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Maplepsy

Did you know that 1 in 5 Canadians drink maple syrup in their sleep?

The results are in, and they’re staggering.

Professors from the distinguished University of British Columbia (UBC) conducted an in-depth study spanning several decades involving individuals and their sleep patterns. They found that many slept soundly, often only displaying mild signs of “Tossin’ and Turnin’”, while others simply snored. Though for a smaller, yet jarringly large, group of individuals, the results were clear: They drank maple syrup in their sleep.  

“I never thought I would be one of these people,” says Debbie Smith, a Canadian woman from Northern BC who has been recently diagnosed. “I never cared much for maple syrup, even as a child. I was shocked. I knew Diabetes ran in my family, but not this. Looking back, it explains why my father could never control his blood sugar levels. I only hope I don’t pass this on to my children.”

This syndrome, plaguing millions of Canadian people yearly, is known as Maplepsy. Maplepsy occurs in the deepest state of a person’s REM cycle, lasting anywhere from ten minutes to two hours. During this time, individuals enter a dream-like state, as their bodies begin to engage in “sleep walking”. They then enter the kitchen, blindly seeking out their addiction: maple syrup. An individual affected with Maplepsy can consume anywhere from one cup to two bottles of syrup in a single episode. For most, this is relatively harmless, only adding a couple pounds to the individuals’ waistlines, but for others, such as Debbie’s father, the results can have a very negative effect on a person’s health.    

Debbie is one of the millions of Canadians struggling to make sense of her new illness. Doctors across Canada have been admitting more patients than ever to sleep clinics or hospital-based treatment programs. Some have even recommended more intensive methods of treatment, such as shock therapy or hypnotism. Rob Landers, a Saskatchewan resident who has been batting this syndrome for most of his life, went as far as Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT). “We would line up maple syrup bottles, and when I reached for one, they’d administer the voltage through a special toque designed to target a Canadian’s Maple Sensory System (MSS). If I reached for the syrup, it would deliver a charge straight into my brain. I was so addicted at one point, I aboot blew up the machine. Now, I’m better. I’m recovering.”

For people like Rob and Debbie, Maplepsy

Oh, Canada, we stand on guard for thee.

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The Art of Moving

“The process of moving is like sticking one’s hand in a blender with the other hovering over the ON button”. – Me, every time I move.Why do I have so much shit? Because I’m a woman in my late 20’s who worries more about the airport scale than the bathroom scale every time I go on vacation. If my packing style for vacay is any indicator for how I pack to move, then we know my stuff is going to be crammed together poorly and way over the limit. “You have so much shit. Like, SO much shit,” my friend Adam told me the last time I moved. He stood amongst my piles of clothes and books like he was building a fortress comprised of my crap. “Honestly, for someone who moves so much, I can’t get over how much shit you have! What do you need all of this shit for? I mean, really, when was the last time you wore this?” He held up a red halter top – have I ever worn a halter top? – “Or these?” He waved a pair of Aldo-style hooker heels over his head – the platform pumps with the peep toe (“which are just sooo comfy to walk in!” – said no woman. Ever.) He looked exasperated, and I just stood there, defeated. “Just… put this shit in those boxes, and we’re done. C’mon, it’ll go by fast, then we can get brunch,” I offered, gently prying the halter top from his flailing grip and throwing it on the donation pile (which, let’s be honest, probably should’ve been sent to a burial ground for bad choices, circa 2000). He starts furiously cramming items into tubs and bags, not bothering at all to tetris (per appropriate moving technique). This is how most of my moves happen: I select a friend (which, you know, is usually a friend that owes me one), I cajole them with offerings of brunch and beer, we spend a day pouring through my plethora of crap while the friend admonishes my life choices, then we pile everything into the new place and get drunk. Afterwards, I return to the new digs to sleep restlessly among the crumpled piles of my life and go on to procrastinate unpacking until several days later – usually when I’ve run out of clean underwear.

My life is so glamorous.

By now, I’ve moved over 20 times, had over 20 roommates, and somehow condensed this all between two cities. Each move is unsettling, unnerving, yet increasingly more familiar – a tedious task necessary for survival, like going to the dentist (sorry dentists). For most, moving is an exciting time: going away for college, first apartment as an adult, first place with a partner, new home, or that exotic flat for a stint overseas. Despite the time-crunching, box-lugging, clusterfuck that is moving, these are also times of fresh change. The thrill of beginning a new chapter often overrides angling your grandmother’s over-sized armoire into your narrow downtown apartment, or the five thousand Fuck!’s from your toes getting purpled by boxes and bulky furniture. Though now, for me, there is little thrill – just another place to store my crap and clock in my sleep. So here I am, calling some dude named Peter, asking for two mildly jacked dad-bods to haul my stuff away next week. So much excite. This time, I don’t have an Adam to make moving adorably cute for the first several hours before panicking over time and cramming everything in garbage bags. No, this time, I must do what most solo thirty-somethings do: plan, coordinate, and, most importantly, bubble wrap the shit out of everything. As I pack for this new “chapter”, I start to analyze reasons for my gypsy life, ranging from crazy roommates or roommates that move on to too expensive rent or the location too far from work. Sometimes I get lonely living alone, or frustrated living with too many people. I’ve moved for jobs, school, or over my hatred for snow (all snow). Truthfully, I’m just restless and never feel quite at home. This time, though, I’m actually a bit excited. This time, I’m moving in with my sister as she begins a new chapter of her life, trading flat fields and denim tuxedos for mountains, beaches and the west coast uniform of head-to-toe Lululemon. To my great relief, I even managed to find a gem of a place with a normal landlord (this is very important, as they are like unicorns). With an apartment secure, mom jazzed up for a permanent hotel, and a roommate that’ll stick around until one of us is married (or dead), I’m hopeful for the future. So, here I am, surrounded by my prized possessions (again, mostly shoes), getting ready to make another move, hopefully the last for a long time. As I carefully wrap my breakables while instructing my current roommate to never love anymore more than me, I feel a small twinge of excitement that I haven’t felt in a while – like I’m finally moving into a home. As I wistfully gaze out my window one more time, I quietly whisper goodbye to my neighbourhood: Goodbye cobblestones. Goodbye brick facades and old world charm. Goodb-… My gaze stops at a hobo who has dropped trou in the alley, and we lock eyes. As he begins to let his stream fly all over the charming brick façade, eye contact still intact, he slowly raises a middle finger at me and smiles. I smile back, raising my middle finger to him – a salute to my old life – and turn to seal the last box. Bye Felicia, I’m going home.

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Social Media and Social Workplaces – How much is “Too Much Information”?

While ending my evening updating myself (okay, “trolling”) social media, I was taken aback to find a picture of former classmate, dressed in scrubs – much like the pair I’m wearing as I write this – smoking what she described in the caption as a “fat blunt” and throwing up the peace sign. As I collected my jaw off the floor, I couldn’t help searching (trolling) further through the 500+ photos, determined to see if this was a one-time blunder that she’d failed to privatize. I was wrong – the entire page was open to the public, allowing everyone, everywhere to see every picture and post from 2008-onwards. As I moved through the myriad of bold Kodak moments, many more provocative pictures surfaced, some featuring other health care workers in compromising situations, many including anti-employment rants in the captions. At nearly 30, the same age as the perilous poster, it felt unnerving to see such unabashed pictures (commentary included) throwing shade at an industry so strict in its boundaries of media projections. Now, I’m going to get a little “basic” here, and admit that after seeing this, I literally can’t even.

I immediately contacted my sister, an HR Advisor, who laughed at the absurdity of my shock. She informed me that, while blatantly obvious this is a social media no-no, it was not uncommon. “I check every applicant’s Facebook first,” she notes, “then any other social media, including professional profiles, such as LinkedIn, all before they’re considered for an interview. If compromising content comes up, no amount of specialization or educational advantages will win them a phone call.” Okay, makes sense.

But wait, isn’t social media a platform to air your opinions, post those duck-faced photos from the weekend and just be you without filter or judgement? “Not anymore,” explains my friend, an HR Recruitment Specialist (oddly, I’m surrounded by a lot of people in HR… must be a social dry spell! – ha-ha, I’m kidding). “Social media was once a place to connect with friends and family, post photos and promote businesses. Now, social media is an extension of who you are, like a resume for your personality. If an individual can benefit, even launch their business from media promotions, a person can also be denied or terminated from employment opportunities.” (Note: As she’s speaking, I’m trolling my own Facebook for any remnants of adolescent idiocy that may be clinging to the webisphere)

So often do we dismiss our social media platforms as mere pictures and “In My Opinion” (IMO), yet the wrong post can spark an interweb-wildfire, the flames threatening to scorch your professional image. In the case of Vancouver-based Centerplate CEO Des Hague, social media caught wind of security camera footage where Hague was seen repeatedly kicking a puppy in an elevator. To say the video “went viral” is a gross understatement. Social media came at Hague and Centerplate like a tsunami, leaving Hague’s career in a puddle as he resigned from his position as CEO. While most people in the media aren’t puppy-punting CEO’s, the same rules apply: if you are seen doing bad things, it will garner bad reviews. In the case of my old classmate, what you do on your own time may be your business, but putting it out for the world to see could end up being the business’ business, particularly if one works in a delicate business concerning the public.

While the power of social media compels us to share, even over-share, it doesn’t warn users that the “dope” festival pic of you wearing nothing but a tube top and your own vomit isn’t exactly employer-friendly. Even I, writer of this smiteful article, had my fair share of deplorable posts, because at 17 (even 20!), I somehow thought it to be more “authentic” of me to remove my life-filter and post every rambling rant and controversial photo, despite that niggling voice in my head warning me of future regret. However, as time passes and norms change (this being most apparent to “fashionistas” of the 80’s) what was once acceptable can grow to be undesirable, even offensive. Eventually, we must swallow our need to over-share and adapt to adult "playground rules" (which also translates to "common sense"), particularly within a work environment.

While social media can launch a career, it can just as quickly douse your resume in kerosene and light a match. Though I'm all for free speech, individuality and a good ol' "Imma do me" attitude, there needs to be a realistic frame of mind that understands when airing your dirty laundry to the public, it could open a Pandora's Box of problems.

In writing this piece, it is not a call for judgement, or a textual slap on the wrist. If you have a job that calls for transparency, then it's a necessity to the role (ie: “you do you”). If your job has no connection to your persona, then, again, "have at 'er". However, if you are a teacher, doctor, child care worker, etc., then posting pictures of your latest mushroom mania or naked keg-stands understandably won't win over the public. Should you choose to ignore this nugget of advice and proudly display your fanny on Facebook with the assumption that repercussions won't reach you, well then, my friend, may the odds be ever in your favour.

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Tinder: The Age of Human Shopping

Too hairy? Swipe left. Crooked teeth? Left. Too fat, dorky, douchy? Left, left, left. Tinder is the trendiest new way to find love since speed dating, providing the ultimate experience in “human shopping”. Using just your index finger and half your brain (the half that controls your genitals), Tinder users can swipe right to ignite the flame of love, or left to send potential matches back into the Tindersphere. From a right swipe, you hold your breath for 0.2 seconds of grueling suspense to discover whether you’ve been rejected (signified by nothingness), or accepted (“You have a match!”) The bios hardly seem matter, as words connecting common interests or signifying mental stability are overtaken by abs. A person’s hopes and dreams are reduced to whether they have a “butter face” or a “bangin’ bod”. In the way teenage girls flip through magazines to fantasize over adolescent heartthrobs, single adults are flipping through their phone screen to build a roster of people they’d most likely bang. Though, as Tinderers know, one cannot bang from a left swipe.

Millennials are the generation driving the information age and pushing technological advances. These are the predominant Tinder users, ranging from 18 years old to mid-30’s (Note: after the ripe age of 30, users must pay for Tinder’s services, essentially being charged an “old age fee”…I will confirm this in 2 years.) While “human shopping” adds a great deal of convenience, it isn’t without its detriments (the first detriment being that it’s human shopping.) Personally, I like that I don’t have to get painted up and sweat it out at some fireball-fueled nightclub to pick up sexy singles, or join a pottery class run by a hippie named Starla in hopes of connecting with the one class hottie hoping to reenact love scenes from Ghost. Basically, I can hang out in pit-stained sweats eating fruit loops from the box while posting my primo duck-faced photos from fancy events, beach BBQ’s and really good hair days. Big pluses. However, as conversations spark (or fizzle), and that primal yearning to connect kicks in, it’s painfully apparent you’ve become as disposable as a free app: fun for a while, dropped instantly when tired of.

By nature, Millennials are innovators. Particularly, we’re innovators of loopholes. We crave convenience while still vying for deeper meaning. In other words, we want our connections, and we want them now, with as little sweat as possible. No grand gestures, no months of courting, but the same Titanic-esque, Notebook-style, heart-throbbing romance. Soon, the “Matches” list is 100 people-deep, a mixture of duds and studs, fake boobs and “real” tans, and we’re supposed to present this person to those we hold near and dear as our trophy: “they swiped right for me!” We say this with a slight cringe, awaiting the reactions from the older generations, visibly unimpressed that this new family addition was brought to them by most hated enemy, the Interweb. Then again, that’s if we make it to introductions. Tinder has devolved from an E-Harmony for young adults to a romantic wasteland. Of course people are seeking hookups, new “friends”, and a #3 to “liven things up”, but now, Tinder has also become a shit-pile of everything else crammed into a tiny phone screen. Today alone, I viewed 50-shades of Sub/Dom, shameless self-advertising (“DJ Wickity-Whack here, check out my page!”), and one guy selling his bike, complete with link to his Craigslist post. There’s also an alarmingly increasing amount of married people looking to get some action outside the sanctity of their marriages. Having never been married, I try to hold no judgement, but is it really necessary to post your wedding photos and blur out the face of your partner? I mean, we have 5 common Facebook connections and the wedding photo is your profile picture, sooo…

To end rant: I’m worried. I’m worried we’re creating a disposable mindset to dating. I’m worried that people are developing the attention span of gnats, unable to hold a connection longer than 5 minutes. Dating doesn’t need to be “forever”, it just needs to be more than one-worded text messages followed by a quick falafel and a bang. Together, let’s end Human Shopping! Let’s go on long walks by the beach, let’s drink pina coladas, and let’s get caught in some goddamn pouring rain! I don’t know about you, but I happen to like pina coladas, and the idea of waking up next to the same face for more than a week. Let’s save the love, people, because soon, the concept of romance might be as obsolete as the Motorola Razr.