My Saturday night started off very well. A good friend was in town, and to celebrate we popped open wine, marvelled at my shoes (pictures. soon. promise.) and discussed everything from The Hills, to Don Imus with equal passion. We laughed, we drank and I went out smelling of vanilla, glossed with my lipglass and doused in the "look at me, I'm bloody fantastic!" confidence that comes with a 4 drink minimum or a really good hair day.
We went to a lounge where the music was loud and the people were polished. There were camera shots and tequila shots. There were hugs to old friends and numbers exchanged to new ones. It started out being one of those nights where you hope you see everyone you ever knew because they would see you at your best- laughing, happy, surrounded by friends and wearing killer footwear.
An unfortunate circumstance found me having to state my relationship status repeatedly (or lack of relationship status to be more accurate). At first it was fine, I can throw in a joke about it, can say all the reasons I'm glad I'm not currently coupled like an animal on Noah's ark (the commitment! the chance of drama! the fact I would have to shave my legs on a regular basis!), but it didn't stop. I had to keep saying it over, and over and over again.
I'm single.
And the kicker? I'm not casually dating, not currently on the fence about a particular guy, not even secretly lusting after someone.
I'm just... single.
It was in that moment that I noticed everyone who wasn't single. I noticed the couples suctioned to each other- sweaty from dancing with hands interlaced. The ones smiling at the dancers antics knowing they would go home together and have something to talk about. The ones whispering secrets and stories no one else would ever hear.
Suddenly, I felt something that stirred my insides and left me shaken. A feeling that crept slowly up my throat and left a bad taste in my mouth. Suddenly, I felt being single wasn't fun.
There's the idea that singleness equals carefree road trips with red toes out the window. Of random sexual escapades that would make even Samantha blush. Of spur of the moment splurges, weeknight parties, drawers filled only with expensive knickers and complex nightgowns with strings and bows.
And sometimes being single is like that. It's lovely, and exciting and causes you to skip into your office or strut in the coffee shop. You feel independent and lovely and find yourself going on trips or applying for jobs you would have to think twice about if coupled.
And sometimes being single isn't like that. It's heartbreaking and lonely and causes watery eyes when you realize that when you wake from a bad dream, there's no one to tell. And you find yourself on a Saturday night wearing your best shoes, surrounded by too many people, feeling far too alone.
Showing posts with label confession of the day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confession of the day. Show all posts
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Holy Site Meter!
In the early 90's my mom's mantra was "Learn about those computer things! They are the future! By the time you are in college everything will be on computers, we will all wear tinfoil jumpsuits and you will have a flying car, isn't that exciting?!".
Sadly, I didn't learn about computers. I decided that my high school elective should be cosmetology, because spending 80 minutes three times a week fully mastering the art of washing hair made much more sense. I'm happy to tell you I can now rinse shampoo with the best of them, and if finger waves ever come back in style, I can totally hook you up.
Computers however, baffle me.
I'm a devout follower of "if you want it bad enough it should just magically happen", which is why the last time my computer started acting weird, I assumed I would be able to fix it. Because I wanted to. I spent a day pushing keyboard buttons I forgot I had in alternating combinations, ALT & CTRL & F6, ESC & SHIFT F9, & QWERTY- just because it's fun to type. I ended up deleting my entire hard drive.
Despite my lack of computer skills, I started a blog. I figured it was not really about computers but more about ideas, and I do have those. In abundance. And for the most part, the posting of all my ideas hasn't been that difficult. Minus the fact that I have no idea how to post pictures and it took me a good two weeks to figure out how to link anything because I was too mortified to ask anyone. Oh, and that little trick you all do where you write in the strike through font... yeah, that causes mini explosions in my brain from extremely painful thought.
But complaining about what I don't know isn't what this is about. It's about sharing what I DO KNOW. *And sweet goodness, I just discovered site meters!Half a year into blogging, and I now see that there's a way to keep track of who is reading what I write. And I have to say, it's bloody fantastic! Whoever thought of site meters should get some sort of genius award. Like, a life size statue of chocolate. Or all of your money. People in New Zealand and Chicago, Atlanta and London... are all reading.. this? That's so crazy. I mean, I knew obviously, that the people who commented weren't all my neighbours, but seeing it on a map how far away some of you are, well, it made me think that I should attempt to write something interesting sometime soon.
Give me six more months and perhaps there might even be pictures!
*I'm saving this sentence into my memory bank as proof of my nerdiness next time I start to think I'm more diva than **dork.
** I secretly like being a dork. It's less pressure.
Sadly, I didn't learn about computers. I decided that my high school elective should be cosmetology, because spending 80 minutes three times a week fully mastering the art of washing hair made much more sense. I'm happy to tell you I can now rinse shampoo with the best of them, and if finger waves ever come back in style, I can totally hook you up.
Computers however, baffle me.
I'm a devout follower of "if you want it bad enough it should just magically happen", which is why the last time my computer started acting weird, I assumed I would be able to fix it. Because I wanted to. I spent a day pushing keyboard buttons I forgot I had in alternating combinations, ALT & CTRL & F6, ESC & SHIFT F9, & QWERTY- just because it's fun to type. I ended up deleting my entire hard drive.
Despite my lack of computer skills, I started a blog. I figured it was not really about computers but more about ideas, and I do have those. In abundance. And for the most part, the posting of all my ideas hasn't been that difficult. Minus the fact that I have no idea how to post pictures and it took me a good two weeks to figure out how to link anything because I was too mortified to ask anyone. Oh, and that little trick you all do where you write in the strike through font... yeah, that causes mini explosions in my brain from extremely painful thought.
But complaining about what I don't know isn't what this is about. It's about sharing what I DO KNOW. *And sweet goodness, I just discovered site meters!Half a year into blogging, and I now see that there's a way to keep track of who is reading what I write. And I have to say, it's bloody fantastic! Whoever thought of site meters should get some sort of genius award. Like, a life size statue of chocolate. Or all of your money. People in New Zealand and Chicago, Atlanta and London... are all reading.. this? That's so crazy. I mean, I knew obviously, that the people who commented weren't all my neighbours, but seeing it on a map how far away some of you are, well, it made me think that I should attempt to write something interesting sometime soon.
Give me six more months and perhaps there might even be pictures!
*I'm saving this sentence into my memory bank as proof of my nerdiness next time I start to think I'm more diva than **dork.
** I secretly like being a dork. It's less pressure.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Today's Top Five
Sooo... again this is from Bre. Basically, the idea is that someone sends you five questions and you answer them. Which, in my opinion is a great idea, because I love, love, love talking about myself. I kid. Sort of.
1. What is your earliest childhood memory?
I grew up on an acreage and in the spring my mom would pack a picnic and carry my brother and I out to a field to eat and play in the sand. I remember eating a honey and peanut butter sandwich and crying because it fell on the ground. My mom gave me a Popsicle instead and then my brother purposely dropped his sandwich. My mom threw her head back and laughed. I think I was about four. The next earliest memory is my fifth birthday when I got my pony. Yeah, I just had to say it.
2. What about blogging appeals to you?
I like how writing helps me organize my thoughts. Sometimes I won't even know exactly what's bothering me, or why I can't sleep or why I'm skipping happily into my office until I start thinking of how I would write about it. Once I do that, everything sort of falls into place. I also like the challenge of it, the idea of taking an ordinary story and making it more interesting, or something someone can relate to. Or knowing I've used the best possible word in a sentence. Man, that sounds sort of nerdy now that I typed it...
3. How do you spoil yourself on a daily (weekly/monthly) basis?
It's all about the afternoon naps... oh, and expensive (albeit extremely glossy) fashion magazines that weigh more than a phone book.
4. What is the most ridiculous thing that has happened to you in the past week?
Um, I found myself watching this movie. And honestly, if that doesn't sound ridiculous then you clearly haven't seen the preview. Or, being one of the only 'non-accountants' at an 'accountant' party... there were some ridiculous aspects in that... such as me busting out the Snoop while other people watched.
5. What is a relationship dealbreaker for you?
Other than cheating? Bad kissers? A close relationship with cocaine? A hate on for dogs? Hmm, I would have to say I don't like the idea of being with someone who isn't confident. I don't require a man to be arrogant, but I really need to be with someone who feels secure enough in themselves that they don't question every choice they make. Reflection is good, but a guy who doesn't have the confidence to make the first move, or stand by a choice he's made is probably not a guy for me.
And thus concludes my five. If you are interested in participating, here are the rules:
Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me!”
I will respond by e-mailing you five questions. I get to pick them, and you have to answer them all.
You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
1. What is your earliest childhood memory?
I grew up on an acreage and in the spring my mom would pack a picnic and carry my brother and I out to a field to eat and play in the sand. I remember eating a honey and peanut butter sandwich and crying because it fell on the ground. My mom gave me a Popsicle instead and then my brother purposely dropped his sandwich. My mom threw her head back and laughed. I think I was about four. The next earliest memory is my fifth birthday when I got my pony. Yeah, I just had to say it.
2. What about blogging appeals to you?
I like how writing helps me organize my thoughts. Sometimes I won't even know exactly what's bothering me, or why I can't sleep or why I'm skipping happily into my office until I start thinking of how I would write about it. Once I do that, everything sort of falls into place. I also like the challenge of it, the idea of taking an ordinary story and making it more interesting, or something someone can relate to. Or knowing I've used the best possible word in a sentence. Man, that sounds sort of nerdy now that I typed it...
3. How do you spoil yourself on a daily (weekly/monthly) basis?
It's all about the afternoon naps... oh, and expensive (albeit extremely glossy) fashion magazines that weigh more than a phone book.
4. What is the most ridiculous thing that has happened to you in the past week?
Um, I found myself watching this movie. And honestly, if that doesn't sound ridiculous then you clearly haven't seen the preview. Or, being one of the only 'non-accountants' at an 'accountant' party... there were some ridiculous aspects in that... such as me busting out the Snoop while other people watched.
5. What is a relationship dealbreaker for you?
Other than cheating? Bad kissers? A close relationship with cocaine? A hate on for dogs? Hmm, I would have to say I don't like the idea of being with someone who isn't confident. I don't require a man to be arrogant, but I really need to be with someone who feels secure enough in themselves that they don't question every choice they make. Reflection is good, but a guy who doesn't have the confidence to make the first move, or stand by a choice he's made is probably not a guy for me.
And thus concludes my five. If you are interested in participating, here are the rules:
Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me!”
I will respond by e-mailing you five questions. I get to pick them, and you have to answer them all.
You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Comment Horror, Comment Whore
So a few days ago I posted this lovely ditty. I thought it was well said, with some interesting points written in a lovely, non-confrontational way.
I checked my email later in the day to accept those who disagreed with me and feel warm and fuzzy for those who did. I expected compliments and flowers. Disagreements but acceptance. I expected sentences that started with " Well, I don't agree but...". Instead, I got crickets.
There were no comments.
At first I thought nothing of it. I have always felt that all you bloggers secretly meet to discuss when you post, since you always do so when I least expect it. (This is frustrating since I'm always the 14th person to comment and all my "original" comments have been said already by persons 1-13). I imagine the "blogger.com" people meet in a warehouse drinking dusty kool-aid out of plastic cups and eat prepackaged foods high in sugar and low in taste. The 'wordpress.com' kids get together at a Ramada hotel and drink diet sodas out of real glasses and marvel at the pretty landscape paintings adorning every wall. And those with their own domain? They meet each dripping in diamonds and sweating in mink, via satellite- since they are all on their own yachts and phone reception is iffy.
Anyway...
So the 'no comment' thing didn't bother me. I mean, as I recently told Miss Fabulous (who herself has started her own blog), writing for comments is like, working for the man. It's prostituting greatness, and if I'm going to prostitute myself, I'm going to do it for big bucks. More bucks than the man could ever pay. (Actually, I think I just told her I didn't write for comments, and left the man out of it). I was sure that you were all busy with Easter and work and family, and the comments would come flooding in, and suddenly my world would make sense and I would once again, feel whole.
I checked back.
Nothing.
I re-read the post searching for something that would have caused you all to slap me with silence. Did I accidentally type "I believe the only good orphan is a working orphan?", or "I believe when my *grandma doesn't polish my shoes the way I like, it's a free pass to pistol whip her and kick her good hip while wearing stilettos?". Nope. I didn't say any of those things. So what the hell?
I was stumped.
Later on I started getting emails from people saying they couldn't comment. I checked back and realized I had the 'no comment' filter on. Suddenly, my world made sense again. People weren't shunning my post, they were forced to not write something. It was only when I realized this, did I fully understand how comments can really be useful, or at least nice to get once in a while. In short, I realized, I'm a comment whore.
This led me to think about all the times I read something I enjoy and don't comment. This was the last one I read on someones site that I really, truly and madly enjoyed and left without commenting. All the comments seemed to be what I was feeling, so I didn't add anything. Now I realize how important every comment is. So do I go back and comment and say 'ditto?', or do I just leave it? Sigh, I don't know. Perhaps I should invent an abbreviation for the line "I really enjoyed this post, and wish I had an original comment but I don't. But I still want you to know I enjoyed it". Perhaps this could be shown as "IRETPAWIHAOCBIDBISWYTKIEI!".
Or I could just stick with 'ditto'.
* the grandma reference was just for you e.b.
I checked my email later in the day to accept those who disagreed with me and feel warm and fuzzy for those who did. I expected compliments and flowers. Disagreements but acceptance. I expected sentences that started with " Well, I don't agree but...". Instead, I got crickets.
There were no comments.
At first I thought nothing of it. I have always felt that all you bloggers secretly meet to discuss when you post, since you always do so when I least expect it. (This is frustrating since I'm always the 14th person to comment and all my "original" comments have been said already by persons 1-13). I imagine the "blogger.com" people meet in a warehouse drinking dusty kool-aid out of plastic cups and eat prepackaged foods high in sugar and low in taste. The 'wordpress.com' kids get together at a Ramada hotel and drink diet sodas out of real glasses and marvel at the pretty landscape paintings adorning every wall. And those with their own domain? They meet each dripping in diamonds and sweating in mink, via satellite- since they are all on their own yachts and phone reception is iffy.
Anyway...
So the 'no comment' thing didn't bother me. I mean, as I recently told Miss Fabulous (who herself has started her own blog), writing for comments is like, working for the man. It's prostituting greatness, and if I'm going to prostitute myself, I'm going to do it for big bucks. More bucks than the man could ever pay. (Actually, I think I just told her I didn't write for comments, and left the man out of it). I was sure that you were all busy with Easter and work and family, and the comments would come flooding in, and suddenly my world would make sense and I would once again, feel whole.
I checked back.
Nothing.
I re-read the post searching for something that would have caused you all to slap me with silence. Did I accidentally type "I believe the only good orphan is a working orphan?", or "I believe when my *grandma doesn't polish my shoes the way I like, it's a free pass to pistol whip her and kick her good hip while wearing stilettos?". Nope. I didn't say any of those things. So what the hell?
I was stumped.
Later on I started getting emails from people saying they couldn't comment. I checked back and realized I had the 'no comment' filter on. Suddenly, my world made sense again. People weren't shunning my post, they were forced to not write something. It was only when I realized this, did I fully understand how comments can really be useful, or at least nice to get once in a while. In short, I realized, I'm a comment whore.
This led me to think about all the times I read something I enjoy and don't comment. This was the last one I read on someones site that I really, truly and madly enjoyed and left without commenting. All the comments seemed to be what I was feeling, so I didn't add anything. Now I realize how important every comment is. So do I go back and comment and say 'ditto?', or do I just leave it? Sigh, I don't know. Perhaps I should invent an abbreviation for the line "I really enjoyed this post, and wish I had an original comment but I don't. But I still want you to know I enjoyed it". Perhaps this could be shown as "IRETPAWIHAOCBIDBISWYTKIEI!".
Or I could just stick with 'ditto'.
* the grandma reference was just for you e.b.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
When a good run can break your heart
I have a confession. I'm a runner.
No, I'm not confessing to slipping on my pink and silver Nike's at the twilight hour and running until a thin film of sweat covers me and my body aches in appreciation of being tested. My running isn't healthy and doesn't do anything positive for my heart. I run from people. Problems. Discussions where arguments hang heavily in the air like the smell of a burnt dinner that's ruined the night.
I don't run from every argument, every person. Just the big ones. The really big ones. The ones who matter, the people that earned an explanation before the shotgun goes and my legs start. The ones who deserve you to plant your feet and have the talks you don't want to. The talks where your awkward fingers dance on tabletops giving you a focus other than someone else's apologetic eyes.
Running doesn't mean I don't say sorry. When I feel something is my fault, when I have been in the wrong, chosen the thoughtless word rather than the the thoughtful act, I apologize. And I mean it. But when someone has hurt my feelings, suddenly my only option is to throw on my sneakers and sprint to a safe spot, avoiding the hurdles that come with a healthy relationship.
Perhaps running would be fine if I wasn't the type of girl who liked to look back, but I do. I like seeing where I started, how far I've come. I need to see my progress, whether it's the distance between me and the starting line, or me and a boy who broke my heart. But lately, looking back has only shown me how little I've moved. Instead of running on an open track, where the perspective changes with each step, I've been on a treadmill- pretending. Pretending that my aches and breaks, pains and gains have been worth something, and you know what? They haven't. Running only works if you feel better from it.
I don't feel better.
So maybe it's time to hang up the sneakers and try something a little better for my health. Something that doesn't promote regret and make my heart ache in a way that only making a big mistake can. Perhaps table tennis.
* I got a few emails about people asking why they couldn't comment on the previous post. I accidently had the comment section turned off. Sorry.
No, I'm not confessing to slipping on my pink and silver Nike's at the twilight hour and running until a thin film of sweat covers me and my body aches in appreciation of being tested. My running isn't healthy and doesn't do anything positive for my heart. I run from people. Problems. Discussions where arguments hang heavily in the air like the smell of a burnt dinner that's ruined the night.
I don't run from every argument, every person. Just the big ones. The really big ones. The ones who matter, the people that earned an explanation before the shotgun goes and my legs start. The ones who deserve you to plant your feet and have the talks you don't want to. The talks where your awkward fingers dance on tabletops giving you a focus other than someone else's apologetic eyes.
Running doesn't mean I don't say sorry. When I feel something is my fault, when I have been in the wrong, chosen the thoughtless word rather than the the thoughtful act, I apologize. And I mean it. But when someone has hurt my feelings, suddenly my only option is to throw on my sneakers and sprint to a safe spot, avoiding the hurdles that come with a healthy relationship.
Perhaps running would be fine if I wasn't the type of girl who liked to look back, but I do. I like seeing where I started, how far I've come. I need to see my progress, whether it's the distance between me and the starting line, or me and a boy who broke my heart. But lately, looking back has only shown me how little I've moved. Instead of running on an open track, where the perspective changes with each step, I've been on a treadmill- pretending. Pretending that my aches and breaks, pains and gains have been worth something, and you know what? They haven't. Running only works if you feel better from it.
I don't feel better.
So maybe it's time to hang up the sneakers and try something a little better for my health. Something that doesn't promote regret and make my heart ache in a way that only making a big mistake can. Perhaps table tennis.
* I got a few emails about people asking why they couldn't comment on the previous post. I accidently had the comment section turned off. Sorry.
Monday, April 2, 2007
I got kidnapped too!
Actually, I didn't get kidnapped. But Ruby tagged me to do this, and she got kidnapped and I was just trying to outdo her. Why? Because at first I thought there was nothing interesting left for me to say about myself since, I succumbed to pressure and wrote out this, and then.. this. But, then I thought to myself 'self, you ARE entertaining and there is MUCH the world doesn't know about you, so do it! And do it well!'. Hence,
FIVE Things You Don't Know About Me
1. I'm a reading dork.
Now, I'm a teacher so I promote reading all the time. It makes you smarter! It expands your vocabulary! All the cool kids are doing it!, but the difference between being an avid reader and being a reading dork is what you read and how often. I've made no excuses to hide the fact that I'm not so secretly in love with Bob Woodward. I have, however, recently discovered a new lusty-like feeling for George. If I just enjoyed the good political book that would be fine, but I like to sprinkle them in between re-reading Harry Potter for clues to what will happen in Book 7. Because, I think I'm going to find all the answers by re-reading the end of book 6, oh, 4789 times. (And to further hammer the dork point, I will admit that I got panicked thinking I wouldn't get Book 7 the day it came out, so I pre-ordered and then asked what time the store opened so I wouldn't be waiting in line until my 35th birthday). And if that still didn't prove how much I loved reading, when I was 9 years old I told my brother that I loved books so much I wished I could eat the pages so they would always be inside me. Okay, I said that when I was like, 14. Okay... like 22. He still makes fun of me for it.
2. I'm anti-"blog"
I hate the word blog. Because it rhymes with my two least favourite words- slob and glob. The word 'Blog' makes me think of old sweatpants that smell like sour milk and spray cheese smeared on the side of someones face. I prefer the term 'Post', as in "I posted about Ohio". To me, "post" implies that I typed while wearing creamy white gloves while sipping chamomile out of a dainty teacup adorned with hand painted buttercups. I've never actually typed while wearing gloves, or drank tea out of an actual teacup with saucer (I prefer comfy pants and a juice box), but the idea of it makes me feel better.
3. I've lived in a tent
Not permanently. But, growing up my dad's hobby required travelling every summer, so each year from June to August, my family would travel all over Western Canada. And because for the entire summer we lived in our holiday trailer, and as much as I love my family a girl needs some space- I took to sleeping in a tent.
Every night. Every summer. For ten years. (And for this sacrifice, my parents rewarded me with a very cool tent of my choosing for each summer. To this day, I get ridiculously excited when I see the tents up at Costco for you to buy)
4. I like hospitals
I suspect the reason I like them is because when I'm there it's me in the hospital and not anyone else. If I knew someone who was always in the hospital, I suppose I would detest them with the same fury that Paris would shun polyester. But, because it's me, I enjoy them. When I'm there overnight, I love the blankets they give you with just enough scratch to exfoliate (too bad they didn't smell like this) your body and dim lights- dark enough to make you sleepy, not enough to make you scared. I get blood taken a lot (mostly, to just re-confirm the fact that the blood I do have is bad), and doctors waiting rooms make me feel just as good. I like reading all the old Housekeeping magazines that give me quilting advice or tips on making meatloaf. Perhaps the reason I like hospitals and waiting rooms is because I know neither is permanent.
5. I'm always gettin' lucky
When it comes to winning contests, or getting money for doing nothing, I'm always getting lucky. The last contest I entered and then forgot about, I won. First place. Hundreds of dollars in gift certificates to the mall, new sunglasses and two tickets to a three day outdoor concert. When I was in university I applied for this obscure funding option based on the fact that my grandmothers grandmother was Native, and I got my last year of tuition/books/rent paid for. Plus a healthy spending allowance. And even now, I get random cheques from the government and I have no idea why.
And now you are fully in the know about me. Oh, one more thing... I'm trying to update my blogro-, er, postroll, so if I don't have you would you just leave a comment so I can keep track of everyone I need to add?
FIVE Things You Don't Know About Me
1. I'm a reading dork.
Now, I'm a teacher so I promote reading all the time. It makes you smarter! It expands your vocabulary! All the cool kids are doing it!, but the difference between being an avid reader and being a reading dork is what you read and how often. I've made no excuses to hide the fact that I'm not so secretly in love with Bob Woodward. I have, however, recently discovered a new lusty-like feeling for George. If I just enjoyed the good political book that would be fine, but I like to sprinkle them in between re-reading Harry Potter for clues to what will happen in Book 7. Because, I think I'm going to find all the answers by re-reading the end of book 6, oh, 4789 times. (And to further hammer the dork point, I will admit that I got panicked thinking I wouldn't get Book 7 the day it came out, so I pre-ordered and then asked what time the store opened so I wouldn't be waiting in line until my 35th birthday). And if that still didn't prove how much I loved reading, when I was 9 years old I told my brother that I loved books so much I wished I could eat the pages so they would always be inside me. Okay, I said that when I was like, 14. Okay... like 22. He still makes fun of me for it.
2. I'm anti-"blog"
I hate the word blog. Because it rhymes with my two least favourite words- slob and glob. The word 'Blog' makes me think of old sweatpants that smell like sour milk and spray cheese smeared on the side of someones face. I prefer the term 'Post', as in "I posted about Ohio". To me, "post" implies that I typed while wearing creamy white gloves while sipping chamomile out of a dainty teacup adorned with hand painted buttercups. I've never actually typed while wearing gloves, or drank tea out of an actual teacup with saucer (I prefer comfy pants and a juice box), but the idea of it makes me feel better.
3. I've lived in a tent
Not permanently. But, growing up my dad's hobby required travelling every summer, so each year from June to August, my family would travel all over Western Canada. And because for the entire summer we lived in our holiday trailer, and as much as I love my family a girl needs some space- I took to sleeping in a tent.
Every night. Every summer. For ten years. (And for this sacrifice, my parents rewarded me with a very cool tent of my choosing for each summer. To this day, I get ridiculously excited when I see the tents up at Costco for you to buy)
4. I like hospitals
I suspect the reason I like them is because when I'm there it's me in the hospital and not anyone else. If I knew someone who was always in the hospital, I suppose I would detest them with the same fury that Paris would shun polyester. But, because it's me, I enjoy them. When I'm there overnight, I love the blankets they give you with just enough scratch to exfoliate (too bad they didn't smell like this) your body and dim lights- dark enough to make you sleepy, not enough to make you scared. I get blood taken a lot (mostly, to just re-confirm the fact that the blood I do have is bad), and doctors waiting rooms make me feel just as good. I like reading all the old Housekeeping magazines that give me quilting advice or tips on making meatloaf. Perhaps the reason I like hospitals and waiting rooms is because I know neither is permanent.
5. I'm always gettin' lucky
When it comes to winning contests, or getting money for doing nothing, I'm always getting lucky. The last contest I entered and then forgot about, I won. First place. Hundreds of dollars in gift certificates to the mall, new sunglasses and two tickets to a three day outdoor concert. When I was in university I applied for this obscure funding option based on the fact that my grandmothers grandmother was Native, and I got my last year of tuition/books/rent paid for. Plus a healthy spending allowance. And even now, I get random cheques from the government and I have no idea why.
And now you are fully in the know about me. Oh, one more thing... I'm trying to update my blogro-, er, postroll, so if I don't have you would you just leave a comment so I can keep track of everyone I need to add?
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Me, Jack Daniels and Doogie Howser, M.D.
Before I met Jack Daniels, discovered how important reading glasses are and found myself commenting on the price of gasoline, I was a kid. I was a kid who had big expectations for herself.
When I was little, being 20 years old made you an adult. Because being 20 years old meant you weren't a teenager anymore and the only thing after a teenager was an adult. So once I was 20, I was going to be a teacher and a psychologist (apparently Doogie Howser and I drank from the same water bottle). I was going to have high heels and wear lots of pink skirts with flowers on them. I would have 2 dogs, 2 cats and a turtle named Melon.
My hair would be really long.
I would have a big house that had a porch all the way around it. I would have lots of flowers in my yard. I would have a housekeeper. I would drive a brand new red car and I would have gone to Easter Island (a place of fascination in my youth). I would have actual tea parties, call people 'darling' and wear scarves around my head when I drove.
I would be married.
My husband would look like Uncle Jesse, but would make me laugh like Joey. Sometimes we would kiss when I wanted, and if I didn't want to he would build me stuff like bookcases and take me fancy places for dinner where the forks would be as small as the ones in my playhouse. I would stay all the way up until 11pm and if I wanted, I would have vanilla cake with chocolate frosting for breakfast.
I would complain about bills, but always have enough money to pay them. I would have cloth napkins and always remember to say "may I ask who's calling?", when giving the phone to someone else. I would refinish furniture, quote Shakespeare in random conversation and own a well-used picnic basket.
I would worry about losing my wedding ring down the drain.
I'm past 20 now. A few years past, actually. And I realize that my life isn't at all what I thought it would be like. I'm my own significant other, I drive an old truck instead of a new car and I can't remember the last time I had cake for breakfast.
Am I sad that my life is so different than what I imagined? Sometimes. It does sound easier. But I'm slowly learning easier isn't always better and if this life means having more disappointments than I thought I would, I'm okay with it.
Besides, if I had the life I always thought I wanted, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know Jack,- Daniels that is.
When I was little, being 20 years old made you an adult. Because being 20 years old meant you weren't a teenager anymore and the only thing after a teenager was an adult. So once I was 20, I was going to be a teacher and a psychologist (apparently Doogie Howser and I drank from the same water bottle). I was going to have high heels and wear lots of pink skirts with flowers on them. I would have 2 dogs, 2 cats and a turtle named Melon.
My hair would be really long.
I would have a big house that had a porch all the way around it. I would have lots of flowers in my yard. I would have a housekeeper. I would drive a brand new red car and I would have gone to Easter Island (a place of fascination in my youth). I would have actual tea parties, call people 'darling' and wear scarves around my head when I drove.
I would be married.
My husband would look like Uncle Jesse, but would make me laugh like Joey. Sometimes we would kiss when I wanted, and if I didn't want to he would build me stuff like bookcases and take me fancy places for dinner where the forks would be as small as the ones in my playhouse. I would stay all the way up until 11pm and if I wanted, I would have vanilla cake with chocolate frosting for breakfast.
I would complain about bills, but always have enough money to pay them. I would have cloth napkins and always remember to say "may I ask who's calling?", when giving the phone to someone else. I would refinish furniture, quote Shakespeare in random conversation and own a well-used picnic basket.
I would worry about losing my wedding ring down the drain.
I'm past 20 now. A few years past, actually. And I realize that my life isn't at all what I thought it would be like. I'm my own significant other, I drive an old truck instead of a new car and I can't remember the last time I had cake for breakfast.
Am I sad that my life is so different than what I imagined? Sometimes. It does sound easier. But I'm slowly learning easier isn't always better and if this life means having more disappointments than I thought I would, I'm okay with it.
Besides, if I had the life I always thought I wanted, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know Jack,- Daniels that is.
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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?
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Tired
I'm tired. Not in the "I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade" way but in the "I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep" sort of way.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Truth in the Lies I tell myself
I always thought I was a good cook. Then I came home yesterday and attempted to make soup. I burnt it and then (in a blinding moment of clarity), thought I could still salvage some by adding water (Note: This was not me being a 'thrifty' cook, this was me being a 'too lazy to start again/ let's be adventurous' cook). That didn't work. I ended up eating a piece of gluten free toast and peanut butter on the kitchen floor feeling sorry for myself.
I've decided that cooking is like speaking french, if you don't practice it you lose it and suddenly you find yourself angry that you told a lie to yourself that you still believed. And you can't decide if you're more annoyed that you kept telling yourself something that wasn't true, or that you so readily believed it.
I decided to make a list of the lies I tell myself and the truth (if any) that is hidden in them. This is what I found...
Lie #1: I am a great cook
Truth: I'm good when I have all the ingredients, a glossy cookbook (with lots of pictures), multiple pans (for when I burn the first batch), an entire afternoon, the right apron and some inspiration (the food network does the trick). Meaning, I'm a great cook, once a year... always a on whim.
Lie #2: The worst pain I ever felt was a broken heart
Truth: The worst pain I ever felt was pulling all my neck muscles in grade 9 and having to wait a day before getting a brace. Broken hearts hurt when I think, pulled neck muscles hurt when I breathe. I can go without thinking.
Lie #3: I'm a great driver
Truth: This is sort of true. I'm great in the "I drive so slow even if I hit a grandmother she would be able to brush off the snow and shuffle away), but in terms of... "being aware" on the road, I suck. This is how I killed a duck and how big red became accessorized with all her scratches and dents.
Lie #4: I know a lot about Canadian politics
Truth: I just barely pass the 'citizenship test' that new immigrants into Canada have to take. I know this because I attempted to take it last night. The three branches of Canadian government? I could only name two. (The House of Commons and the Senate) The third? The Queen. But seriously, when's the last time she was mentioned without the name Helen Mirren attached?
Lie #5: I don't like cats
Truth: Liking cats and being single always seemed like the beginning of a joke that involved a punchline I wouldn't like. The truth is, I like cats. I like cats that like me. Of course I don't like cats as much as dogs, but I do like cats more than I like bunnies or goldfish, and that's saying something.
Lie #6: I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
Truth: I believe absence makes the heart grow irritable, exhausted and (at times) cynical.
Lie #7: I have no regrets
Truth: I have huge, Grand Canyon regrets. Enough to fill a 10 story library with tattered journals, or displace all the water in the ocean or cover the rings of Saturn. I have regrets.
Lie #8: I remember.
Truth: I can't forget.
Lie #9: I find Ryan Seacrest unattractive
Truth: I'm not sure why, but admitting that I find him hugely appealing seems as wrong as saying you have a crush on your cousin. But there's something about the way he hugs all the contestants, manages to keep a straight face when they are truly horrible singers and the way he wears his jeans just right that makes me think I might love him. Or at least, given the opportunity, be best friends with him.
Lie #10: I'm a great dancer
Truth: Okay, that one is the truth. I am a great dancer.
I've decided that cooking is like speaking french, if you don't practice it you lose it and suddenly you find yourself angry that you told a lie to yourself that you still believed. And you can't decide if you're more annoyed that you kept telling yourself something that wasn't true, or that you so readily believed it.
I decided to make a list of the lies I tell myself and the truth (if any) that is hidden in them. This is what I found...
Lie #1: I am a great cook
Truth: I'm good when I have all the ingredients, a glossy cookbook (with lots of pictures), multiple pans (for when I burn the first batch), an entire afternoon, the right apron and some inspiration (the food network does the trick). Meaning, I'm a great cook, once a year... always a on whim.
Lie #2: The worst pain I ever felt was a broken heart
Truth: The worst pain I ever felt was pulling all my neck muscles in grade 9 and having to wait a day before getting a brace. Broken hearts hurt when I think, pulled neck muscles hurt when I breathe. I can go without thinking.
Lie #3: I'm a great driver
Truth: This is sort of true. I'm great in the "I drive so slow even if I hit a grandmother she would be able to brush off the snow and shuffle away), but in terms of... "being aware" on the road, I suck. This is how I killed a duck and how big red became accessorized with all her scratches and dents.
Lie #4: I know a lot about Canadian politics
Truth: I just barely pass the 'citizenship test' that new immigrants into Canada have to take. I know this because I attempted to take it last night. The three branches of Canadian government? I could only name two. (The House of Commons and the Senate) The third? The Queen. But seriously, when's the last time she was mentioned without the name Helen Mirren attached?
Lie #5: I don't like cats
Truth: Liking cats and being single always seemed like the beginning of a joke that involved a punchline I wouldn't like. The truth is, I like cats. I like cats that like me. Of course I don't like cats as much as dogs, but I do like cats more than I like bunnies or goldfish, and that's saying something.
Lie #6: I believe absence makes the heart grow fonder
Truth: I believe absence makes the heart grow irritable, exhausted and (at times) cynical.
Lie #7: I have no regrets
Truth: I have huge, Grand Canyon regrets. Enough to fill a 10 story library with tattered journals, or displace all the water in the ocean or cover the rings of Saturn. I have regrets.
Lie #8: I remember.
Truth: I can't forget.
Lie #9: I find Ryan Seacrest unattractive
Truth: I'm not sure why, but admitting that I find him hugely appealing seems as wrong as saying you have a crush on your cousin. But there's something about the way he hugs all the contestants, manages to keep a straight face when they are truly horrible singers and the way he wears his jeans just right that makes me think I might love him. Or at least, given the opportunity, be best friends with him.
Lie #10: I'm a great dancer
Truth: Okay, that one is the truth. I am a great dancer.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Deeply Superficial
I do not feel bad for admitting that new shoes can restore my faith in the universe.
If only doing good deeds did the same thing.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Some lessons are priceless. Some cost $63.49
I stamped my boarding pass into heaven this past holiday season with my open mind and willingness to have coffee with people formerly known as people formerly known as "the devils worker bees". It ended up being a Grand Canyon of a mistake. The wrong kind of regret. However, the effort put into it was something to be admired (and rewarded with a shiny medal of courage and restraint) and I took comfort in knowing that such mistakes do not happen a third time. No God, however cruel, would allow a trifecta of mistakes of this magnitude to occur- that much I do know.
Such disappointments usually leave me angry, but I didn't dwell on it. I guess if it hadn't of been expected it would have been more upsetting. But some people (now known once again as 'the devils worker bees') I've learned... will only surprise you with the depth at which they can and will hurt you- anything else seems unnatural for them. It was a good lesson to learn. One I thought I already had, but nonetheless... I wasn't angry. I was sad.
Then I found out I didn't get a job I wanted because I was considered to be "too young".
I lost my favourite pink mittens and my favourite white scarf I tell people I knitted but actually bought from American Eagle.
I had to pay $63.49 for movies I didn't like watching.
I realized that some people can disappoint you more for what they don't do, than for what they do.
I started getting calls where the charming caller just leaves really long messages and sounds like the maniac in "Phone Booth". Worse yet, I know him, and he knows that I'm just not answering so instead of 'not calling anymore', he calls more frequently. And at weird times. Like... 4am this morning.
I discovered my plans for Valentines Day involve working with children who draw me pictures and then decide to give them to other people.
And after everything, I find that I'm only angry now at seeing a quote I told being used. Granted, it's not my quote to begin with (such genius lines do not dwell in my cranium), but still. For some reason, that bothers me more than anything else. A quote I told being used, like the devils worker bee knew it before me. In the future, quotes should quoted like this " Well, this genius I used to know named Brandy once told me that Bill Clinton once said... "
People who call and leave creepy messages. Age-ism. Lost mittens. Quote plagarism.
You know, a girl can only take so much.
Such disappointments usually leave me angry, but I didn't dwell on it. I guess if it hadn't of been expected it would have been more upsetting. But some people (now known once again as 'the devils worker bees') I've learned... will only surprise you with the depth at which they can and will hurt you- anything else seems unnatural for them. It was a good lesson to learn. One I thought I already had, but nonetheless... I wasn't angry. I was sad.
Then I found out I didn't get a job I wanted because I was considered to be "too young".
I lost my favourite pink mittens and my favourite white scarf I tell people I knitted but actually bought from American Eagle.
I had to pay $63.49 for movies I didn't like watching.
I realized that some people can disappoint you more for what they don't do, than for what they do.
I started getting calls where the charming caller just leaves really long messages and sounds like the maniac in "Phone Booth". Worse yet, I know him, and he knows that I'm just not answering so instead of 'not calling anymore', he calls more frequently. And at weird times. Like... 4am this morning.
I discovered my plans for Valentines Day involve working with children who draw me pictures and then decide to give them to other people.
And after everything, I find that I'm only angry now at seeing a quote I told being used. Granted, it's not my quote to begin with (such genius lines do not dwell in my cranium), but still. For some reason, that bothers me more than anything else. A quote I told being used, like the devils worker bee knew it before me. In the future, quotes should quoted like this " Well, this genius I used to know named Brandy once told me that Bill Clinton once said... "
People who call and leave creepy messages. Age-ism. Lost mittens. Quote plagarism.
You know, a girl can only take so much.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Hmm.
What is the statute of limitations on being angry at someone over something they did to you ... in your dream?
It's been over 36 hours and frankly, I'm still a little pissed.
It's been over 36 hours and frankly, I'm still a little pissed.
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