Turning Cold Water Into Wine

Turning Cold Water into Wine



I’ve often heard people use the expression: “When life throws you lemons, make lemonade”. I this fruity little piece of philosophy all the time and I always think to myself: How can you turn sour lemons into sweet lemonade without the sugar? Where do you get the sugar from to mask the bitterness? I mean, if it were simply a matter of squeezing life’s lemons into a drinkable form, everyone would do it and all tragedies would somehow have happy endings. The fact of the matter is however, squeezing lemons only gives you sour lemon juice, not refreshing lemonade. Afresh I wonder: Where does one get the sugar in order to make lemons into lemonade.

Perhaps the sugar is created as a result of pure perseverance or clever planning to turn the negative situation into a positive one. The sweetness comes when you can take good look at the sour events and see the meaningful lesson; therefore adding honey to the bitterness. Sometimes, people can find a way to turn it all around to end up in a better position than they were in to begin with. At the other end of the spectrum, some people are handed a fresh lemon or two and all they can do is whine about how hard life is. These people only seem to see the sour of the situation, as if they are blatantly sucking the lemons handed to them while not ever bothering to seek out betterment sugar. So this leads me to one burning question: Is success in the face of tragedy the sweetener we all need to make copious amounts of lemonade out of life’s lemons?

Let me tell you about something that happened to me a while ago: Life decided to splash me with freezing lemon water and then dare me to do something about it…

It was gray and clammy Monday morning as I steeped out the front door of my apartment. Another manic Monday because I was running a few minutes late for work, again, and so I knew I would have to pick up the pace of my walk if I wanted to make it on time. The dark skies above threatened to open up and pour down on me as the wind whipped through the trees and ruffled my jacket collar. My somnolent mind was struggling to focus on the day ahead, desperately trying to gain clarity of thought after a foggy fun weekend spent indulging friends and favourite vices.

A few blocks into my two-legged journey to work, I approach a large building that was being renovated. Ugly grey scaffolding and bright blue tarps covered the entire section of the building adjacent to the sidewalk. As I started to pass by, I noticed movement on the roof of the building, about 5 stories up. I didn’t look up as I heard a strange, wet and sloppy type of sound come from above, reminiscent of stepping in slushy snow in the wintertime. Two seconds later, a whole lot of freezing cold water falling from the roof landed directly onto my bare head!

I suddenly stopped moving and stood there frozen in shock, unsure about what had just happened to me. OMG!!!, I screamed in my head, Something just got dumped on me, what the hell is it?!? I immediately looked at my shoulders and arms to see if the freezing liquid substance was water or something worse. I could tell right away that it was probably just water, but damn it was cold and I was thoroughly soaked! A quick inspection of the area around me confirmed that the water was dumped directly onto my head, an almost perfect shot considering the areas behind and in front of me were still completely dry.

It was then that I heard muffled laughter traveling down from the roof above. My head quickly snapped up to see if I could get a look at the source. Instantly I knew that the water had been dumped on me from the roof and I was struck by the notion that the aim was deliberate.

“Hey!” I yelled up to the roof “What the hell did you just pour on me?!?”
In that moment, I saw a man’s head pop over the side and look down at me. He was trying hard to muffle his chuckling laughter and look serious and concerned but his smugly amused face betrayed him.

“Uh, Sorry!” He yelled in response.

Sorry? I am completely soaked from head to toe, hair and all, in cold dirty water of some kind, late for work and it looks like you did it on purpose and all you can say is sorry?!?
I was furious at this point aand so many thoughts rushed through my now very awake Monday morning brain. I don’t really remember what I said at this point but I’m fairly certain it involved more yelling, possible insult hurling, all while shaking my fist (remincent of Abe Simpson shaking his fist at clouds) at the mysteriously mean guy on the roof who had just ruined my day before it even had a chance to start.

I contemplated what to do at that point. I was very late already and going home and changing would make me super late for work. Upon closer inspection of my jacket and head, I was fairly certain it was just rain water he had poured off a tarp on the roof. A little rain never hurt anyone, I thought to myself as I decided to just suck it up, dry off, and get my late and now cold and wet ass to work. What else could I do? Clearly sticking around and yelling at the roof guy who was now hidden out of sight was not going to do me any good.

Later that day, as I was on my way home and approaching the guilty water retaining roof, I stopped to take a closer look at it. I soon noticed a small sign posted on the side of the building, indicating the construction company responsible for the current renovations. A light bulb went off in my head and I reached into my bag for a pen and paper to write down the company name and phone number. Since I walk this way every single day, this company was going to hear about my new found fear of having buckets of icy rain water aimed at my head as I harmlessly make my way to work. I scribbled down the company name with a mischievous smile on my face. Sometimes, you just can’t let certain things go by without a voice.


As soon as I got home, I called the guilty company. I really didn’t know what to except from them, an apology perhaps? I would have settled for a guarantee that this shocking little water incident wouldn’t happen again, to myself or any other innocent pedestrian.

I got through right away and I asked to speak directly with a manager. I was quickly transferred over and the voice of an older, cheerful man came on the line. I calmly introduced myself and then told him the story of my horrible morning. He sounded very surprised, especially when I told him about the exceptional aim of the water dropper and the subsequent laughter. He apologized immediately and asked me for my name, number and address so he could look into the matter. He explained that his company had subcontracted the roof work to another business and chances are, they were the ones responsible.

I was satisfied with how the manager dealt with my complaint. I reasoned that they had to know about what happened so they can make sure it doesn’t happen again and that made me feel good. I suppose everyone gets dumped on at some time or another, both metaphorically and literally. I guess today was just my day. I give the humour gods extra credit for doing it on a Monday morning when I’m already late for work. Nice job guys!

Three days later, I received a foreign letter in the mail. I opened it up and was delighted to find a hand written letter of apology for the construction company, as well as a cheque for $250! A big grin formed across my face as I looked at the cheque with my name on it. It just so happened I had limited funds at that time and the extra bucks would serve me very well indeed! I even laughed out loud at the thought that my horrible Monday morning and subsequent diplomatic complaint just earned me a lovely little $250 bucks. Yup, I do believe it was worth it!

So what did I do with the money? Well, I took half of it and put it into my bank account. The other half, I decided to spend very wisely: I threw fully catered wine and cheese party for my closest friends! It was a fun night, especially when I got to tell them just how and why I decided to throw a random party and buy a whole lot of delicious red wine to share with them. After all, I would take a sweet Australian Shiraz over bitter lemon juice any day!

Olympic Inspiration: Muse Evolution

The muse is a wonderfully mysterious entity that visits you in random time and space. Inspiration comes to us all differently, in a variety of creative ways. Sometimes the muse visits me at strange hours of the night or for long months without end. Lately, however, my usually constant literary muse hasn’t been seen in quite a while. That was, until a particularly cold morning in October 2008…

The lingering darkness of a Fall morning clung to the city streets as I made my way to a volunteer interview for the Olympic Games. I had no idea what kind of job I would be doing; I have a fairly diverse skill set so I knew I could end up in any number of roles. Frankly, I wasn’t entirely concerned as long as I was helping to aid a very small part of the giant Olympic machine. In preparation for the interview, I had browsed the 2010 website for the list of positions available: everything thing from anti-doping athlete escorts to “hill slippers” who inspect and repair icy ski runs after each athlete has passed through (this is apparently the most dangerous job of the games due to the highest accident rate. Yikes!)

As I signed in at a now VANOC venue that I had always known as a PNE building, I noticed a blue dot beside my name. No one else had a blue dot; I wondered what it meant. After an ID and security check, I was seated in a room with 20 other prospective volunteers. About 80% of the people in the room had on patterned Bill Cosby sweaters and appeared to be retired. I was suddenly aware of how much time this volunteer gig may demand of me and hoped it would somehow be worth it to take 2 weeks off work to support an arguably controversial event.


To get the day rolling, they showed us an incredible Olympic montage that was meant to inspire our reasons for volunteering. It was fantastic! It showcased Canadian athletes, Vancouver, Canada and the Olympic world. It gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside to know that I was giving my time to support my country, along with the best winter sport athletes on the planet. Somehow I knew I was doing the right thing and up so early on a Sunday morning for an important reason.

Next up came the interview and I was approached by a lovely brunette woman with classic Human Resources bangs. I liked her immediately. She explained what the blue dot meant I was identified as a potential writer for a daily newsletter published by each venue. The excitement welled up inside as I started envisioning myself writing feel-good stories about an Olympic venue and the volunteers who keep it running.


The interviewer then began asking me a series of writer experience / writer training related questions. I suddenly realised that even though I love to write, have been doing it for about 25 years, and would gladly do it for free, I lacked formal experience beyond the business reports and training manuals I have written in my job. I found myself spinning executive level strategic business reviews and academic undergraduate degree papers as solid writing experience. I even pulled out the “Young Writers of Canada” recognition I won when I was 8 years old. Yup, I was digging deep for this one.

Next she handed me a paper and pencil and told me I had 20 minutes to write a 300 word essay on the Olympic experience for the athletes. I broke into a light sweat missing the MS spell check, but relaxed into just jotting down what I felt inside my head and heart.

After a few more hours of basic info training, I was sent home with a "don't call us, we'll call you" message lingering in my mind.

It was later in the evening that I clearly realized something new about myself: The reason I write my own stories is because I need an outlet to make sense of the chaos in my mind. If I’m feeling darkness creeping up inside me, I let it out through words on paper. Somehow turning my emotions into something tangible makes them real and forces me to deal with things and get over them. So far in my life, I’ve written one autobiographical book, a poetry book, countless creative writing stories, and about 12 full journals (I’ve never published them officially, kind of tried once but since have gone back to my real job). However, when I met my future husband in 2007, I stopped writing altogether.

It appears that when I am happy and content, I am not inspired to write. There is no need for the outlet; my thoughts are positive, clear, and bright. When I am truly at ease and satisfied in my life, the muse lies dormant. The only thing has even tempted my muse in the past 2 years has been my father’s brain cancer diagnosis. Even then, as he has begun to get better, I no longer crave a keyboard or notebook to make sense of what is happening in my world.

Somehow after the interview, I sensed a paradigm shift in my writing energy and my ever evolving muse. I’m shifting away from writing about myself and moving towards writing about the experiences of the people around me. It feels somehow greater than a simple shift from first to third person. I have thought a lot about wiring a book about other women’s stories, I know so many interesting and amazing women, but it has only been a seed of thought that had yet to sprout. Maybe the Olympics are going to be the catalyst to launch me into a new realm of written expression. I don’t mean as a career, I already have one of those, but I mean as an inspiration to keep writing and sharing meaningful stories with the world.


Update: After over a year of waiting, I was finally notified that I have been accepted as a part of the Workforce Communications crew for the games! I will be stationed at the curling venue for a total of 13 shifts and tasked with writing a daily newsletter for the volunteers. The newsletter will be about the venue, the volunteers, and important info that needs to be communicated. I have never really watched curling before as sport, I was always into the ice skating or hockey. However, suddenly I feel I have a new favourite sport!