the till and began asking the people behind him if they were paying with cash so we could open the till and help him.

I told him very firmly I would change his money this one time only, and that I didn’t want to see him in my cafe again. He’s been in before hunting for free coffee and he’s always a little off, so this was the last straw for me.

So when he came in about a week ago, bothering customers for spare change and cutting the line while growling and muttering something about “making his day”, I decided I’d had enough. In a fake, sugar-sweet-angry bitch voice, I said,

“Hi! Why are you being so rude?”

He looked at me with what passed as derision and said, “WHAT? I WASN’T EVEN TALKING TO YOU.”

“You’re being rude and I don’t like it, so you can just leave. BYE.” I replied in the same tone.

Evidently he didn’t like that, so he shoved the stacks of to-go cups at me and began swearing as he made his way for the door. Ordinarily, I would laugh it off, shake my head and serve the next customer. But if you have enough interactions with angry, swearing homeless folks in one week (and I’d already reached my capacity for being flipped off and yelled at, you see), you tend to snap.

I stepped away from the till and yelled, “Do you really want to start with me right now?!” to which he replied,

“NO, I REALLY WANT TO FUCK YOUR PUSSY.”

He may as well have thrown gasoline on a lit fire. “What is wrong with you?” I screamed. “Just get out of here and don’t come back again!” I had started walking out around the counter and had to remind myself that I was at work and I needed to calm down. I was shaking with rage when I walked back to my till, apologized to the waiting customer, and asked her what she would like.

“I’m not placing a drink order,” she informed me snidely. “Because two wrongs don’t make a right.”

For a moment, I was flabbergasted. She had no idea how many times I’d had to kick this man out. She had no idea how scary it is for me to confront somebody whose grip on reality is tenuous at best. She apparently didn’t hear what he said to me. She apparently thinks it’s ok to throw cups at a barista.

All I said was, “OK. Bye.” I saw no reason to get into an argument with her. And judging from her demeanor, I had a feeling about what would happen next.

She called head office and lodged a complaint about me.

I don’t even know how to feel about it. Her original comment made me feel less than human, as if I should not defend myself when somebody throws things at me. As if I shouldn’t get angry when somebody directs what is essentially a rape threat at me. As if being in customer service somehow means I am a customer servant. I am not a punching bag for the general public, literally or figuratively, and she made me feel as if I should be. Finding out she formally complained amplified all those feelings tenfold.

My boss called me to let me know that the manager of our district had been informed of the complaint. He wanted to know the whole story from beginning to end so he could let her know my side of the situation when he called her back. He assured me he was on my side, because he knows how iffy our store gets at night. But having people agree with me is not the point, no matter how grateful I am that they have my back.

The point is, I should be allowed to stand up for myself, no matter where I’m working. I shouldn’t have to take abuse or dodge items thrown at me, and smile while I’m doing it. Maybe I’m crazy, but I feel like this is deeper than just some woman taking offense to my behavior. I feel like this mirrors how misogynists feel about women in general. Be perfect, be pretty, be kind, be a doormat. Never speak out in anger or frustration. Bury your feelings inside and don’t share them.

I am not, nor will I ever be that girl. I will be the one who makes noise and stands up for herself, no matter who that offends. No matter if I get fired for it. My integrity as a fully formed human being is everything to me. I am not a doormat.

Am I sorry that the woman was offended? Of course.

But not for one second am I sorry I fought back.

03.21.13
by

My Thighs Are Alive With The Lust Of Music.

My boyfriend can be kind of ornery. He’s one of those cranky artistic types that remain steadfast in their narcissism and are completely convinced that every overheard conversation on a city sidewalk just has to be about them.He’s like one part Johnny Depp (he accessorizes like nobody’s business), one part Woody Harrelson and two parts violent. I like him that way.

The first thing he said to me when we met at the subway station last Saturday was, “I’m pissed, man. I’ve been waiting outside for a fucking hour. I stole three bucks off a bum to get back in here to find you.” I nonchalantly reminded him that I had also just spent an hour sitting on a freezing cold concrete bench waiting for him.

Tit for tat, right? Not so much.

As we walked outside, past the overpriced grocery store at which I long to buy my oatmeal, I lit a cigarette and he ranted at me while I tuned out his words and instead chose to fantasize about HIM’s Ville Valo, as I usually do when my boyfriend decides to be an asshole. After he was done complaining (and I had been brought to a rather satisfying mental orgasm), I suggested we go downtown so I could spend the bulk of my grocery money on jeggings, dresses and books. After all, who needs food when there’s fashion and literature lurking about everywhere?

If you’ve ever put foot to pavement in this fair city of Toronto, you know there are practically THOUSANDS of bookstores. A couple of my favorites include Eliot’s, which reminds me of something you’d find in Diagon Alley and where I blow chunks of cash on vintage sailor-themed poetry books, and Doug Miller’s Books, where the sci-fi/fantasy books are stacked so high you’ll practically break your obviously cyborg neck looking up at them. I found Stephen King’s The Gunslinger there for the measly price of $4.20 and have been saying “Fuck you” to big box bookstores ever since.

Anyway, somewhere on Yonge there is a bookstore sandwiched between an appropriation of culture store (where white people go to buy tiny fake jade statuettes of Buddha and paper fans) and an empty storefront. They always have a display of discount books outside, often purchased from down-on-their-luck bibliophiles. I typically walk past the place and don’t bother stopping — usually because I’m inhaling my daily dose of nicotine and tar at that particular time.

Last Saturday, I stopped, and I found this gem:

luuuust
Music Lust, by Nic Harcourt.

The title had me, right off the bat. I’m fairly lusty, and I do love music. Not to mention my iTunes and iPod playlists have basically been repeating themselves for the better part of two years. I seriously need to change up my listening library. I’m also on a mission to “find my voice” as an artist this year. Yes, I am perfectly aware of how flighty and pretentious that phrase sounds, but it also happens to be true.

In my youth, as can be heard on my misguided, compressed debut EP, I aspired to sounding like some kind of pretty robot. Every note was perfect. Every breath had been cautiously edited out of the final product. The result is that I no longer sound like a normal human who breathes and misses notes and has real raw fucking emotional passion. This is not my musical mission in life. My mission is to sonically rip your guts out every time you hear me sing, because life is not pretty and bad things happen, but often the bad shit happens so you can get to the good shit after. (See? I’m not all about doom and gloom. I will rebuild you after you’ve been broken.)

Point is, I was down for some recommended listening instructions. Primed, if you will. And as I searched for and downloaded album after classic album I’d never taken the time to listen to, I was reminded of the music that shaped my youth and got me through the shitstorm that was my coming-of-age.

I remember a time when listening to an album was an experience. I was poor as shit, so I relied on my mother to purchase music for me. In my wayward youth, I begged her for weeks on end to buy me ‘N Sync’s Celebrity album, which I will never live down. Back in those days, I thought JT’s curly white-fro was the motherfucking shit and it made me tingle in new and interesting ways. But it wasn’t part of the collection of music that inspired me to create my own, and inspired me to keep going in spite of the depression that threatened to derail me without a moment’s notice.

This week, I’ve compiled a list of the top five albums that helped get me through the most difficult times in my life and reminded me that there’s a place in the world for music with true meaning and raw fucking emotional passion, even if that place isn’t at the top of the charts. In no particular order, I present to you Jen’s Musical Coming Of Age.

ALANIS MORISSETTE, JAGGED LITTLE PILL.
As a kid, I was drawn to 80s pop music and Tiffany and Madonna were high up on my list of favorites. Then came the late 90s and Spice Girls made that list as well. But I’ll never forget my cousin Melissa sitting me down and forever altering my musical landscape when she played me songs from Morissette’s biggest-selling album. I was intrigued by her purposeful strange pronunciation of words and the strength of her voice. “Perfect” and “Not The Doctor” were my two favorites, and I find myself finding comfort in the latter to this very day, when my boyfriend gives me trouble. I remind myself that I don’t have to save anybody but myself and most of my relationship-related stress seems to melt away. She also taught me that lyrics don’t have to truly rhyme to be effective, as long as the melody and emotion give the song depth you’ll be ok.

JEWEL, SPIRIT.
According to Wikipedia, this album sold 3.7 million copies. I can see why. I originally borrowed it from the Uxbridge Public Library and from the first note of the first track, it had me hooked. I played it so much I eventually wore out my own copy. As a fat girl, I related to “Fat Boy” so much that it still makes my eyes well up with tears. I sang along with every song over and over, and it drove my metalhead sister crazy. “Barcelona” was basically played on repeat, and “Absence of Fear” was probably the most romantic song I’d ever heard, even though at that point in my life I had no real concept of romance to begin with.

ALICIA KEYS, SONGS IN A MINOR.
Can we just stop and talk for a minute about the majesty of this album? It’s basically a perfect debut. When I was 14, it was all I wanted for Christmas and when I received a copy that year, I flipped shit. I could hardly wait to pop it into my new CD walkman (I always called them “discmans”) and listen to it. I literally wore out my copy and asked for a new one the following year, THAT’S how much I loved it. Her lyrics, her voice, the piano… everything. I was active on her message board in those days and made a few online friends who loved her equally if not more. “The Life” was a great comfort to me because my pillowcase was wet from all my crying, too. I was in a bad spot at that age, my depression was rearing its ugly head all over the place and I was still carrying horrifying secrets from my childhood. Keys’ album made me feel less alone at a time when I was drowning in my solitude. (Wow, emo much?)

EVANESCENCE, FALLEN.
This was the lowest point of my life. I was at one of my many rock bottoms, and was systematically shutting out all the positive influences in my life. When I heard “Bring Me To Life”, I felt like I had found a musical kindred spirit. My mother bought “Fallen” for me after weeks of passionately telling her, “I NEED this album, I can’t even explain why,”. Sometimes I wonder if she made that purchase solely because she saw a spark of life come back into my eyes as I pleaded my case for purchase. Once the album was in my hands, I laid down on my bed with my headphones on and listened to every track all the way through. I even closed my eyes to let myself be completely absorbed into the music. There’s a lyric in “Hello” that goes, “Has no one told you she’s not sleeping?” and I burst into tears at that point and cried my way through the rest of the album. I’m sure I’m not alone in this, but when I heard that lyric I was at a point in my life where I considered suicide a viable option. That line brought home what would happen to my family if I ever followed through, and it saved my life in that one instant. It’s still one of my favorite albums.

FIONA APPLE, EVERY ALBUM SHE’S EVER FUCKING MADE.
I am a huge Fiona Apple fan. I was first exposed to her music through the same cousin who introduced me to Alanis Morissette. It was a sunny day in Bay Roberts, Newfoundland, and Melissa had brought over a VHS tape of music videos. (Remember the days when you’d record your favorite vids on blank VHS tapes? And you’d have to wait all fucking day for your video to come on? Awesome.) Fiona’s video for “Sleep To Dream” was on it. In retrospect I think it might have been a ten second snippet from an award show or something. Anyway, I thought the beat was awesome and her voice was cool, but I didn’t truly discover her until years later. I was wandering through the public library when I came across “When The Pawn”. I remembered Fiona from my younger youth and borrowed it. What followed was my true musical coming of age. Her words were sometimes simple, sometimes complex and always gutsy as fuck. “Limp” made me feel better about the anger I was carrying in regards to being molested. “On The Bound” was fucking magic to me. She took the conventionality I was used to and used sonic TNT to blow it the fuck up. She is and always has been my musical and lyrical hero. If I can be half the lyricist she is, I can die satisfied.

Bottom line, although I continue to hunt down and be influenced by music on a regular basis, and I’m always on the lookout for new genres and artists to fill me up with artistic joy (here’s looking at you, AMANDA PALMER), these five albums are the ones that set the course for my journey and gave me a safe haven when the world was shitting on my head. I still listen to “Not The Doctor” when my boyfriend is an ass and I still listen to “Limp” when past experiences get me down. The music you listen to when you’re a teenager carries you through the rest of your life and I’m proud to list these albums as the ones that propped me up.