20/20 Talk

What I wish I would have known 5 years ago, at age 20

- Dude, your house is going to burn down. So when you go away for that one weekend to visit your brother, take your journals with you.

- You know how you pride yourself on holding on to grudges? You shouldn't. Because you aren't holding on to the grudge anymore, it's holding on to you, like a shackle. And every year you continue being angry, sweet girl, it just gets harder to remember why you are so angry in the first place. So back down, grow up and move on.

- Sunscreen. Wear it.

- You will meet a boy and he will be everything you didn't realize you wanted. But, you will break up. You'll contemplate a breakdown on the side of the highway and then much later, it will be the cause of a breakthrough. You will realize that sometimes, what someone will do to you- will have nothing to do with you. That their mistake doesn't have to be your fault.

- If a guy tells you he's a jerk, he's a jerk. If he tells you he's interested, he's interested. If he tells you he has a girlfriend but that he loves you, - run.

- Getting your degree with be the easy part. It's what you do AFTER you have it, that's challenging.

- You are smarter than you think you are.

What I wish I would have known 10 years ago, at age 15

- You know that girl in your highschool that you think is perfect? The one who always wears the Calvin Klein jeans and looks like she's just walked out of a toothpaste ad with her ever smiling grin? Yeah, she doesn't know what the hell she's doing with her life either.

- Don't worry. You will fall in love. I promise.

- Boys have feelings actually. And treating them poorly is bad form, and your mom raised you better than that. Plus, karma is going kick your ass in a few years with a string of bad dates and boys who think the word "tits" is a completely respectable term to throw out upon meeting. Be nice.

- Being rebellious doesn't make someone more interesting. Don't feel bad for not sneaking out and driving around town sipping strawberry wine with girls who have secret tattoos and hate their parents.

- Step away from the hairspray. Your bangs are now officially a fire hazard.

- He's not being mean to you, he's flirting with you. Flirt back.

- You are prettier than what you think you are.

What I wish I would have known 20 years ago, at age 5

-Listen sweetheart, you're mom has something called a 'hobo' purse. In fact, because your mom is a shopaholic she has a ton of them. And they are just going out of fashion so she's going to donate them to Goodwill. DO NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. One day in your future, those bags will become insanely popular again and you and your mom will reminisce over them. Save the bags!

- That's it. You are pretty much perfect.

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.

#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.

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.

#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.

#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.

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.

The one where I get sick for an audience

First of all, let me preface by saying that I love that I'm writing this post directly after writing one about being 'an adult'. It would appear, that my membership to the youth club is still very active....

Friday night a good friend was in town and it seemed vital to celebrate and catch up over drinks. I went out glossed and sparkling, a blur of high boots, the perfect jeans and a red leather clutch. I smelled fantastic and felt that every single eyelash was magnified. (And for the record it was, new mascara makes my heart skip a beat).

A group of us met for drinks and while commenting on how adult I felt sitting at a bar, holding my clutch drinking a martini, I almost spill the sugary concoction all over myself.

This should have been a warning.

Five martinis later we moved on to yet another watering hole. More laughter, political discussion and marvelling at the 'adultness' of having just been invited to a trunk show (hooray!) I was in good spirits.

I was smart. I was beautiful. I was drunk.

Then someone re-introduced me to my old friend tequila and the night starts to get hazy. Suddenly I'm really hot and there isn't enough air. Suddenly I'm having deep talks about the future, feeling hot tears (yes, I'm that girl) and stuttering. Suddenly I'm home. And suddenly, I miss my bed by two feet and with a loud thud make a bed on the floor.

I wake up raccoon eyed and confused. My mouth tastes like I licked a dirty kitchen floor. I lay on the cool ground and close my eyes as the tequila shivers begin. I thank God for a nearby water bottle and then nuzzle into the floor anxiously awaiting the escape that sleep will bring. Then I remember I have to work.

With children. In an hour.

I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually felt tears in my eyes. I washed my face, throw my hair in a ponytail (brushing it hurt) and change into the first things I can reach in my closet. I get sick, brush my teeth and then attempt to wash off the club admission stamp of last night. Evidence of my evening isn't something I want to display to the kids, or more accurately- to myself. It takes an impressive amount of scrubbing and I find myself actually mumbling 'out damned spot'. It's then I realize that it's a bad sign when you actually find yourself identifying with a murderer.

I drive to work stopping outside the local KFC to get sick on the side of the road. At first I consider just laying in the ditch for a few minutes to clear my head but then notice all the cars slowly down to watch me. Because apparently, in my town projectile vomit is worth a second look.

I guess sometimes you need to watch the train wreck jut to feel good you aren't apart of it.

Truth in the Lies I tell myself

I always thought I was a good cook. Then I came home yesterday and attempted to make soup. I burnt it and then (in a blinding moment of clarity), thought I could still salvage some by adding water (Note: This was not me being a 'thrifty' cook, this was me being a 'too lazy to start again/ let's be adventurous' cook). That didn't work. I ended up eating a piece of gluten free toast and peanut butter on the kitchen floor feeling sorry for myself.

I've decided that cooking is like speaking french, if you don't practice it you lose it and suddenly you find yourself angry that you told a lie to yourself that you still believed. And you can't decide if you're more annoyed that you kept telling yourself something that wasn't true, or that you so readily believed it.

I decided to make a list of the lies I tell myself and the truth (if any) that is hidden in them. This is what I found...

Lie #1: I am a great cook
Truth: I'm good when I have all the ingredients, a glossy cookbook (with lots of pictures), multiple pans (for when I burn the first batch), an entire afternoon, the right apron and some inspiration (the food network does the trick). Meaning, I'm a great cook, once a year... always a on whim.

Lie #2: The worst pain I ever felt was a broken heart
Truth: The worst pain I ever felt was pulling all my neck muscles in grade 9 and having to wait a day before getting a brace. Broken hearts hurt when I think, pulled neck muscles hurt when I breathe. I can go without thinking.

Lie #3: I'm a great driver
Truth: This is sort of true. I'm great in the "I drive so slow even if I hit a grandmother she would be able to brush off the snow and shuffle away), but in terms of... "being aware" on the road, I suck. This is how I killed a duck and how big red became accessorized with all her scratches and dents.

Lie #4: I know a lot about Canadian politics
Truth: I just barely pass the 'citizenship test' that new immigrants into Canada have to take. I know this because I attempted to take it last night. The three branches of Canadian government? I could only name two. (The House of Commons and the Senate) The third? The Queen. But seriously, when's the last time she was mentioned without the name Helen Mirren attached?

Lie #5: I don't like cats
Truth: Liking cats and being single always seemed like the beginning of a joke that involved a punchline I wouldn't like. The truth is, I like cats. I like cats that like me. Of course I don't like cats as much as dogs, but I do like cats more than I like bunnies or goldfish, and that's saying something.

Lie #6: I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
Truth: I believe absence makes the heart grow irritable, exhausted and (at times) cynical.

Lie #7: I have no regrets
Truth: I have huge, Grand Canyon regrets. Enough to fill a 10 story library with tattered journals, or displace all the water in the ocean or cover the rings of Saturn. I have regrets.

Lie #8: I remember.
Truth: I can't forget.

Lie #9: I find Ryan Seacrest unattractive
Truth: I'm not sure why, but admitting that I find him hugely appealing seems as wrong as saying you have a crush on your cousin. But there's something about the way he hugs all the contestants, manages to keep a straight face when they are truly horrible singers and the way he wears his jeans just right that makes me think I might love him. Or at least, given the opportunity, be best friends with him.

Lie #10: I'm a great dancer
Truth: Okay, that one is the truth. I am a great dancer.

Bush League

Life Lesson #139: It's probably not the best idea to alienate yourself at work because you strongly disagree with a lot of George W. Bush's policies and all the narrow-minded people you work with who like him only because their parents live in Phoenix. (I know. It doen't make sense) Stony silences and dirty looks due to arguing over a president who rules a country you don't live in is never the path to upper management.

"What the hell!" moment #293

Outside looks like a shaken snow-globe, with big fat flakes falling everywhere. It's the kind of weather that promotes high hot chocolate consumption, all day cuddling and the abandonment of high heels for boots with tire like treads. I had the urge to hibernate but I needed a fix that could only be remedied by a trip to the local video store.

After paying for more Jack Bauer time, I stood inside beside a wall of Will Ferrell disappointments and looked for my keys. I searched for my remote car starter on my keychain and couldn't find it. Had my remote car starter fallen off? I then searched my pockets, my bag and still it was no where to be found. There was a panic that crept up my throat as I watched the other customers leave and smugly push a button to pre-heat their vehicles already encased with icy snow. With each person leaving I felt the gust of wind enter the store leaving me cold right down to my toes despite my layers of fleece. My worry increased and my search became more frantic. I dug through old receipts and bubble gum, phone numbers and leaking pens. I came up empty handed. I had lost my car starter.

Then I realized, I don't have a remote car starter.

Painful life lesson #293: Thinking that you should have something doesn't mean that you actually have it.