If you haven't been keeping up (and it's a shame if you haven't), the Month of March was dedicated to "Women who have shaped you", an idea that a lot of great writers stole from Bre. (And if you haven't read her last one, you should. It's genius). Anyway, this is my last one for the month (I like to cut things close apparently).
You know how you have that one event that becomes the marker for your life? Everything happened either before or after it, and the day it happened is burned into your memory? Sometimes it's a divorce, sometimes it's a wedding. Sometimes it's a death, sometimes it's a birth and for a few of my more... materialistic friends, it's the time you found your favourite shoes marked 50% off. I have my marker.
It's the day I met Trout.
I don't mean to say that my life before this great friend was horrible, or that the life I've had after has been a blur of rainbows and butterflies but she's the marker I have because I have a hard time imagining a life without her in it.
She's that friend.
The first person I told when my doctors thought I had cancer. The last one to judge me when I made the same mistake for the fourth time. The one who knows my secrets, my failures, my regrets and likes me despite it all. The one who is the Mary Kate to my Ashley. The one who volunteers to help regardless if it's moving furniture, painting childrens faces for a play or listening to me discuss the latest trouble in my life. She's the one who understands why I need to color code my bookcase and closet and comments on how nice it looks while others stare wondering 'why?'.
The one who has seen me at my best- dressed to cause heart attacks with shiny hair and tall boots (and the only one who truly knows how long it takes me to achieve this look), has seen me at my worst- in 3-day old sweatpants and sweatshirt with holes with no inclination to find the hairbrush, and everyday in between. She's seen me in every Halloween costume imaginable (pirates last year was a favourite, but the signature Brandy and Trout costume was defintetly the Olsen twins the year before), and knows exactly what my 'rage' face looks like. She's the one who I can have a 40 minute conversation about a celebrity (and not feel guilty at all) and then yell about George W, and not blink an eye.
She's the friend who feels like the sister I never got.
She was there when my house burnt down (it was her house too, after all). She watched my bag during the 10 hour layover in Germany when mono ravaged my body. She was the one who handed me the bag of frozen peas to stop the swelling when I broke my foot break dancing. She was there for the time 34 eye patches needed to be made for a pirate play. And the time my heart broke into thirty-six million pieces because of a boy? Trout said all the right things, but realized sometimes saying nothing is the best thing you can do. She's been my translator, my therapist, my stylist, my cook (I miss the grilled cheese) and the one person I seem to never run out of things to talk about.
I will see her in a few hours. Because Trout has volunteered her Saturday to painting many faces for my latest childrens play. She will do this and I will say thank you and then I will realize it will have never of crossed her mind to NOT help me.
Why?
Because she's the best kind of friend. The one who wants more for you that even you can imagine, who's hopes for you exceed your own, the one who doesn't ignore your failures but finds the success in them.
She's that friend.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Love means big screen tvs
So I've been reading a lot of posts about love. I suspect it's spring. There's something about not wearing 18 layers of fleece and thermal each time you leave the house that gets the libido going. Suddenly, the removal of hats and scarves and lumpy coats prove that we are not all cousins of the Michelin man. Instead, we are well-dressed people with curves, and smiles and hair that hasn't been flattened by a toque. And such discoveries can lead to love, or at the very least, a well developed case of like.
But spring and love is another story. This is about love, and love alone.
Apparently love means never having to say you're sorry. That phrase is like the 'get out of jail free' card in regards to apologizing. The phrase is everywhere and has been said so many times, it's now taken as fact. It's embroidered on pillows, agreed with on Oprah and referenced *328 times every minute in the North America when a couple fights over a missed anniversary.
And the truth is, I think it's bunk.
My experiences have taught me that love means saying sorry. Frequently. And usually with gifts that require extensive assembly or jewellery cleaner. I'm kidding, sort of. But I do believe it's the people who love you, and who you love who deserve your sorry's even more than the stranger you never see again. The people you love the most, deserve your best. So when you screw up, slip up or are just trying to make up, say sorry. And when words are not enough, say it with a big screen tv.
* I made this up. I felt my post was lacking statistics.
But spring and love is another story. This is about love, and love alone.
Apparently love means never having to say you're sorry. That phrase is like the 'get out of jail free' card in regards to apologizing. The phrase is everywhere and has been said so many times, it's now taken as fact. It's embroidered on pillows, agreed with on Oprah and referenced *328 times every minute in the North America when a couple fights over a missed anniversary.
And the truth is, I think it's bunk.
My experiences have taught me that love means saying sorry. Frequently. And usually with gifts that require extensive assembly or jewellery cleaner. I'm kidding, sort of. But I do believe it's the people who love you, and who you love who deserve your sorry's even more than the stranger you never see again. The people you love the most, deserve your best. So when you screw up, slip up or are just trying to make up, say sorry. And when words are not enough, say it with a big screen tv.
* I made this up. I felt my post was lacking statistics.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Work is a fairytale
I'm working on today's to-do list for work and this is what it's looking like:
1. Find a 'witch-like' broom for the Wicked Witch of the West.
2. Find green face paint for the Wicket Witch of the West.
3. Buy some tarts so White Rabbit can get put on trial for stealing them.
4. Find shoes that look like glass slippers for Cinderella.
5. Build/buy/find a monocle for the Mad Hatter, get tea for their tea party and search for more tea cups.
6. Door Mouse needs a tail.
7. Grab an apple for Snow White
8. Dorothy needs more sparkle added to her shoes.
9. Snow White's stepmother needs her dress hemmed, the Duchess needs a completely different outfit and White Rabbit's watch fob needs to show actual numbers.
10. Gretel needs bobby pins. So Does Dorothy.
11. Alice needs a basket, Knave needs gloves.
I have two children's shows in the next week. This is about a third of my to-do list. Sigh. At least it's entertaining. I mean, who else can add 'looking for a glass slipper' to their work list?
1. Find a 'witch-like' broom for the Wicked Witch of the West.
2. Find green face paint for the Wicket Witch of the West.
3. Buy some tarts so White Rabbit can get put on trial for stealing them.
4. Find shoes that look like glass slippers for Cinderella.
5. Build/buy/find a monocle for the Mad Hatter, get tea for their tea party and search for more tea cups.
6. Door Mouse needs a tail.
7. Grab an apple for Snow White
8. Dorothy needs more sparkle added to her shoes.
9. Snow White's stepmother needs her dress hemmed, the Duchess needs a completely different outfit and White Rabbit's watch fob needs to show actual numbers.
10. Gretel needs bobby pins. So Does Dorothy.
11. Alice needs a basket, Knave needs gloves.
I have two children's shows in the next week. This is about a third of my to-do list. Sigh. At least it's entertaining. I mean, who else can add 'looking for a glass slipper' to their work list?
#4: Edie
(This is the fourth post in a series of 'women who have shaped my life'. I got this idea from Bre, who has been doing a better job at posting these than me.)
When I get bored at work I will roam campus looking for a vending machine that sells something that is gluten free. Or just something that looks like it wasn't made prior to Trudeau taking office (whoo ha! A little Canadian history reference for you, which means that basically it's a reference that no one will get. Moving on..). And once I admit defeat and spend my money on sour candies from the vending machine, I wander over to the coffee stand that almost bankrupted me my first year of college.
One day not so long ago, I had paid for my tea and felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I looked around and spotted my stalker. A well dressed, elderly woman with a shock of short white hair. She waved. I waved. And since I had no idea who she was, I proceeded to be deeply interested in the color of my tea.
People stare at me a lot. This has nothing to do with any weird extra limb, or my hobbit like status, but because I look a lot like my mom and everyone seems to know her. So, they think they know me, when they don't. Usually, I just smile and wave and then the person does the same and walks away.
Instead, this lady came over.
It turns out, Edie did know me. I had taught her grand kids figure skating when they were younger. She was at the college to meet her granddaughter for lunch. I admired her brooch and we chatted about the insanity of extra low-rise jeans being in style. She repeatedly kept looking to my left hand and then finally asked the question all single girls hate:
"So, not married?"
I said no.
Usually, this is where the conversation ends. Though I like to complain about my single status, I usually reserve this privilege to friends, or people who subscribe to read about it,- Edie was neither. I looked at her, ready to follow-up my one-syllable answer with an excuse, a joke, a way to change of subject, but I didn't. She had asked so nicely, and had waited patiently for a reason rather than just a response, I couldn't ignore it- I couldn't ignore her. And there was something about the way she looked at me that felt that lying to her would be as bad as lying to myself. So, I told her the truth:
"It all just seems really hard."
Her freckled hand with pale blue veins mapped out like a tree's roots, reached for mine and she laughed.
"My dear, all you need is to find someone who puts up with you, but who won't when you don't deserve it. If you find that, you've found everything."
And with those two sentences, my dating philosophy was born.
The conversation drifted and we sipped our tea, just two women surrounded by students. One woman knew everything, the other just enough to realize how important the other womans words were.
When I get bored at work I will roam campus looking for a vending machine that sells something that is gluten free. Or just something that looks like it wasn't made prior to Trudeau taking office (whoo ha! A little Canadian history reference for you, which means that basically it's a reference that no one will get. Moving on..). And once I admit defeat and spend my money on sour candies from the vending machine, I wander over to the coffee stand that almost bankrupted me my first year of college.
One day not so long ago, I had paid for my tea and felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. I looked around and spotted my stalker. A well dressed, elderly woman with a shock of short white hair. She waved. I waved. And since I had no idea who she was, I proceeded to be deeply interested in the color of my tea.
People stare at me a lot. This has nothing to do with any weird extra limb, or my hobbit like status, but because I look a lot like my mom and everyone seems to know her. So, they think they know me, when they don't. Usually, I just smile and wave and then the person does the same and walks away.
Instead, this lady came over.
It turns out, Edie did know me. I had taught her grand kids figure skating when they were younger. She was at the college to meet her granddaughter for lunch. I admired her brooch and we chatted about the insanity of extra low-rise jeans being in style. She repeatedly kept looking to my left hand and then finally asked the question all single girls hate:
"So, not married?"
I said no.
Usually, this is where the conversation ends. Though I like to complain about my single status, I usually reserve this privilege to friends, or people who subscribe to read about it,- Edie was neither. I looked at her, ready to follow-up my one-syllable answer with an excuse, a joke, a way to change of subject, but I didn't. She had asked so nicely, and had waited patiently for a reason rather than just a response, I couldn't ignore it- I couldn't ignore her. And there was something about the way she looked at me that felt that lying to her would be as bad as lying to myself. So, I told her the truth:
"It all just seems really hard."
Her freckled hand with pale blue veins mapped out like a tree's roots, reached for mine and she laughed.
"My dear, all you need is to find someone who puts up with you, but who won't when you don't deserve it. If you find that, you've found everything."
And with those two sentences, my dating philosophy was born.
The conversation drifted and we sipped our tea, just two women surrounded by students. One woman knew everything, the other just enough to realize how important the other womans words were.
Monday, March 26, 2007
#3: Mom
(This is the third post in a series of 'women who have shaped my life'. I got this idea from Bre. Smartypants.)
I know what you are thinking. #3? This woman tortured her body to give birth to you and she's #3? She endured months of pregnancy, hours of labour, and years of sullen teenage angst for you! She spent her youthful 20's carpooling, counselling and cooking all for you, and she's #3?!
All I can say is yes.
She's #3 because I've been struggling how to describe her. I've thought of this in traffic jams, while waiting 3 minutes before rinsing my conditioner (I'm a sucker for direct directions), while shopping and bowling, working and napping. And I've finally realized I can't tell you how she's shaped me. There was no complicated goodbye, no single phone call that illuminated her influence. The idea of putting words to who she is has been rolling around in my head, leaving me frustrated because I just don't have the right words, because sometimes there is no right words, or best words. There are just the words you have.
She's unlike anyone I've ever met and I'm better for it.
She's the mom who hand painted my sneakers in elementary school so I would have shoes no one else did.
She's the mom who started her own business, and when families can't afford to send their kids, she lets them come for free.
She's the mom who put pomegranates in my lunch while all the other kids had browned apple slices.
She's the woman who (every year) risks getting kicked out of the holiday resort because she sneaks cold cokes to the beach jewellery sellers.
She's the woman who befriended a jewellery seller named Juanita and has taken her family to Wal-mart for shopping sprees, paid for her children's school uniforms and bought them chickens.
She's the mom who remembers my friends birthdays, the name of my grade 3 crush, and the day I started like onions.
She's the mom who showed me how to not be embarrassed of success (or really, really large shoe collections).
She's the mom who still has my paper crown I won as grade two class president, and she's the mom who helped me write the speech that clinched the win.
She's the mom who has had my puke on her. More than once.
She's the mom who took me to gymnastics, horse riding lessons, brownies, figure skating and cooking classes, all in the same year when I decided I wanted to 'learn about everything', and didn't once utter the word 'chauffeur'.
She's the mom who can get me at my own game.
She's the mom who taught me how to check the air in my tires, apply fake eyelashes and "say sorry like you mean it".
She isn't a perfect person, and I'm not either. We've had fights that have made the King of Sparta vs. the Persians look like a lunchtime misunderstanding. But she is mine and I am hers, and though we may violently argue over ideals and ideas, I love her just the same.
She may be #3, but realizing that the one person who told me I could be anything is the one person I want to be like... makes her incomparable.
I know what you are thinking. #3? This woman tortured her body to give birth to you and she's #3? She endured months of pregnancy, hours of labour, and years of sullen teenage angst for you! She spent her youthful 20's carpooling, counselling and cooking all for you, and she's #3?!
All I can say is yes.
She's #3 because I've been struggling how to describe her. I've thought of this in traffic jams, while waiting 3 minutes before rinsing my conditioner (I'm a sucker for direct directions), while shopping and bowling, working and napping. And I've finally realized I can't tell you how she's shaped me. There was no complicated goodbye, no single phone call that illuminated her influence. The idea of putting words to who she is has been rolling around in my head, leaving me frustrated because I just don't have the right words, because sometimes there is no right words, or best words. There are just the words you have.
She's unlike anyone I've ever met and I'm better for it.
She's the mom who hand painted my sneakers in elementary school so I would have shoes no one else did.
She's the mom who started her own business, and when families can't afford to send their kids, she lets them come for free.
She's the mom who put pomegranates in my lunch while all the other kids had browned apple slices.
She's the woman who (every year) risks getting kicked out of the holiday resort because she sneaks cold cokes to the beach jewellery sellers.
She's the woman who befriended a jewellery seller named Juanita and has taken her family to Wal-mart for shopping sprees, paid for her children's school uniforms and bought them chickens.
She's the mom who remembers my friends birthdays, the name of my grade 3 crush, and the day I started like onions.
She's the mom who showed me how to not be embarrassed of success (or really, really large shoe collections).
She's the mom who still has my paper crown I won as grade two class president, and she's the mom who helped me write the speech that clinched the win.
She's the mom who has had my puke on her. More than once.
She's the mom who took me to gymnastics, horse riding lessons, brownies, figure skating and cooking classes, all in the same year when I decided I wanted to 'learn about everything', and didn't once utter the word 'chauffeur'.
She's the mom who can get me at my own game.
She's the mom who taught me how to check the air in my tires, apply fake eyelashes and "say sorry like you mean it".
She isn't a perfect person, and I'm not either. We've had fights that have made the King of Sparta vs. the Persians look like a lunchtime misunderstanding. But she is mine and I am hers, and though we may violently argue over ideals and ideas, I love her just the same.
She may be #3, but realizing that the one person who told me I could be anything is the one person I want to be like... makes her incomparable.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Eyes Wide Open
I watched "Poseidon" this weekend and realized one thing:
I really, really need to learn how to swim with my eyes open.
I would have been deadweight to the survivor team with my inability to open my eyes underwater. Poor Josh Lucas would always be having to comeback and find me holding my breath, eyes clamped shut, banging my head into a closed steel wall thinking it was my way out. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say that would effectively ruin our chances of being together.
If Josh and I are going to have any serious chance at love, I've got to get my eyes opening underwater.
That is all. Carry on.
I really, really need to learn how to swim with my eyes open.
I would have been deadweight to the survivor team with my inability to open my eyes underwater. Poor Josh Lucas would always be having to comeback and find me holding my breath, eyes clamped shut, banging my head into a closed steel wall thinking it was my way out. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say that would effectively ruin our chances of being together.
If Josh and I are going to have any serious chance at love, I've got to get my eyes opening underwater.
That is all. Carry on.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Discomfort Zone
Like Pavlov's dogs, I'm learning that certain triggers will send me into an unplanned response. More specifically, certain phrases will send me into a blood curdling, hair tingling, cold and uncomfortable sweat that will prompt me to lie in the fetal position under my bed and drink whiskey until I think I AM Johnny Cash.
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy...
- "I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let's do this song sober!"
- "Hi there, this is Revenue Canada. Can we please speak to Brandy?"
- "You're late" (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- "It's time for a pap smear!"
- " I think you are silly/cute/a joke".
- "It broke" (And to quote Louis Armstrong, 'if you have to ask, you'll never know')
- "Now, I know we said we weren't going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought this Dorothy Hamill cut would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?"
- "Nope, we don't have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?"
- "Hey, dude, I'm watching your house burn down right now. No really. Ohhh, they just smashed your window."
- "I don't want to date you anymore, but happy birthday."
- "Ma'am, I need to see your license and registration" (this is only uncomfortable when I'm driving with expired insurance...)
- "You're a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican." (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- "I don't watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong?"
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- "I have some bad news"
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy...
- "I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let's do this song sober!"
- "Hi there, this is Revenue Canada. Can we please speak to Brandy?"
- "You're late" (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- "It's time for a pap smear!"
- " I think you are silly/cute/a joke".
- "It broke" (And to quote Louis Armstrong, 'if you have to ask, you'll never know')
- "Now, I know we said we weren't going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought this Dorothy Hamill cut would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?"
- "Nope, we don't have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?"
- "Hey, dude, I'm watching your house burn down right now. No really. Ohhh, they just smashed your window."
- "I don't want to date you anymore, but happy birthday."
- "Ma'am, I need to see your license and registration" (this is only uncomfortable when I'm driving with expired insurance...)
- "You're a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican." (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- "I don't watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong?"
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- "I have some bad news"
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Being Called the "C" Word
I admit it, I say it. A LOT.
Before I can stop myself, the 'c' word will fall out of my mouth and into casual conversation. I've called Miss Fabulous the 'c' word. I've called the kids I teach the 'c' word. My old dog, my favourite shoes, even my grandmother have all been called the 'c' word. In fact, just today I yelled it down the hallway to my boss. It would appear that I like giving the word out, but I've discovered I hate being called it by others. The 'c' word I'm referring to? Cute, of course. For some reason the word 'cute' rolls off my tongue and gets attached to many things in my life like a piece of velcro you can't shake off.
It's always been the adjective people use to describe me. I suppose it's the blond hair, or the fact that I laugh a lot. Maybe it's because I have the hobbit gene and am short. Maybe it's because I get excited easily or cry during Saturn car commercials. I don't know. I do know however, that I'd rather be called a million other things than cute.
I don't strive to be called 'sexy'. It seems like a lot of work. Perhaps it's not fair of my brain, but when I hear the word, the first thing I think of is fishnets, a red sparkly dress made out of lycra and thigh high stilettos. And long red hair. Basically, Jessica Rabbit with a little less Botox. When I think 'sexy' I just think I would be too tired to wear those shoes all day and keeping my hair red hot flaming red would take serious upkeep. Maybe I'm less cute and more lazy?
Sometimes I get 'nerdy' and it fits. Unlike those who object to it, (they are most likely to be wearing fishnets I've noticed), I don't mind it. I read a lot. I get irrationally angry when people display ignorance about war or politics. I have been known to get really happy over a sweater vest. My closet, bookcase and shoe collection are color coordinated, and I take great pleasure when others notice this. Recently, I've found myself squealing when I watch a new Harry Potter preview. See? Nerdy fits.
I've gotten 'funny' before and that one I like. Who doesn't relish the idea of feeling that what you say is worth a laugh? "Complicated" has been whispered, which is understandable, but not always appreciated. Though it seems we live in a world where 'complicated = interesting', I would prefer to be something different. Complex, perhaps, that seems like complicated's nicer cousin. Complicated reminds of people torn between huge life choices and prone to maniac cleaning spells induced by rage. And I assure you, I vacuum quite irregularly.
I started thinking about this on Saturday when a nice couple (Channel and Dan), couldn't find a table at the St. Patricks party we were at and joined ours. They seemed a bit uncomfortable at having to sit at a table of 8 girls (1 of which who was standing on a booth doing an air guitar with part of her body I'm too lady like to describe right now), so I kept asking them questions. They told me how they met, how they fell in love and the whole story was just so well... cute. I might have clapped my hands but then Dan started raving about how 'cute' I was, and the feeling passed quickly.
Maybe I don't like it because it's the term I get the most. Or because it seems like an adjective that's not very specific. It's like 'good' or 'great'. It doesn't seem like it's based on anything. I mean, puppies are cute. One could argue that at times, Colin Powell has shown cuteness. I would just like another word.
But I suppose when the time came, when the request tumbled out of my mouth, whoever had called me 'cute' would just feel that I deserved the term that much more. If my grandma threw her hands on her hips when I stuck the 'cute' term on her, and told me that being called 'cute' was silly and wanted another word, well, chances are she would seem that much cuter. Or she would seem ridiculous.
And given the choice between ridiculous and cute, I would take cute.
Before I can stop myself, the 'c' word will fall out of my mouth and into casual conversation. I've called Miss Fabulous the 'c' word. I've called the kids I teach the 'c' word. My old dog, my favourite shoes, even my grandmother have all been called the 'c' word. In fact, just today I yelled it down the hallway to my boss. It would appear that I like giving the word out, but I've discovered I hate being called it by others. The 'c' word I'm referring to? Cute, of course. For some reason the word 'cute' rolls off my tongue and gets attached to many things in my life like a piece of velcro you can't shake off.
It's always been the adjective people use to describe me. I suppose it's the blond hair, or the fact that I laugh a lot. Maybe it's because I have the hobbit gene and am short. Maybe it's because I get excited easily or cry during Saturn car commercials. I don't know. I do know however, that I'd rather be called a million other things than cute.
I don't strive to be called 'sexy'. It seems like a lot of work. Perhaps it's not fair of my brain, but when I hear the word, the first thing I think of is fishnets, a red sparkly dress made out of lycra and thigh high stilettos. And long red hair. Basically, Jessica Rabbit with a little less Botox. When I think 'sexy' I just think I would be too tired to wear those shoes all day and keeping my hair red hot flaming red would take serious upkeep. Maybe I'm less cute and more lazy?
Sometimes I get 'nerdy' and it fits. Unlike those who object to it, (they are most likely to be wearing fishnets I've noticed), I don't mind it. I read a lot. I get irrationally angry when people display ignorance about war or politics. I have been known to get really happy over a sweater vest. My closet, bookcase and shoe collection are color coordinated, and I take great pleasure when others notice this. Recently, I've found myself squealing when I watch a new Harry Potter preview. See? Nerdy fits.
I've gotten 'funny' before and that one I like. Who doesn't relish the idea of feeling that what you say is worth a laugh? "Complicated" has been whispered, which is understandable, but not always appreciated. Though it seems we live in a world where 'complicated = interesting', I would prefer to be something different. Complex, perhaps, that seems like complicated's nicer cousin. Complicated reminds of people torn between huge life choices and prone to maniac cleaning spells induced by rage. And I assure you, I vacuum quite irregularly.
I started thinking about this on Saturday when a nice couple (Channel and Dan), couldn't find a table at the St. Patricks party we were at and joined ours. They seemed a bit uncomfortable at having to sit at a table of 8 girls (1 of which who was standing on a booth doing an air guitar with part of her body I'm too lady like to describe right now), so I kept asking them questions. They told me how they met, how they fell in love and the whole story was just so well... cute. I might have clapped my hands but then Dan started raving about how 'cute' I was, and the feeling passed quickly.
Maybe I don't like it because it's the term I get the most. Or because it seems like an adjective that's not very specific. It's like 'good' or 'great'. It doesn't seem like it's based on anything. I mean, puppies are cute. One could argue that at times, Colin Powell has shown cuteness. I would just like another word.
But I suppose when the time came, when the request tumbled out of my mouth, whoever had called me 'cute' would just feel that I deserved the term that much more. If my grandma threw her hands on her hips when I stuck the 'cute' term on her, and told me that being called 'cute' was silly and wanted another word, well, chances are she would seem that much cuter. Or she would seem ridiculous.
And given the choice between ridiculous and cute, I would take cute.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Worth the wait in an instant world
We live in an instant world. Instant coffee, instant messaging, instant car starters. We wait for nothing. We can fast forward our commercials, email our letters and drive-thru for our meals.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn't want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to 'speed up'. My list of what's worth waiting for includes...
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that's homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the "it's the third date so we should kiss", but the "I'm so excited about you, I need to kiss you" kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I'm not the only one who misspells "foreign".
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don't love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an "I love you" to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favourite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect wedding dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn't seem so bad.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn't want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to 'speed up'. My list of what's worth waiting for includes...
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that's homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the "it's the third date so we should kiss", but the "I'm so excited about you, I need to kiss you" kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I'm not the only one who misspells "foreign".
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don't love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an "I love you" to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favourite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect wedding dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn't seem so bad.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Disappointing Oprah
So recently I've noticed a trend. It started out with a friend of mine, then moved to Grey's Anatomy, then spread into the life of yet another pal. The trend? Realizing that even if you don't want to be with someone, you still don't want them to be with someone else.
I'm weening myself off Grey's Anatomy (I'm sorry but there's something about Meredith that makes me want to take a scalpel to my brain), but saw Izzie tell Alex "just because I don't want to be with you doesn't mean I want you to be with someone else". That really hit home. I know it's selfish, immature and lacks the all-knowing self empowerment that Oprah has in diamond encrusted truck loads, but I find I relate to that sentiment. And I'm finding, I'm not the only one.
It's not that I want the people I don't want to be single and miserable forever, I just want them to be single until I'm not. Once I'm bathed in the lavender glow of coupledom, where 'we' statements flow and the inside jokes are common, I hope they find the same. After I'm happily cocooned in a great, stable relationship with a man (preferably a pediatrician who sings 'green eyes' by Coldplay and thinks my neurotic tendencies are adorable), I will become more Oprah-ish. I will be that ex who invites old flames for dinner with their new loves. Who takes great delight in the fact that they have found love with someone who is not me. And in this version of my future, I will also be able to wear pearl necklaces without looking like I'm playing dress-up.
The bottom line? I want ex'es to be happily coupled, to experience the satisfaction of feeling like they found a person who fits snugly into their life.
I just want them to find it after I have.
See? I told you- immature.
It's moments like this I'm glad I'm not friends with Oprah. I don't think I could handle disappointing her like this.
I'm weening myself off Grey's Anatomy (I'm sorry but there's something about Meredith that makes me want to take a scalpel to my brain), but saw Izzie tell Alex "just because I don't want to be with you doesn't mean I want you to be with someone else". That really hit home. I know it's selfish, immature and lacks the all-knowing self empowerment that Oprah has in diamond encrusted truck loads, but I find I relate to that sentiment. And I'm finding, I'm not the only one.
It's not that I want the people I don't want to be single and miserable forever, I just want them to be single until I'm not. Once I'm bathed in the lavender glow of coupledom, where 'we' statements flow and the inside jokes are common, I hope they find the same. After I'm happily cocooned in a great, stable relationship with a man (preferably a pediatrician who sings 'green eyes' by Coldplay and thinks my neurotic tendencies are adorable), I will become more Oprah-ish. I will be that ex who invites old flames for dinner with their new loves. Who takes great delight in the fact that they have found love with someone who is not me. And in this version of my future, I will also be able to wear pearl necklaces without looking like I'm playing dress-up.
The bottom line? I want ex'es to be happily coupled, to experience the satisfaction of feeling like they found a person who fits snugly into their life.
I just want them to find it after I have.
See? I told you- immature.
It's moments like this I'm glad I'm not friends with Oprah. I don't think I could handle disappointing her like this.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
I second that Emotion
Overheard today...
" Sometimes I feel smarter knowing less. I mean, sometimes information isn't power. It just gets in the way of the stuff you already know."
In other news, I just calculated that I won't be home (ie. in my bed sleeping) for 15 hours. This thought has left me incredibly depressed. Even more depressed than seeing what's-his-face-with-the-ever-changing-hair stay yet another week on American Idol. What gives America?
(And yes, the phrase 'what gives?' is making a comeback. And it's starting today.)
" Sometimes I feel smarter knowing less. I mean, sometimes information isn't power. It just gets in the way of the stuff you already know."
In other news, I just calculated that I won't be home (ie. in my bed sleeping) for 15 hours. This thought has left me incredibly depressed. Even more depressed than seeing what's-his-face-with-the-ever-changing-hair stay yet another week on American Idol. What gives America?
(And yes, the phrase 'what gives?' is making a comeback. And it's starting today.)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Family Sacrifices
At this point, I'm willing to stun gun my grandmother if someone can promise me it's going to stop snowing.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Lessons on a Tuesday
1. Never trust a man who has a fridge stocked with pesto but no ketchup.
2. Sometimes prayer works when your truck doesn't start. Sometimes a new battery works better.
3. Never take a cart when you go to Costco. Or else your bill will be so high you will have to sign off on your first born. Seriously, who NEEDS a 5 gallon jar of pickles?
4. My grandmother had something called a "dinner ring" and wore it after she had changed into something 'appropriate' for dinner. I have something called "sweatpants" and I wear them while I eat my dinner that comes from the microwave.
5. A hair straightener can become an excellent clothes iron in a pinch. (I like to think MacGuyver would be proud of me)
6. Some things just don't translate. Like explaining how funny a phone conversation I had today with my friend about how I plan on trying out for the Amazing Race with an imaginary partner. Needless to say, it would be me, not Hank, who would be performing all the tasks but I would be yelling at him to "hurry up!", endlessly. See? Not so funny typed, but at the time it was hysterical.
7. There is a man in Texas who thinks Canada is in Utah. This should make me sad but it just makes me giggle.
8. It's impossible for me to listen to "Brown Eyed Girl" without wishing I had brown eyes. And a boyfriend who loved layering his clothes and playing that song on the guitar and singing it to me every morning immediately after he serving me breakfast in bed. Oh, and he has a dog too. And nieces he lets braid his hair. And he's always saying things like "how did I ever manage without you!?". And he has parents who marvel at my brain and hug me everytime they see me (which is usually once a month when the whole gang meets for brunch at the estate). And- okay I need to stop.
9. When you start trying to figure out chords, it's time to take a step back and reconsider your love for the air guitar.
10. March Madness makes me happier than Christmas. (I started a pool!)
2. Sometimes prayer works when your truck doesn't start. Sometimes a new battery works better.
3. Never take a cart when you go to Costco. Or else your bill will be so high you will have to sign off on your first born. Seriously, who NEEDS a 5 gallon jar of pickles?
4. My grandmother had something called a "dinner ring" and wore it after she had changed into something 'appropriate' for dinner. I have something called "sweatpants" and I wear them while I eat my dinner that comes from the microwave.
5. A hair straightener can become an excellent clothes iron in a pinch. (I like to think MacGuyver would be proud of me)
6. Some things just don't translate. Like explaining how funny a phone conversation I had today with my friend about how I plan on trying out for the Amazing Race with an imaginary partner. Needless to say, it would be me, not Hank, who would be performing all the tasks but I would be yelling at him to "hurry up!", endlessly. See? Not so funny typed, but at the time it was hysterical.
7. There is a man in Texas who thinks Canada is in Utah. This should make me sad but it just makes me giggle.
8. It's impossible for me to listen to "Brown Eyed Girl" without wishing I had brown eyes. And a boyfriend who loved layering his clothes and playing that song on the guitar and singing it to me every morning immediately after he serving me breakfast in bed. Oh, and he has a dog too. And nieces he lets braid his hair. And he's always saying things like "how did I ever manage without you!?". And he has parents who marvel at my brain and hug me everytime they see me (which is usually once a month when the whole gang meets for brunch at the estate). And- okay I need to stop.
9. When you start trying to figure out chords, it's time to take a step back and reconsider your love for the air guitar.
10. March Madness makes me happier than Christmas. (I started a pool!)
Monday, March 12, 2007
Killing Time...
I got this emailed to me and it was really fun, and an excellent way to waste time! Try it, I want to see if anyone else was deemed a 'love bug' like myself. (Oh, and the 'easy rider' label was great. Anyone else thinking "The Office"?)
Cheating: A words game?
I had a conversation recently that went something like this…
Not me: So, have you ever cheated on a boyfriend?
Me: Define cheat.
Not me: Have you ever had sex with someone else while dating a guy?
Me: No
Not me: So…. then what’s your definition of cheating?
Me: I think cheating is doing something I wouldn’t do if my boyfriend was there.
Not me: So then you have cheated?
Me: Well, under my definition yes. Under your definition, no.
(Long silence as we contemplate that under my definition we are both guilty and under theirs we are both innocent…)
It seemed strange that such a huge issue- the issue of cheating, would be defined so differently between two people. I always assumed that cheating was a black and white issue, how could there be so much confusion? So much grey matter? I decided to ask my trusty dictionary to give me some clear cut definition- and answer to the biggest question since the Caramilk bar mystery of the early 90's, but found out that Encarta is sometimes as helpful as a screen door in a submarine. This is what I got…
1. deceive somebody: to deceive or mislead somebody, especially for personal advantage
2. be unfaithful: to have a sexual relationship with somebody other than a spouse or regular sexual partner
3. escape something: to avoid harm or injury by luck or cunning
So, we both found our definition embedded in the great mind of Encarta. Instead of feeling pleased that the dictionary recognized the act of deceit as cheating, I was more troubled. Were Encarta and I prudes in assuming that cheating was deceit? Did everyone else think cheating was sex? And if they did, were the majority of these individuals carrying a Y chromosome?
I decided to take to the streets (okay, my email contact list) and ask others what they defined cheating as. Apparently, when it comes to cheating everyone has an opinion and it’s different from the rest. Here are some of the results…
Cheating is…..
- “sex.”
- “anything you do that you wouldn’t want anyone to find about”
- “ isn’t looking at other girls. It’s giving them my phone number when my girls in the bathroom”
- “unforgivable. People say they forgive it but don’t forget, but if you don’t forget something that horrible, how can it be a healthy relationship?”
- “boob grabbing”
- “ a words game. It’s instinct over conscience. It’s anything you do that you feel guilty about”
- “wishing the boyfriend/girlfriend you are with was someone else”
- “dangerous, and devastating if you are the person getting cheated on. I would never do it because I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what I did.”
- “anything you wouldn’t do with someone of the same sex (if you aren’t gay)”
- “removal of clothing”
- “lying to your partner because you spending time with someone else. Even if you are fully clothed and spend the whole day at the park, once you lie, you cheat”
- “sometimes a way to see if you are really serious about your boyfriend/girlfriend”
- “not cool unless you are on a holiday, or if she/he is cheating too”
- “not worth it. I mean, if you want to be with someone else, why are you with the person you are with?”
- “getting caught”
Honestly, it was a bit frightening to see that so many people I know define the act of cheating so differently, but it was nice to see that men weren’t prone to one type of answer and women another. There were pretty equal in the numbers of responses who viewed cheating as ‘just sex’ or ‘anything you feel guilty about’.
Our society clearly defines our world; this is what murder is, this is what marriage is, this is what taxable income is… and yet, cheating has slipped through the cracks. I realize that cheating is a moral issue and that it would be impossible to lay down a clear definition in the “book of life” , I’m just saying that it would be nice. I like the idea of in the heat of an argument being able to pull down a large book with tissue thin pages that would state: "Cheating is: holding the hand of another girl at the movies", or something similar. It would make things so much easier- and arguments a lot shorter.
Until then I will hold myself accountable and feel guilt over my past. Why? Because I’d rather be guilty under my definition than innocent under someone else’s.
Anyone have a different definition of cheating?
Not me: So, have you ever cheated on a boyfriend?
Me: Define cheat.
Not me: Have you ever had sex with someone else while dating a guy?
Me: No
Not me: So…. then what’s your definition of cheating?
Me: I think cheating is doing something I wouldn’t do if my boyfriend was there.
Not me: So then you have cheated?
Me: Well, under my definition yes. Under your definition, no.
(Long silence as we contemplate that under my definition we are both guilty and under theirs we are both innocent…)
It seemed strange that such a huge issue- the issue of cheating, would be defined so differently between two people. I always assumed that cheating was a black and white issue, how could there be so much confusion? So much grey matter? I decided to ask my trusty dictionary to give me some clear cut definition- and answer to the biggest question since the Caramilk bar mystery of the early 90's, but found out that Encarta is sometimes as helpful as a screen door in a submarine. This is what I got…
1. deceive somebody: to deceive or mislead somebody, especially for personal advantage
2. be unfaithful: to have a sexual relationship with somebody other than a spouse or regular sexual partner
3. escape something: to avoid harm or injury by luck or cunning
So, we both found our definition embedded in the great mind of Encarta. Instead of feeling pleased that the dictionary recognized the act of deceit as cheating, I was more troubled. Were Encarta and I prudes in assuming that cheating was deceit? Did everyone else think cheating was sex? And if they did, were the majority of these individuals carrying a Y chromosome?
I decided to take to the streets (okay, my email contact list) and ask others what they defined cheating as. Apparently, when it comes to cheating everyone has an opinion and it’s different from the rest. Here are some of the results…
Cheating is…..
- “sex.”
- “anything you do that you wouldn’t want anyone to find about”
- “ isn’t looking at other girls. It’s giving them my phone number when my girls in the bathroom”
- “unforgivable. People say they forgive it but don’t forget, but if you don’t forget something that horrible, how can it be a healthy relationship?”
- “boob grabbing”
- “ a words game. It’s instinct over conscience. It’s anything you do that you feel guilty about”
- “wishing the boyfriend/girlfriend you are with was someone else”
- “dangerous, and devastating if you are the person getting cheated on. I would never do it because I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what I did.”
- “anything you wouldn’t do with someone of the same sex (if you aren’t gay)”
- “removal of clothing”
- “lying to your partner because you spending time with someone else. Even if you are fully clothed and spend the whole day at the park, once you lie, you cheat”
- “sometimes a way to see if you are really serious about your boyfriend/girlfriend”
- “not cool unless you are on a holiday, or if she/he is cheating too”
- “not worth it. I mean, if you want to be with someone else, why are you with the person you are with?”
- “getting caught”
Honestly, it was a bit frightening to see that so many people I know define the act of cheating so differently, but it was nice to see that men weren’t prone to one type of answer and women another. There were pretty equal in the numbers of responses who viewed cheating as ‘just sex’ or ‘anything you feel guilty about’.
Our society clearly defines our world; this is what murder is, this is what marriage is, this is what taxable income is… and yet, cheating has slipped through the cracks. I realize that cheating is a moral issue and that it would be impossible to lay down a clear definition in the “book of life” , I’m just saying that it would be nice. I like the idea of in the heat of an argument being able to pull down a large book with tissue thin pages that would state: "Cheating is: holding the hand of another girl at the movies", or something similar. It would make things so much easier- and arguments a lot shorter.
Until then I will hold myself accountable and feel guilt over my past. Why? Because I’d rather be guilty under my definition than innocent under someone else’s.
Anyone have a different definition of cheating?
Friday, March 9, 2007
Ordinary grief
I suppose it’s quite common to feel very small in a crowded church smelling of wet coats and baby powder. And I suppose it’s very pedestrian to wonder what you are doing with your life when you listen to a pastor talk of a boy who never really got the chance to live his. To feel that this must all be a mistake when you recognize that this baby’s first words were also his last
I suppose it’s quite common to feel your heartbreaking with an ache so intense your hand instinctively moves to your chest. To actually have your insides hurt with such a force it steals your breath and leaves you lightheaded. To realize that it is possible to cry your hardest without making a single sound. To find that sadness hasn’t swept over you- it’s invaded you.
I suppose it’s very commonplace to find yourself feel like something has broken when you see the uncle who once told you that “crying is for sissies”, openly sobbing, clenching handfuls of tissue. To see shy grown men shake their heads, hands stuffed in their pockets, not bother to wipe away their tears. To watch a mother whisper such a private and choked goodbye you have to look away, because such anguish does not need a witness. And I suppose it’s expected that you find yourself wishing you knew what to say but to finally (finally) learn that sometimes there are moments where words will not fit.
I suppose it’s very ordinary to see firsthand the difference between crying, weeping and sobbing, and to find that it is the weeping leaves you saddest- the beautiful restraint of it all seeming very brave. To close your eyes and hear what a church full of grief sounds like.
And I suppose it’s expected to revert to being a child again and to ask “Why?”. To take the frustration of no answer and want to bargain. To know that in an instant whatever you have you would give- to end the sobbing of a man who can’t stop repeating his sons name.
And I suppose it's very natural to be shocked at just how hot your tears are and how fast they can fall.
I suppose there is just nothing sadder than toys in a coffin.
I suppose it’s quite common to feel your heartbreaking with an ache so intense your hand instinctively moves to your chest. To actually have your insides hurt with such a force it steals your breath and leaves you lightheaded. To realize that it is possible to cry your hardest without making a single sound. To find that sadness hasn’t swept over you- it’s invaded you.
I suppose it’s very commonplace to find yourself feel like something has broken when you see the uncle who once told you that “crying is for sissies”, openly sobbing, clenching handfuls of tissue. To see shy grown men shake their heads, hands stuffed in their pockets, not bother to wipe away their tears. To watch a mother whisper such a private and choked goodbye you have to look away, because such anguish does not need a witness. And I suppose it’s expected that you find yourself wishing you knew what to say but to finally (finally) learn that sometimes there are moments where words will not fit.
I suppose it’s very ordinary to see firsthand the difference between crying, weeping and sobbing, and to find that it is the weeping leaves you saddest- the beautiful restraint of it all seeming very brave. To close your eyes and hear what a church full of grief sounds like.
And I suppose it’s expected to revert to being a child again and to ask “Why?”. To take the frustration of no answer and want to bargain. To know that in an instant whatever you have you would give- to end the sobbing of a man who can’t stop repeating his sons name.
And I suppose it's very natural to be shocked at just how hot your tears are and how fast they can fall.
I suppose there is just nothing sadder than toys in a coffin.
#2: Miss Fabulous
In case the "#2" confuses you, this is my second post about women who have shaped my life. I got this idea from Bre and it's been a great way to get me really thinking about the people I know. It's been interesting realizing who comes to mind when I try to figure out who to write about. I find that often my instinct is to write about someone who is funny, or someone who I remember vividly due to their personal quirks or personality but I'm trying to avoid that. To me, the idea of shaping implies something learned, something that's helped guide me into being the person I am today. That's why I have to include Miss Fabulous.
If I didn't love her so much there's a chance I would hate her. I'm not kidding. She's talented and funny and beautiful. She's everything that my New Years resolutions want me to be. She's one of those people who speaks multiple languages, can dance like an extra in a Missy Elliot video, travels (and when she does she sleeps on the beach, not at the resort)to exotic places, knows how to knit and make the best guacamole you've ever had. And if you asked her, she could probably figure out a way to do it all at the same time. And she makes it look so effortless.
See what I mean about the hating thing?
But here's the thing. I couldn't hate her. I could never even be jealous of her, even though she is able to tan the color of a coconut while I burn like a tomato. Or the fact that French rolls off her tongue like it's her native language and I'm still stumbling through "my shirt is green". Or the fact that she kayaks and climbs mountains while I sit in traffic jams. I just have nothing but big love for her.
Why?
Because.
Because she's the person who gets the "ungettable" things about me. She understands why I only like eating green gummy bears with no heads. Or why it's imperative that I discuss why I'm against the idea of peeing on someone as foreplay. Or why I can be a happy and smart girl and still need to call her at midnight just to confirm that I'm not going to die alone.
My house burnt down two years ago. I called Miss Fabulous from the scene and after establishing that I was okay, she giggled. Maybe to someone else this would have been the wrong move, but as the one who knows the unknowable, gets the ungettable, she realized that I needed it. It was the completely unexpected reaction, but one that was appreciated. Everyone had been so kind, so thoughtful, so serious, but Miss Fabulous wasn't. She made me realize that regardless of how I dealt with the situation, my house was still gone. So we laughed. And honestly? The laugh helped. I still cried my eyes out later, but being reminded that I could laugh, made things easier.
We met in school through her, but now Miss Fabulous has moved away. I miss her like crazy. The way you miss the last day of summer or the feeling of discovering something you love for the first time. Though I don't see her as often as I used to, Miss Fabulous still reminds me to keep learning (hence the self-taught French lessons), to never doubt myself when a boy lets you down (again) and to watch Shark Tale for the best hip hop moves. She reminds me that you don't have to live close to be close and that if my house burns down again, it will still be okay to laugh.
And if I don't laugh? I know she will be there to listen to me cry.
If I didn't love her so much there's a chance I would hate her. I'm not kidding. She's talented and funny and beautiful. She's everything that my New Years resolutions want me to be. She's one of those people who speaks multiple languages, can dance like an extra in a Missy Elliot video, travels (and when she does she sleeps on the beach, not at the resort)to exotic places, knows how to knit and make the best guacamole you've ever had. And if you asked her, she could probably figure out a way to do it all at the same time. And she makes it look so effortless.
See what I mean about the hating thing?
But here's the thing. I couldn't hate her. I could never even be jealous of her, even though she is able to tan the color of a coconut while I burn like a tomato. Or the fact that French rolls off her tongue like it's her native language and I'm still stumbling through "my shirt is green". Or the fact that she kayaks and climbs mountains while I sit in traffic jams. I just have nothing but big love for her.
Why?
Because.
Because she's the person who gets the "ungettable" things about me. She understands why I only like eating green gummy bears with no heads. Or why it's imperative that I discuss why I'm against the idea of peeing on someone as foreplay. Or why I can be a happy and smart girl and still need to call her at midnight just to confirm that I'm not going to die alone.
My house burnt down two years ago. I called Miss Fabulous from the scene and after establishing that I was okay, she giggled. Maybe to someone else this would have been the wrong move, but as the one who knows the unknowable, gets the ungettable, she realized that I needed it. It was the completely unexpected reaction, but one that was appreciated. Everyone had been so kind, so thoughtful, so serious, but Miss Fabulous wasn't. She made me realize that regardless of how I dealt with the situation, my house was still gone. So we laughed. And honestly? The laugh helped. I still cried my eyes out later, but being reminded that I could laugh, made things easier.
We met in school through her, but now Miss Fabulous has moved away. I miss her like crazy. The way you miss the last day of summer or the feeling of discovering something you love for the first time. Though I don't see her as often as I used to, Miss Fabulous still reminds me to keep learning (hence the self-taught French lessons), to never doubt myself when a boy lets you down (again) and to watch Shark Tale for the best hip hop moves. She reminds me that you don't have to live close to be close and that if my house burns down again, it will still be okay to laugh.
And if I don't laugh? I know she will be there to listen to me cry.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Dear Citibank...
Dear Citibank,
First of all, thanks for all the letters. I haven't been getting a lot of actual hold-in-my-hands-golly-gee-it's-for-me mail lately, so getting repeated envelopes addressed to me has been exciting.
I love that you are so excited to give me a credit card. All the exclamation points seem to indicate an abundance of real joy over this opportunity or a maniac sugar rush, either way- it's contagious! Guaranteed! Low Interest Rate! Pre-Approved! I almost expect a smiley face at the end of each. Maybe that's something you are working on?
And can I just say that I love that I'm pre-approved? Knowing that you like me already without ever talking to me or knowing anything about me makes me feel really good. I mean, this world is so crazy now and everyone is getting judged on how witty their bon mots are, or how sci-fi their sneakers look, or what kind of job they have yet you managed to skip all that nonsense and approve me based just on me. And that's a nice feeling. If only there were more like you Citibank, the world would be in a better place.
I also really am in love with all the different templates of credit cards you have, I have to admit they are a great signing up feature. Though I'm partial to the ladybug design, I'm not sure it's a right fit. Don't get me wrong, I love ladybugs, and I like the idea of my credit card showing that I'm intune with nature but I have a feeling that I would get tired of the lady bug. And although I do love being Canadian, the credit card covered with maple leafs isn't quite right for me either. Perhaps the mysterious plain black card would work- it reminds me of the story I heard about Jessica Simpson and her black Mastercard that apparently has no limit. If we could work out a similar deal, I think I could find time to fill out the form.
While others groan at finding yet another letter from you in their mailbox, I'm charmed at your repeated attempts. I admit it- I'm a sucker for persistence. Whether it's a credit card company or a man I should stay away from, not giving up usually means I give in. Oh, and I especially appreciate that the president of the whole Citibank shebang has taken the time to actually sign my letter. I mean, from what I gather from the website you citibank folk are pretty busy, so I appreciate the extra touches you guys are putting in. And can you pass along to him that I love his penmanship so thoughtfully displayed in his signature?
Sadly however, I don't want another credit card. I won't try and sugarcoat this since I've already called and told you. I just feel like one card is enough. And I know, I know, I should be wanting another one because I'm young and reckless and every store is putting out their spring line, but Citibank- I have to stay strong. I feel we've gotten quite close with all the recent mail and phone calls but I'm asking you to now be a good friend and support my choice. Maybe try me again in a year. Perhaps then I will be in desperate need of a card that shows my love of the maple leaf. But not today Citbank, not today.
If you want though, you can still keep sending me the letter. Like I said, the mails been a bit slow and I like finding things addressed to me. Plus, all the exclamation marks boost my mood.
Sincerely,
brandy
First of all, thanks for all the letters. I haven't been getting a lot of actual hold-in-my-hands-golly-gee-it's-for-me mail lately, so getting repeated envelopes addressed to me has been exciting.
I love that you are so excited to give me a credit card. All the exclamation points seem to indicate an abundance of real joy over this opportunity or a maniac sugar rush, either way- it's contagious! Guaranteed! Low Interest Rate! Pre-Approved! I almost expect a smiley face at the end of each. Maybe that's something you are working on?
And can I just say that I love that I'm pre-approved? Knowing that you like me already without ever talking to me or knowing anything about me makes me feel really good. I mean, this world is so crazy now and everyone is getting judged on how witty their bon mots are, or how sci-fi their sneakers look, or what kind of job they have yet you managed to skip all that nonsense and approve me based just on me. And that's a nice feeling. If only there were more like you Citibank, the world would be in a better place.
I also really am in love with all the different templates of credit cards you have, I have to admit they are a great signing up feature. Though I'm partial to the ladybug design, I'm not sure it's a right fit. Don't get me wrong, I love ladybugs, and I like the idea of my credit card showing that I'm intune with nature but I have a feeling that I would get tired of the lady bug. And although I do love being Canadian, the credit card covered with maple leafs isn't quite right for me either. Perhaps the mysterious plain black card would work- it reminds me of the story I heard about Jessica Simpson and her black Mastercard that apparently has no limit. If we could work out a similar deal, I think I could find time to fill out the form.
While others groan at finding yet another letter from you in their mailbox, I'm charmed at your repeated attempts. I admit it- I'm a sucker for persistence. Whether it's a credit card company or a man I should stay away from, not giving up usually means I give in. Oh, and I especially appreciate that the president of the whole Citibank shebang has taken the time to actually sign my letter. I mean, from what I gather from the website you citibank folk are pretty busy, so I appreciate the extra touches you guys are putting in. And can you pass along to him that I love his penmanship so thoughtfully displayed in his signature?
Sadly however, I don't want another credit card. I won't try and sugarcoat this since I've already called and told you. I just feel like one card is enough. And I know, I know, I should be wanting another one because I'm young and reckless and every store is putting out their spring line, but Citibank- I have to stay strong. I feel we've gotten quite close with all the recent mail and phone calls but I'm asking you to now be a good friend and support my choice. Maybe try me again in a year. Perhaps then I will be in desperate need of a card that shows my love of the maple leaf. But not today Citbank, not today.
If you want though, you can still keep sending me the letter. Like I said, the mails been a bit slow and I like finding things addressed to me. Plus, all the exclamation marks boost my mood.
Sincerely,
brandy
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
100
I'm a big fan of conformity. In fact, I don't think there is enough in the world. Too many people are trying to be original and that's a shame. Conforming is comforting. I mean, show me a person who hasn't had a good time following their friends off a bridge and I will show you a liar. Thus, when I started noticing every freaking blogger has listed a 100 things about them I jumped on the bandwagon (and off the metaphoric bridge).
Conforming- it's just one more way to fit in.
1. I was born August 22nd, 1981- at night. I don't know the specific time and my mom can't remember. This bothers me immensely.
2. I think the juice box may be one of the world's greatest inventions
3. Buying stationary gives me a high.
4. My favorite fruit is oranges, I do not like strawberries.
5. I want to visit Rhode Island, Ireland, Prague and Madrid. I do not want to go to Las Vegas.
6. My grade school bus driver was English and loved to sing to Annie Lennox in the mornings.
7. My favourite 'kid friendly' joke involves pirates and movie ratings.
8. "Whoo ha!" (channeling Al Pacino) is my favourite thing to yell when I'm excited
9. I can play the 'Flintstones' theme song on the piano. With my eyes closed.
10. I'm much more productive in the summer, which further proves my theory that I am solar powered.
11. I think Janet Jackson is overrated. Joseph Arthur is underrated.
12. I have my blue swimming badge.
13. I believe that "I'm sorry" always sounds better than " I apologize"
14. I do not own a Jack Johnson cd.
15. I prefer Cat Stevens to Sheryl Crow, but I would not like to be named Cat.
16. I wear 2 toe rings.
17. i can do the robot
18. When I don't think I've explained myself as clearly as I could have, I bite my lip and shake my head.
19. Peonies are my favorite flower
20. I am excellent at roulette.
21. I'm excellent at talking without saying anything.
22. i do not like white food. Or bacon.
23. i like extremely violent weather.
24. i always fall asleep on road trips.
25. John Krasinski is today's top 5, 1-5. Always.
26. i like the smell of the light blue mr.sketch marker.
27. i do not know how to work fax machines
28. i played my recorder at my friends wedding. Because she asked me to and I'm cool like that.
29. I like crushed ice, not cubed.
30. When I substitute, teachers have confused me with a student and have reprimanded me in the hall for not being in class. Sometimes I tell them I'm teaching. When I'm tired I just nod.
31. "Baby It's Cold Outside" by Frank Sinatra is my favorite Christmas carol
32. I am very bad at: time management, hitting a baseball, keeping track of my keys and driving a standard.
33. I must always be singing while I drive.
34. My favorite mode of transportation is train.
35. Kirstin Dunst is my least favorite person on the planet for reasons I do not understand.
36. I like the name Jack.
37. American History was my favorite academic subject.
38. I once got 17% on a midterm and my professor wrote 'good improvement'. And he was serious. It was.
39. I once was walking and got hit by a car.
40. Pineapple juice is my favorite beverage derived from a fruit.
41. "The Office" is my favorite television show.
42. I once held a job that required me to wear an oxygen tank and full protective gear.
43. i do not believe at love at first sight.
44. Sometimes I take the bruised fruit at the grocery store because I don't think anyone else will.
45. I believe in karma
46. Zoos make me sad.
47. I get carsick.
48. i admire kids who don't listen, unless I am teaching them.
49. I like cats, against my better judgement.
50. I like green apples, I do not like red.
51. The previews are my favourite part of the movie theatre experience.
52. I believe that songs on the radio come on as direct signs to me
53. I've stolen karaoke books and tongue depressors. I have never shoplifted.
54. My principal once chased me all through the school after an argument. Does it make it worse when I say I was in grade 9?
55. When at the public library and I see a book I read and loved, I will pull it out on the shelf a little more so it stands out. Librarians must hate me.
56. I am an excellent public speaker
57. Water skiing scares the crap out of me.
58. March Madness is my favorite sporting event of the year.
59. I like the aisle seat.
60. My least productive time of day is morning.
61. I like leaving phone messages, but hate the sound of my voice.
62. Bottle Rocket is one of the greatest movies of all time. This is not opinion- this is fact.
63. I get mad when I think that I can't vote to chose the next President.
64. Blue freezies are the best.
65. My worst date involved a man who refused to stop at red lights.
66. I really like airplane magazines
67. I get a lot of parking tickets
68. My favorite color is yellow
69. 384 is my highest Scrabble score, my favourite Scrabble word to write is squirrel.
70. I get irrationally angry when I watch "City of Angels"
71. I do not know my license plate number.
72. I'm currently teaching myself French. I've mastered 'hello' and 'poutine'. I think I'm set.
73. I regularly think of who would be my "phone a friend" if I ever was on "Who wants to be a millionaire?"
74. I like grape pop, but can't remember the last time I had enough guts to buy it.
75. I do not find painting pottery relaxing.
76. I cheat at Solitaire.
77. I believe Alex Trebeck is one of the only people on the planet who looks better with a mustache.
78. I judge books by their cover.
79. There is something about Kevin Costner that forces me to stare at him.
80. I like watching sporting events only for the opportunity to yell loudly.
81. I broke my fingers playing basketball in grade 8 and my teacher didn't believe me and had me keep playing. It was only when I started crying I got to sit out.
82. I dislike haircutting services with lame names like 'hair4u!' or 'hair today, gone tomorrow!', or 'hairisma!'.
83. If people were parts of a magic trick, I would be the turn. And I'm happy about that.
84. I get scared when I think about JK Rowling ever dying before the last book gets released.
85. Ronald McDonald once picked me to be his special magician helper on stage.
86. I like lego. Still.
87. Escalators make me nervous
88. If I don't know what to say, I will say 'thank you'. Even if it doesn't make sense. Usually when it doesn't make sense.
89. My zodiac profile says I'm cunning.
90. I can't open my eyes under water.
91. I'm allergic to beer. This is my burden.
92. "Later" is my least favorite way of saying goodbye
93. I am excellent at putting electronics together
94. I do not like to eat eggs cooked by other people
95. When I doodle, I always draw people. And shoes. And jars.
96. I do not like to text in short form: I feel bad writing "ur" instead of "your" or "you're"
97. My toothbrush is orange.
98. I have been in love a few times but my heart has only been broken twice- and both times it was worth it.
99. i like roasting marshmallows, I do not like eating them.
100. George is my favourite Beatle, but I'm most like John.
Conforming- it's just one more way to fit in.
1. I was born August 22nd, 1981- at night. I don't know the specific time and my mom can't remember. This bothers me immensely.
2. I think the juice box may be one of the world's greatest inventions
3. Buying stationary gives me a high.
4. My favorite fruit is oranges, I do not like strawberries.
5. I want to visit Rhode Island, Ireland, Prague and Madrid. I do not want to go to Las Vegas.
6. My grade school bus driver was English and loved to sing to Annie Lennox in the mornings.
7. My favourite 'kid friendly' joke involves pirates and movie ratings.
8. "Whoo ha!" (channeling Al Pacino) is my favourite thing to yell when I'm excited
9. I can play the 'Flintstones' theme song on the piano. With my eyes closed.
10. I'm much more productive in the summer, which further proves my theory that I am solar powered.
11. I think Janet Jackson is overrated. Joseph Arthur is underrated.
12. I have my blue swimming badge.
13. I believe that "I'm sorry" always sounds better than " I apologize"
14. I do not own a Jack Johnson cd.
15. I prefer Cat Stevens to Sheryl Crow, but I would not like to be named Cat.
16. I wear 2 toe rings.
17. i can do the robot
18. When I don't think I've explained myself as clearly as I could have, I bite my lip and shake my head.
19. Peonies are my favorite flower
20. I am excellent at roulette.
21. I'm excellent at talking without saying anything.
22. i do not like white food. Or bacon.
23. i like extremely violent weather.
24. i always fall asleep on road trips.
25. John Krasinski is today's top 5, 1-5. Always.
26. i like the smell of the light blue mr.sketch marker.
27. i do not know how to work fax machines
28. i played my recorder at my friends wedding. Because she asked me to and I'm cool like that.
29. I like crushed ice, not cubed.
30. When I substitute, teachers have confused me with a student and have reprimanded me in the hall for not being in class. Sometimes I tell them I'm teaching. When I'm tired I just nod.
31. "Baby It's Cold Outside" by Frank Sinatra is my favorite Christmas carol
32. I am very bad at: time management, hitting a baseball, keeping track of my keys and driving a standard.
33. I must always be singing while I drive.
34. My favorite mode of transportation is train.
35. Kirstin Dunst is my least favorite person on the planet for reasons I do not understand.
36. I like the name Jack.
37. American History was my favorite academic subject.
38. I once got 17% on a midterm and my professor wrote 'good improvement'. And he was serious. It was.
39. I once was walking and got hit by a car.
40. Pineapple juice is my favorite beverage derived from a fruit.
41. "The Office" is my favorite television show.
42. I once held a job that required me to wear an oxygen tank and full protective gear.
43. i do not believe at love at first sight.
44. Sometimes I take the bruised fruit at the grocery store because I don't think anyone else will.
45. I believe in karma
46. Zoos make me sad.
47. I get carsick.
48. i admire kids who don't listen, unless I am teaching them.
49. I like cats, against my better judgement.
50. I like green apples, I do not like red.
51. The previews are my favourite part of the movie theatre experience.
52. I believe that songs on the radio come on as direct signs to me
53. I've stolen karaoke books and tongue depressors. I have never shoplifted.
54. My principal once chased me all through the school after an argument. Does it make it worse when I say I was in grade 9?
55. When at the public library and I see a book I read and loved, I will pull it out on the shelf a little more so it stands out. Librarians must hate me.
56. I am an excellent public speaker
57. Water skiing scares the crap out of me.
58. March Madness is my favorite sporting event of the year.
59. I like the aisle seat.
60. My least productive time of day is morning.
61. I like leaving phone messages, but hate the sound of my voice.
62. Bottle Rocket is one of the greatest movies of all time. This is not opinion- this is fact.
63. I get mad when I think that I can't vote to chose the next President.
64. Blue freezies are the best.
65. My worst date involved a man who refused to stop at red lights.
66. I really like airplane magazines
67. I get a lot of parking tickets
68. My favorite color is yellow
69. 384 is my highest Scrabble score, my favourite Scrabble word to write is squirrel.
70. I get irrationally angry when I watch "City of Angels"
71. I do not know my license plate number.
72. I'm currently teaching myself French. I've mastered 'hello' and 'poutine'. I think I'm set.
73. I regularly think of who would be my "phone a friend" if I ever was on "Who wants to be a millionaire?"
74. I like grape pop, but can't remember the last time I had enough guts to buy it.
75. I do not find painting pottery relaxing.
76. I cheat at Solitaire.
77. I believe Alex Trebeck is one of the only people on the planet who looks better with a mustache.
78. I judge books by their cover.
79. There is something about Kevin Costner that forces me to stare at him.
80. I like watching sporting events only for the opportunity to yell loudly.
81. I broke my fingers playing basketball in grade 8 and my teacher didn't believe me and had me keep playing. It was only when I started crying I got to sit out.
82. I dislike haircutting services with lame names like 'hair4u!' or 'hair today, gone tomorrow!', or 'hairisma!'.
83. If people were parts of a magic trick, I would be the turn. And I'm happy about that.
84. I get scared when I think about JK Rowling ever dying before the last book gets released.
85. Ronald McDonald once picked me to be his special magician helper on stage.
86. I like lego. Still.
87. Escalators make me nervous
88. If I don't know what to say, I will say 'thank you'. Even if it doesn't make sense. Usually when it doesn't make sense.
89. My zodiac profile says I'm cunning.
90. I can't open my eyes under water.
91. I'm allergic to beer. This is my burden.
92. "Later" is my least favorite way of saying goodbye
93. I am excellent at putting electronics together
94. I do not like to eat eggs cooked by other people
95. When I doodle, I always draw people. And shoes. And jars.
96. I do not like to text in short form: I feel bad writing "ur" instead of "your" or "you're"
97. My toothbrush is orange.
98. I have been in love a few times but my heart has only been broken twice- and both times it was worth it.
99. i like roasting marshmallows, I do not like eating them.
100. George is my favourite Beatle, but I'm most like John.
Monday, March 5, 2007
X + Y + Z = I'm a rock star
Confession: I have boots that I like more than some people. And before you judge me, let’s talk about the boots. They have a bit of an elevated sole, are coal black and are soft suede. They zip up to my knee and do everything you wish magic boots could do. I mean, Cinderella wishes she had shoes like this. When I wear them my legs look longer, I feel three feet taller and suddenly everything I say becomes witty, important and/or insanely insightful. In these boots I’m pretty sure I could keep my own with Stephen Hawking, they are just that great. I’m guaranteed a sigh of happiness every time I look down. They look perfect with skirts, dresses or jeans and I’m pretty sure they would even complement a wedding dress. In short, they are perfect. They are the George Clooney of my shoe collection.
I’m wearing them today, thus- boots are: X
Confession: For me, good hair days are better than Prozac. I’m not talking about the manageable good hair day, or the one that becomes good after 10 minutes of straightening/curling/pleading/blowdrying/concocting a recipe of gel,mouse and/or hairspray- I’m talking about the good hair that just starts out awesome. The one where you wake up and you think, ‘what the hell?! Is this really my hair? God does love me!” sort of hair day that prompts you to run all your errands you put off just so you can hopefully run into people. The sort of hair day I imagine Reese Witherspoon wakes up everyday having and that Britney won’t ever again. This hair day happened to me today. It’s shiny, with volume and it just feels longer today (and having it feel long is an important part of it looking great). I suspect it’s not likely to happen again before 2012 so I’m considering going to get head shots taken at Sears.
Anyway, fantastic hair day is: Y
Confession: “Irreplaceable” is on my ipod and I love it. (This is where the word ‘confession’ actually becomes relevant). I’m pretty sure when I sing along I sound even better than Beyonce and that I become the first person on the face of the Earth who actually looks cool singing with their eyes closed. Seriously. I don’t know what it is about that song but I could listen to it all the time.
Feeling like I could win a Grammy with todays sing-a-long: Z
Today I found myself coming out of the photocopy room at work wearing my boots with the shiny hair when the Z song came on my ipod. I didn’t walk down the hall way- I strutted through the gaggles of college girls and boys, like a rock star without the drug addiction or entourage. I assume the students who stared were looking at my great hair, although in hindsight maybe it was because I was singing out loud.
Spring may not be outside, but today it’s in my step.
I’m wearing them today, thus- boots are: X
Confession: For me, good hair days are better than Prozac. I’m not talking about the manageable good hair day, or the one that becomes good after 10 minutes of straightening/curling/pleading/blowdrying/concocting a recipe of gel,mouse and/or hairspray- I’m talking about the good hair that just starts out awesome. The one where you wake up and you think, ‘what the hell?! Is this really my hair? God does love me!” sort of hair day that prompts you to run all your errands you put off just so you can hopefully run into people. The sort of hair day I imagine Reese Witherspoon wakes up everyday having and that Britney won’t ever again. This hair day happened to me today. It’s shiny, with volume and it just feels longer today (and having it feel long is an important part of it looking great). I suspect it’s not likely to happen again before 2012 so I’m considering going to get head shots taken at Sears.
Anyway, fantastic hair day is: Y
Confession: “Irreplaceable” is on my ipod and I love it. (This is where the word ‘confession’ actually becomes relevant). I’m pretty sure when I sing along I sound even better than Beyonce and that I become the first person on the face of the Earth who actually looks cool singing with their eyes closed. Seriously. I don’t know what it is about that song but I could listen to it all the time.
Feeling like I could win a Grammy with todays sing-a-long: Z
Today I found myself coming out of the photocopy room at work wearing my boots with the shiny hair when the Z song came on my ipod. I didn’t walk down the hall way- I strutted through the gaggles of college girls and boys, like a rock star without the drug addiction or entourage. I assume the students who stared were looking at my great hair, although in hindsight maybe it was because I was singing out loud.
Spring may not be outside, but today it’s in my step.
Answers
Drumroll for the answers...
1. I got a real pony named Simon for my 5th birthday. When my parents sold him, they told me he ran away. I believed this story until my cousin accidentally told me the truth when I was 18.
TRUE: I know. Totally awesome. Sometimes I get sad thinking that the greatest moment of my life happened when I was 5 years old, but I keep dropping hints that I want another pony for my 30th birthday. I'll keep you all posted if I get it. Oh, and the reason why my parents sold Simon- he jumped the fence when I was on him and was deemed 'unsafe'. And yes, I was irrationally angry when I found out that he didn't run away. You have no idea the kind of guilt that a girl feels when her pony "runs away".
2. I once broke my foot break dancing at a wedding. And because I didn't get fitted with the right cast, the side of my foot is curved, a bit like a banana.
TRUE: Although I have no idea how to dance, two years ago at a wedding I was pretty sure I would be a pro at "the worm". Witnesses say the first thing that hit the ground was my face. I kept dancing despite the pain in my leg, and only sat down when a friend kicked me in the head accidentally while attempting a new dance move. Two days later, I found out I broke my foot in three spots. I had my teaching practicum and because it was my driving foot I spent the next 2 1/2 months riding the LRT to the closest stop and then hobbling in the deep snow to the school, where an awful child would step on it every time he got mad at me. And because it didn't heal right, I should get it re broken and set. But I'm a chicken. Maybe if I got a new pony I would be brave enough?
3. I own 63 pairs of shoes and they are color coded.
LIE: Although I love shoes, the housefire incident of 2005 flatlined my entire shoe collection. I have no idea how many pairs I have, but I know I don't have 63. And Beth, seriously... you have them on your PC? That's genius!
4. I backpacked Europe with a serious case of mono and a backpack that weighed more than half of what I did.
TRUE: I found out I had "severe mono" after I had bought my plane ticket. I went anyway and had the time of my life. We landed in Frankfurt and I spent an entire ten hour layover in a mono-induced coma, with my good friend and travel partner watching my things. It got easier as the trip went on but the first few days were rocky. I came back with a lighter backpack- I left sweaters, t-shirts and socks all over Europe... more room for fanta!
5. I once stumbled across a working girl giving a blow job to a guy in a park. I didn't see what they were doing but introduced myself and extended my hand before I realized. She wiped her mouth, shook my hand and then because I didn't want to be rude, shook the guys hand too.
TRUE: There's really not anything else I can say...
Congratulations 'accidentally me'. I will be thinking of giving you a new car for the rest of the day. You deserve it!
1. I got a real pony named Simon for my 5th birthday. When my parents sold him, they told me he ran away. I believed this story until my cousin accidentally told me the truth when I was 18.
TRUE: I know. Totally awesome. Sometimes I get sad thinking that the greatest moment of my life happened when I was 5 years old, but I keep dropping hints that I want another pony for my 30th birthday. I'll keep you all posted if I get it. Oh, and the reason why my parents sold Simon- he jumped the fence when I was on him and was deemed 'unsafe'. And yes, I was irrationally angry when I found out that he didn't run away. You have no idea the kind of guilt that a girl feels when her pony "runs away".
2. I once broke my foot break dancing at a wedding. And because I didn't get fitted with the right cast, the side of my foot is curved, a bit like a banana.
TRUE: Although I have no idea how to dance, two years ago at a wedding I was pretty sure I would be a pro at "the worm". Witnesses say the first thing that hit the ground was my face. I kept dancing despite the pain in my leg, and only sat down when a friend kicked me in the head accidentally while attempting a new dance move. Two days later, I found out I broke my foot in three spots. I had my teaching practicum and because it was my driving foot I spent the next 2 1/2 months riding the LRT to the closest stop and then hobbling in the deep snow to the school, where an awful child would step on it every time he got mad at me. And because it didn't heal right, I should get it re broken and set. But I'm a chicken. Maybe if I got a new pony I would be brave enough?
3. I own 63 pairs of shoes and they are color coded.
LIE: Although I love shoes, the housefire incident of 2005 flatlined my entire shoe collection. I have no idea how many pairs I have, but I know I don't have 63. And Beth, seriously... you have them on your PC? That's genius!
4. I backpacked Europe with a serious case of mono and a backpack that weighed more than half of what I did.
TRUE: I found out I had "severe mono" after I had bought my plane ticket. I went anyway and had the time of my life. We landed in Frankfurt and I spent an entire ten hour layover in a mono-induced coma, with my good friend and travel partner watching my things. It got easier as the trip went on but the first few days were rocky. I came back with a lighter backpack- I left sweaters, t-shirts and socks all over Europe... more room for fanta!
5. I once stumbled across a working girl giving a blow job to a guy in a park. I didn't see what they were doing but introduced myself and extended my hand before I realized. She wiped her mouth, shook my hand and then because I didn't want to be rude, shook the guys hand too.
TRUE: There's really not anything else I can say...
Congratulations 'accidentally me'. I will be thinking of giving you a new car for the rest of the day. You deserve it!
Friday, March 2, 2007
5 On Friday
Okay my apologizes if I don't give you credit, but I've seen this everywhere and after scouring to find where, I can't. So if I got this idea from you, let me know. I will send you a candy gram and give you credit. (Okay, probably no candy gram but I will think about giving you one and isn't it the thought that counts?)
Anyway, I realize that my posts have been a bit.... serious lately and felt that it's Friday and I'm fun so I should write something fun but will still educate you about the inner workings of my mind. I've posted below 4 truths and 1 lie. Speculate, reflect and use all your mind juices to figure out which is which. The winner will get a new car, or more likely, the winner will get the thought of me giving them a new car which, is almost as good. Because seriously, a new car would be a pain to unwrap.
1. I got a real pony named Simon for my 5th birthday. When my parents sold him, they told me he ran away. I believed this story until my cousin accidentally told me the truth when I was 18.
2. I once broke my foot break dancing at a wedding. And because I didn't get fitted with the right cast, the side of my foot is curved, a bit like a banana.
3. I own 63 pairs of shoes and they are color coded.
4. I backpacked Europe with a serious case of mono and a backpack that weighed more than half of what I did.
5. I once stumbled across a working girl giving a blow job to a guy in a park. I didn't see what they were doing but introduced myself and extended my hand before I realized. She wiped her mouth, shook my hand and then because I didn't want to be rude, shook the guys hand too.
Anyway, I realize that my posts have been a bit.... serious lately and felt that it's Friday and I'm fun so I should write something fun but will still educate you about the inner workings of my mind. I've posted below 4 truths and 1 lie. Speculate, reflect and use all your mind juices to figure out which is which. The winner will get a new car, or more likely, the winner will get the thought of me giving them a new car which, is almost as good. Because seriously, a new car would be a pain to unwrap.
1. I got a real pony named Simon for my 5th birthday. When my parents sold him, they told me he ran away. I believed this story until my cousin accidentally told me the truth when I was 18.
2. I once broke my foot break dancing at a wedding. And because I didn't get fitted with the right cast, the side of my foot is curved, a bit like a banana.
3. I own 63 pairs of shoes and they are color coded.
4. I backpacked Europe with a serious case of mono and a backpack that weighed more than half of what I did.
5. I once stumbled across a working girl giving a blow job to a guy in a park. I didn't see what they were doing but introduced myself and extended my hand before I realized. She wiped her mouth, shook my hand and then because I didn't want to be rude, shook the guys hand too.
#1: Dr. K
When I first read this, I got really excited. What a great idea. (I suspect this person has a lot of them- great ideas that is). Anyway, I liked the idea of writing about women who shaped my life and eagerly volunteered to do the same. Throughout the month of March, I will write six posts. This is the first.
I suppose I could have started this assignment with an easier person, a person who’s more friendly, more caring, a little less like Simon Cowell- but I can’t. It has to be Dr. K. Perhaps because she is gone. Perhaps because I’m surrounded by her everyday.
She had wild red hair and tiny hands that were always slicing the air or reaching for ideas that I had never thought of before. She believed in God, Samuel Beckett and Mary Kay cosmetics. Her last three fingers on her left hand wouldn’t bend. I only noticed this last fall while she typed- they stubbornly refused to move while she helped whip up a program proposal that I would later submit and run. It really is the weird things you remember when someone is gone.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In the fall of 2000, I took a theatre course as an elective. I had never taken theatre and I was pretty sure I would hate it. I didn’t. I loved it and found myself taking every class I could. I was annoyed with Arthur Miller and couldn’t understand the hoopla over Oedipus Rex. Miss Julie made me weep, The Importance of Earnest made me laugh. Suddenly everything Shakespeare made sense. Suddenly, my life made more sense.
It would have been easier to win a Tony than get Dr. K to burst out into laughter, but when you did, you felt like you accomplished something more than what an award would have brought you. She was the steady force in my life when everything else seemed easily swayed. She never demanded more than what you could give, but she demanded what you give be everything you could. Her disappointment would come through with a glance, and you would know to try harder, work later, give more. She once watched a rehearsal for a play I had written and I remember thinking it would be a success when I heard her giggling in the back of the room.
I remember once waiting for class to start and a friend sharing a long winded quote. As soon as she was finished I said “oh, I like that”, because that seemed like the right response after hearing a long quote by a dead poet. Dr. K looked at me and said “But it doesn’t make sense. What does it mean?”. And the thing is… I didn’t know. I didn’t think to question it, or even consider it might be senseless. I’m still ashamed when I think of how readily I would attach myself to ideas or assign feelings I didn’t feel only because I thought I should. With two sentences said in one breath, Dr. K got me to realize how important it was that I think for myself.
She had a group of us that she held close to her. The ones she selected from her classes, based on criteria I will never fully establish. We worked early on weekends, late on weeknights and became the kind of friends who think nothing of sitting in a back room in striped tights and full silver makeup at 1am waiting for a particular scene to hit the stage. I look at our group now and every single one of us is still tied to theatre in some way. I believe this is because of her.
After I graduated, we drifted apart and it was only this last fall I saw her again through a random meeting in the bookstore. I told her I wanted to do theatre again, and although looking tired and worn, she invited me to her office so we could talk. A few days of meetings and hours of exhausted research later, her papery hands passed me a completed conservatory program proposal. I said thank you, hugged her and walked out of her office.
I never saw her again.
She called of course, but I was always too busy, making plans, seeing friends, getting the program set up. I was young! I was busy! I listened to a message asking me if I could come in and sub her old class, and I listened to her machine as I left a message saying I couldn’t because I was already working.
I should have known something was wrong.
Weeks went bye. I heard she left the college. Stress leave. Due to bizarre circumstances, the college asked me to step in and finish up her classes for the term. I would now take over the rest of the semester for the professor I loved. She left shoes so big, I could have done cartwheels in them. I called her to ask for advice on how to teach students the same age as me. She was packing. She was leaving the next day. Moving across the country for a fresh start, such would be the only option for a woman like Dr. K. She didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone, I was told not to tell anyone she was leaving and she made me promise on the phone over my love for Oscar Wilde. I did. She told me she would call me when she settled, I pretended I believed her.
I’m in her office now. I find that I still think of it as hers, though my name is on the door. Her rushed departure left souvenirs of her life everywhere. Cleaning out the desk I found her Mary Kay lipsticks and date books from 1997 filled with her spidery handwriting and white bottles of gardenia hand lotion (I could never place the scent). I found a sheet of paper that has all of our names on it, the kids she took under her wing for those few years. There is nothing else, just our names and a question mark at the top. I like to think she wondered about us as often as we wondered about her. I found an old Oscar Wilde poster behind her desk that I labored over for a big assignment. It’s seven years old, tattered and is bearing my bubbly name in the corner. I’ve tacked it up on the wall and when people come in asking why it’s there I’m at a loss for words. I haven’t figured out a way to explain that it’s a reminder.
Not of the professor I want to be, but for the one I was glad to have.
I suppose I could have started this assignment with an easier person, a person who’s more friendly, more caring, a little less like Simon Cowell- but I can’t. It has to be Dr. K. Perhaps because she is gone. Perhaps because I’m surrounded by her everyday.
She had wild red hair and tiny hands that were always slicing the air or reaching for ideas that I had never thought of before. She believed in God, Samuel Beckett and Mary Kay cosmetics. Her last three fingers on her left hand wouldn’t bend. I only noticed this last fall while she typed- they stubbornly refused to move while she helped whip up a program proposal that I would later submit and run. It really is the weird things you remember when someone is gone.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In the fall of 2000, I took a theatre course as an elective. I had never taken theatre and I was pretty sure I would hate it. I didn’t. I loved it and found myself taking every class I could. I was annoyed with Arthur Miller and couldn’t understand the hoopla over Oedipus Rex. Miss Julie made me weep, The Importance of Earnest made me laugh. Suddenly everything Shakespeare made sense. Suddenly, my life made more sense.
It would have been easier to win a Tony than get Dr. K to burst out into laughter, but when you did, you felt like you accomplished something more than what an award would have brought you. She was the steady force in my life when everything else seemed easily swayed. She never demanded more than what you could give, but she demanded what you give be everything you could. Her disappointment would come through with a glance, and you would know to try harder, work later, give more. She once watched a rehearsal for a play I had written and I remember thinking it would be a success when I heard her giggling in the back of the room.
I remember once waiting for class to start and a friend sharing a long winded quote. As soon as she was finished I said “oh, I like that”, because that seemed like the right response after hearing a long quote by a dead poet. Dr. K looked at me and said “But it doesn’t make sense. What does it mean?”. And the thing is… I didn’t know. I didn’t think to question it, or even consider it might be senseless. I’m still ashamed when I think of how readily I would attach myself to ideas or assign feelings I didn’t feel only because I thought I should. With two sentences said in one breath, Dr. K got me to realize how important it was that I think for myself.
She had a group of us that she held close to her. The ones she selected from her classes, based on criteria I will never fully establish. We worked early on weekends, late on weeknights and became the kind of friends who think nothing of sitting in a back room in striped tights and full silver makeup at 1am waiting for a particular scene to hit the stage. I look at our group now and every single one of us is still tied to theatre in some way. I believe this is because of her.
After I graduated, we drifted apart and it was only this last fall I saw her again through a random meeting in the bookstore. I told her I wanted to do theatre again, and although looking tired and worn, she invited me to her office so we could talk. A few days of meetings and hours of exhausted research later, her papery hands passed me a completed conservatory program proposal. I said thank you, hugged her and walked out of her office.
I never saw her again.
She called of course, but I was always too busy, making plans, seeing friends, getting the program set up. I was young! I was busy! I listened to a message asking me if I could come in and sub her old class, and I listened to her machine as I left a message saying I couldn’t because I was already working.
I should have known something was wrong.
Weeks went bye. I heard she left the college. Stress leave. Due to bizarre circumstances, the college asked me to step in and finish up her classes for the term. I would now take over the rest of the semester for the professor I loved. She left shoes so big, I could have done cartwheels in them. I called her to ask for advice on how to teach students the same age as me. She was packing. She was leaving the next day. Moving across the country for a fresh start, such would be the only option for a woman like Dr. K. She didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone, I was told not to tell anyone she was leaving and she made me promise on the phone over my love for Oscar Wilde. I did. She told me she would call me when she settled, I pretended I believed her.
I’m in her office now. I find that I still think of it as hers, though my name is on the door. Her rushed departure left souvenirs of her life everywhere. Cleaning out the desk I found her Mary Kay lipsticks and date books from 1997 filled with her spidery handwriting and white bottles of gardenia hand lotion (I could never place the scent). I found a sheet of paper that has all of our names on it, the kids she took under her wing for those few years. There is nothing else, just our names and a question mark at the top. I like to think she wondered about us as often as we wondered about her. I found an old Oscar Wilde poster behind her desk that I labored over for a big assignment. It’s seven years old, tattered and is bearing my bubbly name in the corner. I’ve tacked it up on the wall and when people come in asking why it’s there I’m at a loss for words. I haven’t figured out a way to explain that it’s a reminder.
Not of the professor I want to be, but for the one I was glad to have.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Talk less, say more
My cranium is crammed full and heavy with the things I do not say. This is a reoccurring issue for me, and one that I suspect a therapist would get wealthy trying to understand. (I'm talking like wallpapering the master bedroom in Benjamin Franklins wealthy.) I suspect if my lovely brain was wrung out by gloved hands, a billion silvery thoughts would escape down the drain- with a majority of those thoughts being things I wish would have said, but never did.
And it's one of those quirks that gets more annoying as I get older.
To some people in my life, I say everything that I don't need to say and nothing that I do. I talk all the time unless I should say something and then I become a clueless mute with an intense interest in pocket lint. I spill my feelings about El Nino and Britney Spears and suit coats with side vents but to a few select people in my life, saying something that's important, that's necessary has never been something I could do.
And I hate that.
The funny part is, the things I want to say are good. I have no boiling rage, no intense regrets, no scary admissions. Really. I'm full of nice things to say, I just don't say them. I have insightful compliments and thoughtful condolences, encouraging observations and a few lovely secrets that I know would make people burst with happiness. I know this. And knowing I could say these things and make people feel good is what makes them necessary to say. But yet, I say nothing.
And I don't know why.
Maybe because saying nice things is more work than joking around. Or maybe it's because I've said the nice things and it didn't work out. Or maybe I talk without saying anything because it's less scary. One must always go through the scenario that after saying all your nice things you will be rewarded with the painful sound of crickets.
And really, who wants to risk that?
I suppose this is why they invented Hallmark.
And it's one of those quirks that gets more annoying as I get older.
To some people in my life, I say everything that I don't need to say and nothing that I do. I talk all the time unless I should say something and then I become a clueless mute with an intense interest in pocket lint. I spill my feelings about El Nino and Britney Spears and suit coats with side vents but to a few select people in my life, saying something that's important, that's necessary has never been something I could do.
And I hate that.
The funny part is, the things I want to say are good. I have no boiling rage, no intense regrets, no scary admissions. Really. I'm full of nice things to say, I just don't say them. I have insightful compliments and thoughtful condolences, encouraging observations and a few lovely secrets that I know would make people burst with happiness. I know this. And knowing I could say these things and make people feel good is what makes them necessary to say. But yet, I say nothing.
And I don't know why.
Maybe because saying nice things is more work than joking around. Or maybe it's because I've said the nice things and it didn't work out. Or maybe I talk without saying anything because it's less scary. One must always go through the scenario that after saying all your nice things you will be rewarded with the painful sound of crickets.
And really, who wants to risk that?
I suppose this is why they invented Hallmark.
Under My Skin
There are those who you love. Those who love you. The lucky few who fall firmly into both groups. And then there are those people, the rare- and heartbreakingly lovely people who seem to find a way to seep under your skin and take up residence somewhere close to your heart. Like a memory you won’t forget and can’t convince yourself you should, these people have a lure that makes them impossible to say goodbye to- even when you’ve tried.
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me cats aren't all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be.
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me cats aren't all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be.
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