I'm not really religious. I'm sort of muddled when it comes to choosing a name or a face for what I believe in, but I do believe in something. And I believe that believing in something makes me feel better.
But that's not the point of this ramble. This is about Lent.
I have a friend who practices Lent and I've always been intrigued by the idea of 'giving something up'. Will power has never been one of my strong suits, but that's because I hate the idea of giving something up forever. Forty days of sacrifice? That's something I can do.
It's been explained to me that deciding what you give up should be based on what you like. Since it's about sacrifice, it should involve giving up something you enjoy. (This point was made clear when I heroically declared I would give up folding my own laundry for the next month and a half). Apparently, a lot of people give up a favourite food. I dismissed this quickly. When you've already had to give up your favourite foods (and most food in general), and find that you actually dread having to decide what to cook because there are so few options (think celiac's disease and not a zealous food watcher)... the idea of giving up more food just doesn't seem right. Maybe that's selfish but until you've ate a green pepper for dinner because nothing else in your pantry is safe... do not judge.
I was explaining the idea of Lent to a friend who got me to re-summarize what criteria people used in deciding what they gave up.
Something they enjoy.
Something (in a lot of cases) that isn't healthy.
Something that they eat or use or experience often.
Then it hit me. I know what to give up.
I just have to figure out a way to tell him.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The one where I get sick for an audience
First of all, let me preface by saying that I love that I'm writing this post directly after writing one about being 'an adult'. It would appear, that my membership to the youth club is still very active....
Friday night a good friend was in town and it seemed vital to celebrate and catch up over drinks. I went out glossed and sparkling, a blur of high boots, the perfect jeans and a red leather clutch. I smelled fantastic and felt that every single eyelash was magnified. (And for the record it was, new mascara makes my heart skip a beat).
A group of us met for drinks and while commenting on how adult I felt sitting at a bar, holding my clutch drinking a martini, I almost spill the sugary concoction all over myself.
This should have been a warning.
Five martinis later we moved on to yet another watering hole. More laughter, political discussion and marvelling at the 'adultness' of having just been invited to a trunk show (hooray!) I was in good spirits.
I was smart. I was beautiful. I was drunk.
Then someone re-introduced me to my old friend tequila and the night starts to get hazy. Suddenly I'm really hot and there isn't enough air. Suddenly I'm having deep talks about the future, feeling hot tears (yes, I'm that girl) and stuttering. Suddenly I'm home. And suddenly, I miss my bed by two feet and with a loud thud make a bed on the floor.
I wake up raccoon eyed and confused. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty kitchen floor. I lay on the cool ground and close my eyes as the tequila shivers begin. I thank God for a nearby water bottle and then nuzzle into the floor anxiously awaiting the escape that sleep will bring. Then I remember I have to work.
With children. In an hour.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually felt tears in my eyes. I washed my face, throw my hair in a ponytail (brushing it hurt) and change into the first things I can reach in my closet. I get sick, brush my teeth and then attempt to wash off the club admission stamp of last night. Evidence of my evening isn't something I want to display to the kids, or more accurately- to myself. It takes an impressive amount of scrubbing and I find myself actually mumbling 'out damned spot'. It's then I realize that it's a bad sign when you actually find yourself identifying with a murderer.
I drive to work stopping outside the local KFC to get sick on the side of the road. At first I consider just laying in the ditch for a few minutes to clear my head but then notice all the cars slowly down to watch me. Because apparently, in my town projectile vomit is worth a second look.
I guess sometimes you need to watch the train wreck jut to feel good you aren't apart of it.
Friday night a good friend was in town and it seemed vital to celebrate and catch up over drinks. I went out glossed and sparkling, a blur of high boots, the perfect jeans and a red leather clutch. I smelled fantastic and felt that every single eyelash was magnified. (And for the record it was, new mascara makes my heart skip a beat).
A group of us met for drinks and while commenting on how adult I felt sitting at a bar, holding my clutch drinking a martini, I almost spill the sugary concoction all over myself.
This should have been a warning.
Five martinis later we moved on to yet another watering hole. More laughter, political discussion and marvelling at the 'adultness' of having just been invited to a trunk show (hooray!) I was in good spirits.
I was smart. I was beautiful. I was drunk.
Then someone re-introduced me to my old friend tequila and the night starts to get hazy. Suddenly I'm really hot and there isn't enough air. Suddenly I'm having deep talks about the future, feeling hot tears (yes, I'm that girl) and stuttering. Suddenly I'm home. And suddenly, I miss my bed by two feet and with a loud thud make a bed on the floor.
I wake up raccoon eyed and confused. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty kitchen floor. I lay on the cool ground and close my eyes as the tequila shivers begin. I thank God for a nearby water bottle and then nuzzle into the floor anxiously awaiting the escape that sleep will bring. Then I remember I have to work.
With children. In an hour.
I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually felt tears in my eyes. I washed my face, throw my hair in a ponytail (brushing it hurt) and change into the first things I can reach in my closet. I get sick, brush my teeth and then attempt to wash off the club admission stamp of last night. Evidence of my evening isn't something I want to display to the kids, or more accurately- to myself. It takes an impressive amount of scrubbing and I find myself actually mumbling 'out damned spot'. It's then I realize that it's a bad sign when you actually find yourself identifying with a murderer.
I drive to work stopping outside the local KFC to get sick on the side of the road. At first I consider just laying in the ditch for a few minutes to clear my head but then notice all the cars slowly down to watch me. Because apparently, in my town projectile vomit is worth a second look.
I guess sometimes you need to watch the train wreck jut to feel good you aren't apart of it.
Friday, February 23, 2007
So this is what it's like
It will start without you knowing it. It will creep up on you in tiny increments until there is no turning back. And you realize now it's smart that it happens in tiny steps, because if you knew that it was going to happen, you're not sure you would think yourself ready. You would find an excuse to dislike it, look for a way to prevent it.
One day your feelings will get hurt and instead of sending an angry email you will decide to sleep on it. You will say sorry first when it's your fault, and you will mean it when you say it. You will wear more sunscreen and a little less sparkly eyeshadow. You find that you give as many handshakes as high fives. You will find that life suddenly begins to eat up your time and daily two hour phone calls about every detail of your best friends life no longer happen. All of a sudden not every lip gloss you own will be named after a berry. You will learn that sometimes people are better off not knowing, and you will be able to keep your secrets secret. You won't apologize for leaving the party early, for not dating someone who uses large stacks of pornography as a nightstand or for things out of your control.
You will floss more.
When your friends talk of their houses, they are no longer referring to the ones their dad built them in a tree. They own their own. They drive cars without rust, wear high heels without teetering and tell you they love you at times other than 3am. They will have offices and responsibilities and suddenly you will know that you can count on them to be there not just for the party, but for the funeral. They will not always know what to say, but they will know that they need to be there. And they will know that is enough.
Suddenly you will know more married people than not- and it doesn't scare you.
You will find yourself a part of a club that you didn't know existed. A club where people talk about 401k's and wine and all the excellent television found on a Friday night. And at first you are reluctant to join the club, but you know you can't go back. So you stay, not always knowing what to say or how you fit in but then you realize being here is less stressful, less dramatic. You find that you feel... relieved, happier to know that there is a life outside the world you knew. You realize this new group also talks about goals and the future and they say things like 'when we do this' not 'if we can ever do this'- and that comforts you. They own plants that don't die, ideas that are theirs and pots that have matching lids.
But sometimes, you will feel wistful. The great stories of dancing all night and drinking from contraptions held together with duct tape will feel over. You will miss the late nights but can now recall the painful mornings. You will fondly remember spending all your money on shoes and clothes but now like the idea of a home and savings accounts and pots with matching lids. You will miss knowing every single detail of your closest friends lives, but then you realize, you are starting to learn the details of your own.
One day without realizing it, you will have become an adult.
One day your feelings will get hurt and instead of sending an angry email you will decide to sleep on it. You will say sorry first when it's your fault, and you will mean it when you say it. You will wear more sunscreen and a little less sparkly eyeshadow. You find that you give as many handshakes as high fives. You will find that life suddenly begins to eat up your time and daily two hour phone calls about every detail of your best friends life no longer happen. All of a sudden not every lip gloss you own will be named after a berry. You will learn that sometimes people are better off not knowing, and you will be able to keep your secrets secret. You won't apologize for leaving the party early, for not dating someone who uses large stacks of pornography as a nightstand or for things out of your control.
You will floss more.
When your friends talk of their houses, they are no longer referring to the ones their dad built them in a tree. They own their own. They drive cars without rust, wear high heels without teetering and tell you they love you at times other than 3am. They will have offices and responsibilities and suddenly you will know that you can count on them to be there not just for the party, but for the funeral. They will not always know what to say, but they will know that they need to be there. And they will know that is enough.
Suddenly you will know more married people than not- and it doesn't scare you.
You will find yourself a part of a club that you didn't know existed. A club where people talk about 401k's and wine and all the excellent television found on a Friday night. And at first you are reluctant to join the club, but you know you can't go back. So you stay, not always knowing what to say or how you fit in but then you realize being here is less stressful, less dramatic. You find that you feel... relieved, happier to know that there is a life outside the world you knew. You realize this new group also talks about goals and the future and they say things like 'when we do this' not 'if we can ever do this'- and that comforts you. They own plants that don't die, ideas that are theirs and pots that have matching lids.
But sometimes, you will feel wistful. The great stories of dancing all night and drinking from contraptions held together with duct tape will feel over. You will miss the late nights but can now recall the painful mornings. You will fondly remember spending all your money on shoes and clothes but now like the idea of a home and savings accounts and pots with matching lids. You will miss knowing every single detail of your closest friends lives, but then you realize, you are starting to learn the details of your own.
One day without realizing it, you will have become an adult.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Does anyone....?
Does anyone else ever imagine what the six Jeopardy categories they would most like to have if they were on the show? I think about this regularly and think I have mine narrowed down:
1. Books (preferably books by Melissa Banks or Bob Woodward)
2. Scrabble ( I really think I would do well in this. Probably because when I can't sleep I chose words and try to calcuate their scores. Wow. If I wasn't so awesome I would be a huge nerd.)
3. The Bush Administration (I'm not a fan, I just like reading about it)
4. Sex and the City or The Office (it feels wrong to have tv consume two categories, so I would be happy with either one.)
5. Places that start with "R" or movies starring John Cusack
6. Usless celebrity knowledge
Does anyone else feel that the Barack/Hillary debate is dangerous when people say things like "It's time a woman was president" or "it's time a black person was president", without saying a single comment about where each of them stand on important issues facing the States? Don't get me wrong, although I don't live in the States, I see myself more of a Democrat than Republican, but voting for someone because of what they look like seems just as bad as not voting for someone because of what they look like.
Also, does anyone else feel that there are backup singers on American Idol who should be contestants and contestants who should be back up singers?
And am I the only one who feels just really sad for Britney now? And then, sad that I feel so worried about someone I don't know?
I'm just curious.
1. Books (preferably books by Melissa Banks or Bob Woodward)
2. Scrabble ( I really think I would do well in this. Probably because when I can't sleep I chose words and try to calcuate their scores. Wow. If I wasn't so awesome I would be a huge nerd.)
3. The Bush Administration (I'm not a fan, I just like reading about it)
4. Sex and the City or The Office (it feels wrong to have tv consume two categories, so I would be happy with either one.)
5. Places that start with "R" or movies starring John Cusack
6. Usless celebrity knowledge
Does anyone else feel that the Barack/Hillary debate is dangerous when people say things like "It's time a woman was president" or "it's time a black person was president", without saying a single comment about where each of them stand on important issues facing the States? Don't get me wrong, although I don't live in the States, I see myself more of a Democrat than Republican, but voting for someone because of what they look like seems just as bad as not voting for someone because of what they look like.
Also, does anyone else feel that there are backup singers on American Idol who should be contestants and contestants who should be back up singers?
And am I the only one who feels just really sad for Britney now? And then, sad that I feel so worried about someone I don't know?
I'm just curious.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Dee Brown wouldn't have pulled this.
I just read this and felt the need to comment.
For the record, "extremely poor judgement" is when you wear shoulder pads or give a thumbs up review of Speed 2: Cruise Control.
Driving drunk and then leaving your teammate who you think is dead warrants something a little worse than the term 'extremely poor judgement'. It's like saying Britney is currently experiencing a "personal blip". It's just not enough.
To show my outrage, I think I'm retiring my University of Illinois t-shirt this year from March Madness, even though I really rock the orange.
Thanks for nothing Jamar.
For the record, "extremely poor judgement" is when you wear shoulder pads or give a thumbs up review of Speed 2: Cruise Control.
Driving drunk and then leaving your teammate who you think is dead warrants something a little worse than the term 'extremely poor judgement'. It's like saying Britney is currently experiencing a "personal blip". It's just not enough.
To show my outrage, I think I'm retiring my University of Illinois t-shirt this year from March Madness, even though I really rock the orange.
Thanks for nothing Jamar.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Tired
I'm tired. Not in the "I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade" way but in the "I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep" sort of way.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
This much I know
In heaven there will be applesauce, high top sneakers and duvets. You won't need to give explanations, or apologies or change for a dollar. There will be no alarm clocks or tube socks or allergies to gluten. Friendships and milk will never sour with age. You will never lose the reciept, your sanity, or a bet with your brother. Stamps will be free. You won't have the same argument, with the same person, in the same way for years on end. In fact- you won't argue at all.
Oh, and green gummy bears? They will fall from the sky like raindrops.
Oh, and green gummy bears? They will fall from the sky like raindrops.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Addicting? Moi?
I saw this here, and was ridiculously curious what mine would say. I have to say, the results really boosted my ego. I like the idea of being addicting... like a legal version of crack.
| Your Candy Heart Says "Cutie Pie" |
 You always seem to have a hot date, even though you never try to meet anyone. A total charmer, you have a natural appeal that keeps you in high demand. Your ideal Valentine's Day date: multiple dates with multiple people Your flirting style: 100% natural What turns you off: serious relationship talks Why you're hot: you're totally addicting |
Friday, February 16, 2007
Sucker...
I read about this here. And loved it because 1) who doesn't love thinking of all the things they love (?) and 2) I'm a sucker for lists.
Things That I'm a Sucker For...
- Accents. Sweet Jesus, accents!
- the smell of the bookstore
- someone else washing my hair
- tequila
- Ikea
- guys who cry, but who also you know... chop wood and build stuff.
- handwritten letters
- corn in anything I can figure out a way to add it to
- Jon Stewart
- any food that comes on a stick (carmel apple- with nuts, kebob, corn dog...)
- Scrabble
- the George
- 3am phone calls that aren't an emergency
- black and white photography
- puzzles. Not Sudoku, puzzles from a box.
- rootbeer in bottles
- dodgeball
- making lists
- the perfect quote
- fort building
- Aveda shampure
- duvets
- "The Hills". Damnit.
- cotton candy ice cream
- men who play guitar
- toques
- the sale rack
- fat, glossy fashion magazines
- Julie Andrews' sing-a-longs
- snow days
- drink specials
- my bed
- Bob Woodward books
- white tanks tops (can you ever have enough?)
- roadtrips
Man. I love this list.
Things That I'm a Sucker For...
- Accents. Sweet Jesus, accents!
- the smell of the bookstore
- someone else washing my hair
- tequila
- Ikea
- guys who cry, but who also you know... chop wood and build stuff.
- handwritten letters
- corn in anything I can figure out a way to add it to
- Jon Stewart
- any food that comes on a stick (carmel apple- with nuts, kebob, corn dog...)
- Scrabble
- the George
- 3am phone calls that aren't an emergency
- black and white photography
- puzzles. Not Sudoku, puzzles from a box.
- rootbeer in bottles
- dodgeball
- making lists
- the perfect quote
- fort building
- Aveda shampure
- duvets
- "The Hills". Damnit.
- cotton candy ice cream
- men who play guitar
- toques
- the sale rack
- fat, glossy fashion magazines
- Julie Andrews' sing-a-longs
- snow days
- drink specials
- my bed
- Bob Woodward books
- white tanks tops (can you ever have enough?)
- roadtrips
Man. I love this list.
Truth in the Lies I tell myself
I always thought I was a good cook. Then I came home yesterday and attempted to make soup. I burnt it and then (in a blinding moment of clarity), thought I could still salvage some by adding water (Note: This was not me being a 'thrifty' cook, this was me being a 'too lazy to start again/ let's be adventurous' cook). That didn't work. I ended up eating a piece of gluten free toast and peanut butter on the kitchen floor feeling sorry for myself.
I've decided that cooking is like speaking french, if you don't practice it you lose it and suddenly you find yourself angry that you told a lie to yourself that you still believed. And you can't decide if you're more annoyed that you kept telling yourself something that wasn't true, or that you so readily believed it.
I decided to make a list of the lies I tell myself and the truth (if any) that is hidden in them. This is what I found...
Lie #1: I am a great cook
Truth: I'm good when I have all the ingredients, a glossy cookbook (with lots of pictures), multiple pans (for when I burn the first batch), an entire afternoon, the right apron and some inspiration (the food network does the trick). Meaning, I'm a great cook, once a year... always a on whim.
Lie #2: The worst pain I ever felt was a broken heart
Truth: The worst pain I ever felt was pulling all my neck muscles in grade 9 and having to wait a day before getting a brace. Broken hearts hurt when I think, pulled neck muscles hurt when I breathe. I can go without thinking.
Lie #3: I'm a great driver
Truth: This is sort of true. I'm great in the "I drive so slow even if I hit a grandmother she would be able to brush off the snow and shuffle away), but in terms of... "being aware" on the road, I suck. This is how I killed a duck and how big red became accessorized with all her scratches and dents.
Lie #4: I know a lot about Canadian politics
Truth: I just barely pass the 'citizenship test' that new immigrants into Canada have to take. I know this because I attempted to take it last night. The three branches of Canadian government? I could only name two. (The House of Commons and the Senate) The third? The Queen. But seriously, when's the last time she was mentioned without the name Helen Mirren attached?
Lie #5: I don't like cats
Truth: Liking cats and being single always seemed like the beginning of a joke that involved a punchline I wouldn't like. The truth is, I like cats. I like cats that like me. Of course I don't like cats as much as dogs, but I do like cats more than I like bunnies or goldfish, and that's saying something.
Lie #6: I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
Truth: I believe absence makes the heart grow irritable, exhausted and (at times) cynical.
Lie #7: I have no regrets
Truth: I have huge, Grand Canyon regrets. Enough to fill a 10 story library with tattered journals, or displace all the water in the ocean or cover the rings of Saturn. I have regrets.
Lie #8: I remember.
Truth: I can't forget.
Lie #9: I find Ryan Seacrest unattractive
Truth: I'm not sure why, but admitting that I find him hugely appealing seems as wrong as saying you have a crush on your cousin. But there's something about the way he hugs all the contestants, manages to keep a straight face when they are truly horrible singers and the way he wears his jeans just right that makes me think I might love him. Or at least, given the opportunity, be best friends with him.
Lie #10: I'm a great dancer
Truth: Okay, that one is the truth. I am a great dancer.
I've decided that cooking is like speaking french, if you don't practice it you lose it and suddenly you find yourself angry that you told a lie to yourself that you still believed. And you can't decide if you're more annoyed that you kept telling yourself something that wasn't true, or that you so readily believed it.
I decided to make a list of the lies I tell myself and the truth (if any) that is hidden in them. This is what I found...
Lie #1: I am a great cook
Truth: I'm good when I have all the ingredients, a glossy cookbook (with lots of pictures), multiple pans (for when I burn the first batch), an entire afternoon, the right apron and some inspiration (the food network does the trick). Meaning, I'm a great cook, once a year... always a on whim.
Lie #2: The worst pain I ever felt was a broken heart
Truth: The worst pain I ever felt was pulling all my neck muscles in grade 9 and having to wait a day before getting a brace. Broken hearts hurt when I think, pulled neck muscles hurt when I breathe. I can go without thinking.
Lie #3: I'm a great driver
Truth: This is sort of true. I'm great in the "I drive so slow even if I hit a grandmother she would be able to brush off the snow and shuffle away), but in terms of... "being aware" on the road, I suck. This is how I killed a duck and how big red became accessorized with all her scratches and dents.
Lie #4: I know a lot about Canadian politics
Truth: I just barely pass the 'citizenship test' that new immigrants into Canada have to take. I know this because I attempted to take it last night. The three branches of Canadian government? I could only name two. (The House of Commons and the Senate) The third? The Queen. But seriously, when's the last time she was mentioned without the name Helen Mirren attached?
Lie #5: I don't like cats
Truth: Liking cats and being single always seemed like the beginning of a joke that involved a punchline I wouldn't like. The truth is, I like cats. I like cats that like me. Of course I don't like cats as much as dogs, but I do like cats more than I like bunnies or goldfish, and that's saying something.
Lie #6: I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
Truth: I believe absence makes the heart grow irritable, exhausted and (at times) cynical.
Lie #7: I have no regrets
Truth: I have huge, Grand Canyon regrets. Enough to fill a 10 story library with tattered journals, or displace all the water in the ocean or cover the rings of Saturn. I have regrets.
Lie #8: I remember.
Truth: I can't forget.
Lie #9: I find Ryan Seacrest unattractive
Truth: I'm not sure why, but admitting that I find him hugely appealing seems as wrong as saying you have a crush on your cousin. But there's something about the way he hugs all the contestants, manages to keep a straight face when they are truly horrible singers and the way he wears his jeans just right that makes me think I might love him. Or at least, given the opportunity, be best friends with him.
Lie #10: I'm a great dancer
Truth: Okay, that one is the truth. I am a great dancer.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Deeply Superficial
I do not feel bad for admitting that new shoes can restore my faith in the universe.
If only doing good deeds did the same thing.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Heard in the dressing room....
Daughter: Mom, I hate this shirt. It makes me look f-a-t. Fat!
Mom: Don't say that, it's not true. Try on the purple
(Time goes by, I contemplate red lace vs. pink cotton...)
Mom: No dear, the other one looked better. This one makes you look hefty.
Daughter: What's hefty mean?
Mom: Fat
Sometimes I feel like... people should have to have a license to parent.
Mom: Don't say that, it's not true. Try on the purple
(Time goes by, I contemplate red lace vs. pink cotton...)
Mom: No dear, the other one looked better. This one makes you look hefty.
Daughter: What's hefty mean?
Mom: Fat
Sometimes I feel like... people should have to have a license to parent.
Some lessons are priceless. Some cost $63.49
I stamped my boarding pass into heaven this past holiday season with my open mind and willingness to have coffee with people formerly known as people formerly known as "the devils worker bees". It ended up being a Grand Canyon of a mistake. The wrong kind of regret. However, the effort put into it was something to be admired (and rewarded with a shiny medal of courage and restraint) and I took comfort in knowing that such mistakes do not happen a third time. No God, however cruel, would allow a trifecta of mistakes of this magnitude to occur- that much I do know.
Such disappointments usually leave me angry, but I didn't dwell on it. I guess if it hadn't of been expected it would have been more upsetting. But some people (now known once again as 'the devils worker bees') I've learned... will only surprise you with the depth at which they can and will hurt you- anything else seems unnatural for them. It was a good lesson to learn. One I thought I already had, but nonetheless... I wasn't angry. I was sad.
Then I found out I didn't get a job I wanted because I was considered to be "too young".
I lost my favourite pink mittens and my favourite white scarf I tell people I knitted but actually bought from American Eagle.
I had to pay $63.49 for movies I didn't like watching.
I realized that some people can disappoint you more for what they don't do, than for what they do.
I started getting calls where the charming caller just leaves really long messages and sounds like the maniac in "Phone Booth". Worse yet, I know him, and he knows that I'm just not answering so instead of 'not calling anymore', he calls more frequently. And at weird times. Like... 4am this morning.
I discovered my plans for Valentines Day involve working with children who draw me pictures and then decide to give them to other people.
And after everything, I find that I'm only angry now at seeing a quote I told being used. Granted, it's not my quote to begin with (such genius lines do not dwell in my cranium), but still. For some reason, that bothers me more than anything else. A quote I told being used, like the devils worker bee knew it before me. In the future, quotes should quoted like this " Well, this genius I used to know named Brandy once told me that Bill Clinton once said... "
People who call and leave creepy messages. Age-ism. Lost mittens. Quote plagarism.
You know, a girl can only take so much.
Such disappointments usually leave me angry, but I didn't dwell on it. I guess if it hadn't of been expected it would have been more upsetting. But some people (now known once again as 'the devils worker bees') I've learned... will only surprise you with the depth at which they can and will hurt you- anything else seems unnatural for them. It was a good lesson to learn. One I thought I already had, but nonetheless... I wasn't angry. I was sad.
Then I found out I didn't get a job I wanted because I was considered to be "too young".
I lost my favourite pink mittens and my favourite white scarf I tell people I knitted but actually bought from American Eagle.
I had to pay $63.49 for movies I didn't like watching.
I realized that some people can disappoint you more for what they don't do, than for what they do.
I started getting calls where the charming caller just leaves really long messages and sounds like the maniac in "Phone Booth". Worse yet, I know him, and he knows that I'm just not answering so instead of 'not calling anymore', he calls more frequently. And at weird times. Like... 4am this morning.
I discovered my plans for Valentines Day involve working with children who draw me pictures and then decide to give them to other people.
And after everything, I find that I'm only angry now at seeing a quote I told being used. Granted, it's not my quote to begin with (such genius lines do not dwell in my cranium), but still. For some reason, that bothers me more than anything else. A quote I told being used, like the devils worker bee knew it before me. In the future, quotes should quoted like this " Well, this genius I used to know named Brandy once told me that Bill Clinton once said... "
People who call and leave creepy messages. Age-ism. Lost mittens. Quote plagarism.
You know, a girl can only take so much.
Friday, February 9, 2007
My life in music
If my life was a movie, it would be a musical. I practice the air guitar and dance in my office way too often for it not to be. I'm hoping my life would be classified as more romantic comedy and less of a tragedy. I would be okay with a comedic tragedy, but tragedy alone? C'mon, I'm too funny for that.
The movie of my life would also include a pirate, at least one telephone montage and a cameo by Vince Vaughn (I feel we could be bff, if only given the chance). Figuring out the soundtrack took some time but it's finished. I resisted the urge to pick 'cool songs', and really stuck to picking songs that I felt really fit the time. I even worked at putting the songs in chronological order, because I'm nerdy like that. So in this tidy list of 28 songs are a few heartbreaks, a few loves, the discovery that I have fantastic friends, the loss of home due to a raging fire, a 'wild streak' and the realization that I'm finally learning things I thought I already knew. Music snobs (this means you Matt), don't email and ask (and hope) that there are a few typo's, there are not. The Pussycat Dolls are actually there.
"We're going to be friends"-The White Stripes
"I feel pretty"- West Side Story
"Teenage Wasteland"- The Who
"Part of your world"- The Little Mermaid
"Time"- Chantal Kreviazuk
"Us"- Regina Spektor
"Uptown Girl"- Billy Joel
"If we're in love"- Roisin Murphy
"Hands Open"- Snow Patrol
"Slide"- Goo Goo Dolls
"Get off of my cloud"- The Rolling Stones
"Why Can't I?"- Liz Phair
"Untouchable Face"- Ani Difranco
"I don't need a man"- pussycat dolls
"Collide"- howie day
"I feel good"- James Brown
"Criminal"- Fiona Apple
"Honey and the Moon"- Joseph Arthur
"Don't think Twice, It's all right"- Bob Dylan
"The Old Apartment"- The Barenaked Ladies
"The City"- Joe Purdy
"Shake Ya Body"- Jay-Z
"Call and Answer"- The Barenaked Ladies
"Downtown"- Petula Clarke
"Comfortable"- John Mayer
"Everything"- Stero Fuse
"Something More"- Sugarland
"Wise Up"- Aimee Mann
The movie of my life would also include a pirate, at least one telephone montage and a cameo by Vince Vaughn (I feel we could be bff, if only given the chance). Figuring out the soundtrack took some time but it's finished. I resisted the urge to pick 'cool songs', and really stuck to picking songs that I felt really fit the time. I even worked at putting the songs in chronological order, because I'm nerdy like that. So in this tidy list of 28 songs are a few heartbreaks, a few loves, the discovery that I have fantastic friends, the loss of home due to a raging fire, a 'wild streak' and the realization that I'm finally learning things I thought I already knew. Music snobs (this means you Matt), don't email and ask (and hope) that there are a few typo's, there are not. The Pussycat Dolls are actually there.
"We're going to be friends"-The White Stripes
"I feel pretty"- West Side Story
"Teenage Wasteland"- The Who
"Part of your world"- The Little Mermaid
"Time"- Chantal Kreviazuk
"Us"- Regina Spektor
"Uptown Girl"- Billy Joel
"If we're in love"- Roisin Murphy
"Hands Open"- Snow Patrol
"Slide"- Goo Goo Dolls
"Get off of my cloud"- The Rolling Stones
"Why Can't I?"- Liz Phair
"Untouchable Face"- Ani Difranco
"I don't need a man"- pussycat dolls
"Collide"- howie day
"I feel good"- James Brown
"Criminal"- Fiona Apple
"Honey and the Moon"- Joseph Arthur
"Don't think Twice, It's all right"- Bob Dylan
"The Old Apartment"- The Barenaked Ladies
"The City"- Joe Purdy
"Shake Ya Body"- Jay-Z
"Call and Answer"- The Barenaked Ladies
"Downtown"- Petula Clarke
"Comfortable"- John Mayer
"Everything"- Stero Fuse
"Something More"- Sugarland
"Wise Up"- Aimee Mann
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Hmm.
What is the statute of limitations on being angry at someone over something they did to you ... in your dream?
It's been over 36 hours and frankly, I'm still a little pissed.
It's been over 36 hours and frankly, I'm still a little pissed.
Monday, February 5, 2007
My lips are sealed
I read this early this morning and it couldn't have come at a more perfect time. I've been feeling like I've been keeping a lot of secrets lately and what better way to share them without actually giving them all away? I've actually written my own list before, but felt it sort of lost something when people started guessing which sentence (confession? admission?) was about them and I told them. So I've decided to try again. New thoughts, new people and this time my lips are sealed.
We actually stole it more than once.
It would be easier if I loved you, but I don't. So stop trying to make me.
It would be easier if I didn't love you, but I do.
You are not allergic, you just don't like it. There is a difference.
An ultimatum will not work, it shocks me that you think it would.
I wish you wouldn't do things that make it impossible for me to like you.
I think of that talk everyday single day.
You tell me too much.
I avoid you because I know I keep letting you down.
Sometimes I wish you would just let me down- it would level the playing field.
I don't get you anymore and it makes me sad.
You are the funniest, weirdest and most original person ever and I'm completely jealous of your brain.
I wish I knew how to be closer to you.
You keep pronouncing it wrong and I don't know how to correct you without looking like a jerk.
We actually stole it more than once.
It would be easier if I loved you, but I don't. So stop trying to make me.
It would be easier if I didn't love you, but I do.
You are not allergic, you just don't like it. There is a difference.
An ultimatum will not work, it shocks me that you think it would.
I wish you wouldn't do things that make it impossible for me to like you.
I think of that talk everyday single day.
You tell me too much.
I avoid you because I know I keep letting you down.
Sometimes I wish you would just let me down- it would level the playing field.
I don't get you anymore and it makes me sad.
You are the funniest, weirdest and most original person ever and I'm completely jealous of your brain.
I wish I knew how to be closer to you.
You keep pronouncing it wrong and I don't know how to correct you without looking like a jerk.
Brought to you by the letter "F"
So I've moved past my obsession with celebrity life (farewell glossy US Weekly and star sighting proving that they are "just like us!") and have discovered that reading other peoples blogs is highly entertaining and unusually comforting (knowing that a gal in New Jersey wants to wear sweat pants but just can't make herself because of how she feels when she wears them really hit home with me). Usually I lurk without commenting, but when I read this I had to reply. Those of you who know me, know that I enjoy anything that gives me a reason not to do actual work and I feel contemplating my views on the letter "F" clearly provides me with that opportunity.
This is how to change your life: Write ten words that start with the letter you are assigned and a brief description of why you chose that particular word. If you feel this might be something that you too would like to participate in to stall you from doing work, email me and I will give you a letter. And no, it won't be X.
The Letter F
1. Fanta: The greatest beverage of all time. If it was possible (and not highly disgusting) I would figure out a way to have an IV of it started up and permanently inserted into my arm. Fanta was also chosen because it's the only beverage (in 6-pack form) I carried in my already too-heavy backpack while traipsing across Europe. My love for it is strong and deep, like a river some might say.
2. Friday: My favourite day of the week.
3. Foosball: The one game that I can't seem to improve upon. I try to play angles and learn defensive strategies but I've come to the startling conclusion that the only time I win is when my opponent is drunk (or just, more drunk than me), or when we play partners and my partner is amazing. I could take my lumps and stay a horrible player, but that goes against everything I stand for. This is why I insist on playing whenever I see a table.
4. Faux: As in the only type of fur I can wear without getting the shivers. My mom is determined that I will jump on the 'fur bandwagon' and will one day express a strong desire to want to wear her old fur coats. I don't see the idea of wearing a dead carcass on my back fashionable, so the coats remain in storage.
5. "Fever": The one song it's not only cool but freaking mandatory to snap your fingers along to and sing with your eyes closed. (I'm partial to the Peggy Lee version)
6. Franck: The greatest character in "Father of the Bride". Don't get me wrong, Steve Martin is great but Martin Short makes me giggle every time.
7. Floss: I feel like I'm an adult because I take this seriously. I console myself with the fact that I still haven't boarded the train of 'mainstream boring adult' because the floss still needs to be flavored. Currently, I'm rocking mint.
8. "F!": The letter I yell out when I'm angry. Like, when I drop a paint can on my foot. However, if the paint can is full and I'm wearing open toed shoes I might elevate it to "fuck", but I prefer saying "f". It's funnier (and that's important when my foot is throbbing), plus I work with kids so I try not to get into the habit of dropping the f bomb- it shocks the kids into uncomfortable silence and leaves parents less than impressed. Trust me.
9. Fred Flintstone: I like playing Scattegories and you get double points when you list something/someone who has double the letter. So my gaming nature makes it necessary to include Fred. Another Fred Flintstone note, I must imitate his bowling move every time I'm at the bowling alley. It's official, I'm a dork.
10. Fate: An idea that keeps me up at night (even more than the idea of failure- another f word), watching Larry King reruns.
This is how to change your life: Write ten words that start with the letter you are assigned and a brief description of why you chose that particular word. If you feel this might be something that you too would like to participate in to stall you from doing work, email me and I will give you a letter. And no, it won't be X.
The Letter F
1. Fanta: The greatest beverage of all time. If it was possible (and not highly disgusting) I would figure out a way to have an IV of it started up and permanently inserted into my arm. Fanta was also chosen because it's the only beverage (in 6-pack form) I carried in my already too-heavy backpack while traipsing across Europe. My love for it is strong and deep, like a river some might say.
2. Friday: My favourite day of the week.
3. Foosball: The one game that I can't seem to improve upon. I try to play angles and learn defensive strategies but I've come to the startling conclusion that the only time I win is when my opponent is drunk (or just, more drunk than me), or when we play partners and my partner is amazing. I could take my lumps and stay a horrible player, but that goes against everything I stand for. This is why I insist on playing whenever I see a table.
4. Faux: As in the only type of fur I can wear without getting the shivers. My mom is determined that I will jump on the 'fur bandwagon' and will one day express a strong desire to want to wear her old fur coats. I don't see the idea of wearing a dead carcass on my back fashionable, so the coats remain in storage.
5. "Fever": The one song it's not only cool but freaking mandatory to snap your fingers along to and sing with your eyes closed. (I'm partial to the Peggy Lee version)
6. Franck: The greatest character in "Father of the Bride". Don't get me wrong, Steve Martin is great but Martin Short makes me giggle every time.
7. Floss: I feel like I'm an adult because I take this seriously. I console myself with the fact that I still haven't boarded the train of 'mainstream boring adult' because the floss still needs to be flavored. Currently, I'm rocking mint.
8. "F!": The letter I yell out when I'm angry. Like, when I drop a paint can on my foot. However, if the paint can is full and I'm wearing open toed shoes I might elevate it to "fuck", but I prefer saying "f". It's funnier (and that's important when my foot is throbbing), plus I work with kids so I try not to get into the habit of dropping the f bomb- it shocks the kids into uncomfortable silence and leaves parents less than impressed. Trust me.
9. Fred Flintstone: I like playing Scattegories and you get double points when you list something/someone who has double the letter. So my gaming nature makes it necessary to include Fred. Another Fred Flintstone note, I must imitate his bowling move every time I'm at the bowling alley. It's official, I'm a dork.
10. Fate: An idea that keeps me up at night (even more than the idea of failure- another f word), watching Larry King reruns.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Love, love, love...
Valentines Day is approaching. Actually, I feel like it charging towards me in a blur of pink and red cellophane. I first noticed this the second week of January while at the mall searching for new mittens. Rows and rows of pink and red boxed chocolates, (enough to throw a diabetic into a seizure with a single glance), stuffed toys clutching hearts with stitched cliches and bouquets of roses were all crammed together in a shiny, blurry wonderland of love. It sort of made me nauseous.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it's cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You've found him! You shouldn't just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I've dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I'm now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over pubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Andy pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it's cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You've found him! You shouldn't just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I've dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I'm now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over pubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Andy pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
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