Shrimp Forks

I probably should wait before writing something. I should probably drink chai tea, do some yoga or go to my meditation room where I will breathe deeply until my lungs hurt. But, since I have no tea, don't do yoga (don't hate me. I also don't like sushi and sometimes take two parking spots at the mall when it's tricky to park my truck)and don't have a meditation room (surprise!), I'm just going to write. Besides, that's why I started writing in the first place- to have an 'outlet' for frustration. And you know, because I like to.

So. (Side note: I notice that I say "So." a lot when I'm frustrated. And it appears that I also have the urge to use a lot of brackets)

I'm frustrated.

I know this person. Let's call him... Marvin. (And no, I don't particularly love the name Marvin, in fact, I picked a name I dislike because I'm spiteful like that. And if you are reading this, and your name is Marvin... I'm sorry. I'm sure you have lots of other great qualities and that millions of girls in this great big world love that name, but I don't. And I'm sorry. But not sorry enough to choose a different name.)

I digress.

Anyway, Marvin. Marvin has always been on of those friends that you could talk to about anything. In fact, there was a time when he was the first person I told all the big moments, bad news and exciting stories to. Marvin was funny and thoughtful and always had something interesting to say. He asked questions. He remembered things. He held up his end of the conversation and more than once listened to me declare jihad on ex boyfriends cry. But lately, Marvin has become really... well, lame.

I realize that lame is well, a lame word to use but it fits. If the God of Friendship (let's name that God...Jack, because that's my favourite name for a boy), so if Lord of Friendship Jack, told Marvin and I that we had to unload a dishwasher, it's like we went from doing everything 50/50 it being 90/10. Suddenly, all Marvin is capable of is putting away shrimp forks. And sweet Jesus, this may surprise you, but just putting away shrimp forks does not a friendship make. Suddenly, I'm doing all the work, asking all the questions, working at something that used to not be work.

See? Lame.

I suppose this is where you would tell me to stop acting like I'm oh, about 14 years old (again), and talk to Marvin. And I could. But the thing is, what do you say? "Start being more like the old you and less like the new you?", "I'm sad I don't know what to talk to you about?" Or better yet, "Do you want to just... stop being friends, because if you do, that's fine but you are going to have to tell me because I'm a girl who just don't get the 'fade out and I'm sorry if that's hard for you to grasp, but that's just how I roll'?".

That hardly seems adult.

But I guess it's better than the alternative- stabbing him in the leg with a shrimp fork and hoping it brings the old Marvin back.

Single

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.

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.

I'm thisclose to pulling a Plath

Ohio lost. Instead of winning my pool, I tied for first place.

Perhaps if I was a middle child, or a native from Switzerland, or a generous Pisces or just someone who didn't know better, I would be happy with a tie.

But to a Leo, who is the oldest child, who sometimes enjoys winning more than she should and who at times likened herself to Luke Skywalker in her battle against evil forces such as an NCAA basketball team who just won last year, this tie feels like a loss.

Good things need to happen immediately.

(NOTE: Apparently when I'm feeling sad, I need to use a lot of italics.)

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.

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.

Bits & Pieces

I had a conversation today that went something like this:

Me: I don’t really like nuts in salad. It seems wrong. Like putting relish on birthday cake.

T: Oh relish, I haven’t been able to have it since…

Me: Since when?

T: It’s a long story, but let’s just say I walked home missing my socks.

My everlasting fascination (re: prying obsession) into other peoples lives wanted to hear the story but time ran out (I was at work after all) and I missed hearing how one goes from underrated condiment to shoeless and hitchhiking. (Left to fill in the blanks, my mind imagined a story involving a plastic pool, donkeys, a pirate named Lubby and fireworks.) I realized that if I thought about my life, there were a million random bits and pieces- places, numbers, sayings and songs that reminded me of a stand-out, character shaping story that no one knew but me.

Quiche, tin foil, crazy carpeting, Davos, card games, fortune cookies, Charles Dickens, and a love for Russia each reminded me of good friends and insane activities- most of which would make my mother flush, or at least wring her hands like a dishtowel. I think the crazy carpeting tales would result in not only blushing, but also the asking “for the love of goodness, why?” repeatedly while wondering how it’s possible that we share DNA.

Filed under the category of “stupidity that still makes me blush”, I find the sharp memories of a paper hole punch, calamine lotion, my views on the ocean and Susan Sarandon. Dusty bottles of cooking wine, lemonade and my obsession with radio volume also make the cut and leave me shaking my head in both awe and amazement that I survived my youth in pursuit of misguided attempts at fun.

If I dig into the bank of “love or it’s cousins- lust and like”, I find myself immediately drawn to the thought of a math assignment. (Some memories fade, but I’m entirely convinced that one will stick with me forever.) My favourite pink sneakers, leather jackets, the smell of my mom’s laundry room and how it feels to wake up with the beach as your pillow, each also make me sigh with happiness.

Sorting through these bits and pieces and putting them in a category makes me understand why oatmeal cookies make me wistful, paper crowns still make me proud, and why I have a sneaking suspicion Seattle will always make me sad. The story I have of each, or more accurately- the story influenced by each, is more memorable than the actual item,- or place.

I glance around my office and wonder what random item found in here, what word I could say or song the radio could play that would prompt the people I know to divulge their own secret stories. Ones centered around relish and chaos, or South Bend Alabama and falling in love or a game of cricket and a sadness you’re not sure you will ever get over.

I imagine every story involves a pirate.

"What the hell!" moment #293

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

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

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

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

A Sidewinder Season

The last two weeks have included more ups and downs than the Sidewinder roller coaster at Knott's Berry Farm (which happens to be my favourite roller coaster ever, f.y.i). I realized why I hate flying, why I love crossword puzzles and how to correctly pronounce the word 'romoarita'. I cried so hard I laughed, laughed so hard I cried and discovered I'm an aggressive Jenga player (and could probably go pro if I could get the time off). I spent a lot of money, lost a little pride and became aware of all the reasons I do not drink Red Bull. I found out my mom is the best actor I know (" I love getting 8 mini jars of jam!") lotion kleenex makes all the difference and how to win at Sports Scene It (tip: be on my brothers team). I discovered that I'm getting old, found out what makes me feel scarily young and who to talk to when I'm unhappy about either. I learned that I can't peel my eyes away from Flavor Flav, that I can keep a secret and how to take on 43.6% of blame.

I've learned that 'unmuddling' everything that feels muddled in my life brings me more happiness than I would get discovering the last digit of pi. And my attempt to feng shui my life didn't come from one choice or one realization but from two weeks of serious thinking, a pay phone phone call with my sensai, a quote that's stalking me and of course- my mom.

I'm exhausted but to the surprise of the Westjet flight attendants (especially the overly peppy "Kyle" who has a serious hate on for GP) and my friends who must listen to me rant- I'm happy.

And methinks that being happy, coupled with the knowledge of what happens after drinking Red Bull in the backseat alone on long car rides is possibly the best way to start 2007.

(Update: 2 hours and one cut knee later, I've decided that I need to feng shui my truck and move to Bali where there is no ice to slip on or trucks to unearth from 8 inches of ice)