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 thinking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thinking. Show all posts
Sunday, April 29, 2007
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.
On loss
Though I'm reckless and fickle, I can be a planner. I like laying out my clothes the night before, getting my concert tickets ahead of time, choosing the reason of my post instead of just 'free flow' writing it.
But sometimes planning feels instinctively wrong to me. Like wearing rubber boots with your prom dress. Or smearing ketchup on chocolate cake. Or trying to read a novel underwater. Or thinking out a planned response of sympathy to a tragic event.
I suppose the reason I can't plan what to say about Virginia Tech, is because if I tried, I would feel... silly. It's not my school, it's not my town, it's not even my country. Adding sympathy or trying to comment on something so tragic leads to me grabbing fistfuls of cliches, "I don't understand", "Everything happens for a reason", "I just don't know what to say".
I would like to say something memorable, something relatable, something that would provide my brain a moment of rest while it races through dictionaries of words and lists of quotes, but I'm just left with cliches. And then I realize, cliches are cliches for a reason. Because they give everyone who doesn't know what to say something to reach for, and in times like this, that's what people need.
I work in a college. Everyday I see kids walking through halls, ipods jammed in ears, laughing with their friends. With the approach of spring, the laughter has grown and the mood has seemed lighter- even finals haven't dampened the mood. Until now.
Today the halls are quieter. There is not less to laugh about for them- their lives still hold the same people and promise they did yesterday or the day before, but I think, I think they have been reminded of what the look of loss is, how it's painted in shades of grief and agony. And that it can be found anywhere. At anytime.
Even, in a school like their own.
So without knowing what to say, I will say this. The loss of lives at Virgina Tech has saddened not just the nation (as put by George W Bush in his speech to the students) but anyone who has ever felt like their world was secure. Who has ever felt a bounce in their step, or a reason to laugh.
It has saddened me.
And that's all I can say, on a day where I don't know what to say.
But sometimes planning feels instinctively wrong to me. Like wearing rubber boots with your prom dress. Or smearing ketchup on chocolate cake. Or trying to read a novel underwater. Or thinking out a planned response of sympathy to a tragic event.
I suppose the reason I can't plan what to say about Virginia Tech, is because if I tried, I would feel... silly. It's not my school, it's not my town, it's not even my country. Adding sympathy or trying to comment on something so tragic leads to me grabbing fistfuls of cliches, "I don't understand", "Everything happens for a reason", "I just don't know what to say".
I would like to say something memorable, something relatable, something that would provide my brain a moment of rest while it races through dictionaries of words and lists of quotes, but I'm just left with cliches. And then I realize, cliches are cliches for a reason. Because they give everyone who doesn't know what to say something to reach for, and in times like this, that's what people need.
I work in a college. Everyday I see kids walking through halls, ipods jammed in ears, laughing with their friends. With the approach of spring, the laughter has grown and the mood has seemed lighter- even finals haven't dampened the mood. Until now.
Today the halls are quieter. There is not less to laugh about for them- their lives still hold the same people and promise they did yesterday or the day before, but I think, I think they have been reminded of what the look of loss is, how it's painted in shades of grief and agony. And that it can be found anywhere. At anytime.
Even, in a school like their own.
So without knowing what to say, I will say this. The loss of lives at Virgina Tech has saddened not just the nation (as put by George W Bush in his speech to the students) but anyone who has ever felt like their world was secure. Who has ever felt a bounce in their step, or a reason to laugh.
It has saddened me.
And that's all I can say, on a day where I don't know what to say.
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.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Stealing Inspiration
So once again, I'm stealing an idea from Bre, because sometimes stealing is the only way I can be inspired.
Things I believe in....
I believe that "sleeping on it" always helps figure out life's big problems. Unless you are sleeping on a rock, then I'm against it.
I believe if your $15 lip gloss makes you feel like a million bucks, it's worth it.
I believe that the only thing more dangerous than a president with a narrow minded personal agenda, is a public who votes him into office. Twice.
I believe in forgiving people, not for them, but for yourself. I believe, this is easier said than done.
I believe that everyone belongs to someone.
I believe that drinking alone doesn't make you an alcoholic. Only drinking alone, maybe...
I believe that a true, honest, platonic friendship rarely can occur between a man and woman, but that it can occur. I believe I'm cynical about this because I'm much more like Harry than Sally.
I believe the hardest lesson to learn is that you can't help who you love, and trying to understand why you do, will lead to a weekly therapist appointment and a strange love affair with late night television.
I believe that you don't have to call your best friend at 3am, to prove she's your 3am friend.
I believe everyone looks prettier when they are happy and are happier when they are feeling pretty.
I believe in thank you notes, tipping even when the food wasn't great, and solo break dancing performances at weddings.
I believe that crying when your sports team loses a big game is perfectly acceptable- crying every time they lose a game, is not.
I believe in regrets, and that I'm a girl who needs to say I have them.
I believe every song sounds better live, every pie tastes better homemade and every shoe is more fabulous when it's on sale.
I believe teachers are undervalued. I believe I think this because I'm a) a teacher and b) someone who sees on a daily basis the gigantic impact a teacher has on students. I also believe that anyone who utters the phrase 'two month holiday' in regards to how easy teachers have it, has never heard the phrase ' school wide lice outbreak'.
I believe that money provides freedom, and freedom provides happiness.
I believe "I'm sorry" always sounds better than "I apologize".
I believe you can love someone more deeply and clearly than ever before, and still be the absolutely wrong person for them. I believe that knowing this, doesn't always bring comfort, in fact, it usually doesn't.
I believe that a woman should choose what she does with her body. I also believe, that abortion shouldn't be used as a form of birth control. I believe that this is a topic that needs more than three sentences to be fully explained.
I believe opening your presents on Christmas Eve is cheating.
I believe that forgiving someone doesn't mean you need to be friends with them.
I believe if someone wants to propose marriage to you, they will. I believe that asking for a proposal is asking for something I would never want.
I believe in the usefulness of interactive toys, light up games and sturdy Baby Einstein books. I also believe that an empty refrigerator box is the best gift you can give a child.
I believe that unless you voted, you haven't earned the right to complain about the government.
I believe every success I've had has been the result of a mother who gave me a truckload of confidence and an eye for great shoes.
I believe people need to let the Anna Nicole thing go. Seriously.
I believe being 'complicated' doesn't make you interesting. Some of the most fascinating people I know are those who live life simply, without the tanglements of drama.
Things I believe in....
I believe that "sleeping on it" always helps figure out life's big problems. Unless you are sleeping on a rock, then I'm against it.
I believe if your $15 lip gloss makes you feel like a million bucks, it's worth it.
I believe that the only thing more dangerous than a president with a narrow minded personal agenda, is a public who votes him into office. Twice.
I believe in forgiving people, not for them, but for yourself. I believe, this is easier said than done.
I believe that everyone belongs to someone.
I believe that drinking alone doesn't make you an alcoholic. Only drinking alone, maybe...
I believe that a true, honest, platonic friendship rarely can occur between a man and woman, but that it can occur. I believe I'm cynical about this because I'm much more like Harry than Sally.
I believe the hardest lesson to learn is that you can't help who you love, and trying to understand why you do, will lead to a weekly therapist appointment and a strange love affair with late night television.
I believe that you don't have to call your best friend at 3am, to prove she's your 3am friend.
I believe everyone looks prettier when they are happy and are happier when they are feeling pretty.
I believe in thank you notes, tipping even when the food wasn't great, and solo break dancing performances at weddings.
I believe that crying when your sports team loses a big game is perfectly acceptable- crying every time they lose a game, is not.
I believe in regrets, and that I'm a girl who needs to say I have them.
I believe every song sounds better live, every pie tastes better homemade and every shoe is more fabulous when it's on sale.
I believe teachers are undervalued. I believe I think this because I'm a) a teacher and b) someone who sees on a daily basis the gigantic impact a teacher has on students. I also believe that anyone who utters the phrase 'two month holiday' in regards to how easy teachers have it, has never heard the phrase ' school wide lice outbreak'.
I believe that money provides freedom, and freedom provides happiness.
I believe "I'm sorry" always sounds better than "I apologize".
I believe you can love someone more deeply and clearly than ever before, and still be the absolutely wrong person for them. I believe that knowing this, doesn't always bring comfort, in fact, it usually doesn't.
I believe that a woman should choose what she does with her body. I also believe, that abortion shouldn't be used as a form of birth control. I believe that this is a topic that needs more than three sentences to be fully explained.
I believe opening your presents on Christmas Eve is cheating.
I believe that forgiving someone doesn't mean you need to be friends with them.
I believe if someone wants to propose marriage to you, they will. I believe that asking for a proposal is asking for something I would never want.
I believe in the usefulness of interactive toys, light up games and sturdy Baby Einstein books. I also believe that an empty refrigerator box is the best gift you can give a child.
I believe that unless you voted, you haven't earned the right to complain about the government.
I believe every success I've had has been the result of a mother who gave me a truckload of confidence and an eye for great shoes.
I believe people need to let the Anna Nicole thing go. Seriously.
I believe being 'complicated' doesn't make you interesting. Some of the most fascinating people I know are those who live life simply, without the tanglements of drama.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Procrastination Nation
Lately I've begun wondering if the last-minuteness of my life is necessary.
I'm that girl who started cracking my textbook the week of finals, who drinks the last sludge of milk in the carton that smells iffy because she hasn't gone to the store, who always gets the 'guaranteed or it's free!' coupon from blockbuster because I only rent movies at 11pm after everyone else has picked up all the 'two thumbs up' releases.
I started thinking about this, my love of procrastination, this past week. I've been on holidays (more stories of me, piano bars and 3am mass emails about my love for Oasis to come in future postings), and have had a lot of free time. Like, I can put lotion on my legs and wait for it to dry before getting dressed, sort of time. And honestly, it's weirding me out.
I kept going to sleep rolling through everything that I thought I had to do, should be doing, or was late doing. Because, the thing with procrastination is the rush of adrenaline that comes with it. The addicting metallic pulse that comes from realizing you could fail and if you did, it would be only your own fault.
I love that feeling.
I'm the queen of procrastination, a wizard at wasting time, a true master at the art of doing nothing. Which would make you think spending a holiday doing nothing would be enjoyable, and something I would relish. But I'm realizing that I work best when I have a looming deadline, because then I will fill up all my time with making myself busying doing something else. Having nothing to do, makes me do less.
Realizing that I have no crazy work to-do list, scheduled doctors appointment, report to write, oil change due, or meeting to attend, makes me a little anxious. Because suddenly, I could spend an entire day doing nothing. And once you realize, all you have is time... well then you are forced to discover that you can do anything you want.
And realizing your only limitation is yourself, can be more frightening than the current lycra leggings revolution.
Oh, the updating of my blogroll, will get done soon. I promise. I just have to put some lotion on...
I'm that girl who started cracking my textbook the week of finals, who drinks the last sludge of milk in the carton that smells iffy because she hasn't gone to the store, who always gets the 'guaranteed or it's free!' coupon from blockbuster because I only rent movies at 11pm after everyone else has picked up all the 'two thumbs up' releases.
I started thinking about this, my love of procrastination, this past week. I've been on holidays (more stories of me, piano bars and 3am mass emails about my love for Oasis to come in future postings), and have had a lot of free time. Like, I can put lotion on my legs and wait for it to dry before getting dressed, sort of time. And honestly, it's weirding me out.
I kept going to sleep rolling through everything that I thought I had to do, should be doing, or was late doing. Because, the thing with procrastination is the rush of adrenaline that comes with it. The addicting metallic pulse that comes from realizing you could fail and if you did, it would be only your own fault.
I love that feeling.
I'm the queen of procrastination, a wizard at wasting time, a true master at the art of doing nothing. Which would make you think spending a holiday doing nothing would be enjoyable, and something I would relish. But I'm realizing that I work best when I have a looming deadline, because then I will fill up all my time with making myself busying doing something else. Having nothing to do, makes me do less.
Realizing that I have no crazy work to-do list, scheduled doctors appointment, report to write, oil change due, or meeting to attend, makes me a little anxious. Because suddenly, I could spend an entire day doing nothing. And once you realize, all you have is time... well then you are forced to discover that you can do anything you want.
And realizing your only limitation is yourself, can be more frightening than the current lycra leggings revolution.
Oh, the updating of my blogroll, will get done soon. I promise. I just have to put some lotion on...
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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
#5: Trout
If you haven't been keeping up (and it's a shame if you haven't), the Month of March was dedicated to "Women who have shaped you", an idea that a lot of great writers stole from Bre. (And if you haven't read her last one, you should. It's genius). Anyway, this is my last one for the month (I like to cut things close apparently).
You know how you have that one event that becomes the marker for your life? Everything happened either before or after it, and the day it happened is burned into your memory? Sometimes it's a divorce, sometimes it's a wedding. Sometimes it's a death, sometimes it's a birth and for a few of my more... materialistic friends, it's the time you found your favourite shoes marked 50% off. I have my marker.
It's the day I met Trout.
I don't mean to say that my life before this great friend was horrible, or that the life I've had after has been a blur of rainbows and butterflies but she's the marker I have because I have a hard time imagining a life without her in it.
She's that friend.
The first person I told when my doctors thought I had cancer. The last one to judge me when I made the same mistake for the fourth time. The one who knows my secrets, my failures, my regrets and likes me despite it all. The one who is the Mary Kate to my Ashley. The one who volunteers to help regardless if it's moving furniture, painting childrens faces for a play or listening to me discuss the latest trouble in my life. She's the one who understands why I need to color code my bookcase and closet and comments on how nice it looks while others stare wondering 'why?'.
The one who has seen me at my best- dressed to cause heart attacks with shiny hair and tall boots (and the only one who truly knows how long it takes me to achieve this look), has seen me at my worst- in 3-day old sweatpants and sweatshirt with holes with no inclination to find the hairbrush, and everyday in between. She's seen me in every Halloween costume imaginable (pirates last year was a favourite, but the signature Brandy and Trout costume was defintetly the Olsen twins the year before), and knows exactly what my 'rage' face looks like. She's the one who I can have a 40 minute conversation about a celebrity (and not feel guilty at all) and then yell about George W, and not blink an eye.
She's the friend who feels like the sister I never got.
She was there when my house burnt down (it was her house too, after all). She watched my bag during the 10 hour layover in Germany when mono ravaged my body. She was the one who handed me the bag of frozen peas to stop the swelling when I broke my foot break dancing. She was there for the time 34 eye patches needed to be made for a pirate play. And the time my heart broke into thirty-six million pieces because of a boy? Trout said all the right things, but realized sometimes saying nothing is the best thing you can do. She's been my translator, my therapist, my stylist, my cook (I miss the grilled cheese) and the one person I seem to never run out of things to talk about.
I will see her in a few hours. Because Trout has volunteered her Saturday to painting many faces for my latest childrens play. She will do this and I will say thank you and then I will realize it will have never of crossed her mind to NOT help me.
Why?
Because she's the best kind of friend. The one who wants more for you that even you can imagine, who's hopes for you exceed your own, the one who doesn't ignore your failures but finds the success in them.
She's that friend.
You know how you have that one event that becomes the marker for your life? Everything happened either before or after it, and the day it happened is burned into your memory? Sometimes it's a divorce, sometimes it's a wedding. Sometimes it's a death, sometimes it's a birth and for a few of my more... materialistic friends, it's the time you found your favourite shoes marked 50% off. I have my marker.
It's the day I met Trout.
I don't mean to say that my life before this great friend was horrible, or that the life I've had after has been a blur of rainbows and butterflies but she's the marker I have because I have a hard time imagining a life without her in it.
She's that friend.
The first person I told when my doctors thought I had cancer. The last one to judge me when I made the same mistake for the fourth time. The one who knows my secrets, my failures, my regrets and likes me despite it all. The one who is the Mary Kate to my Ashley. The one who volunteers to help regardless if it's moving furniture, painting childrens faces for a play or listening to me discuss the latest trouble in my life. She's the one who understands why I need to color code my bookcase and closet and comments on how nice it looks while others stare wondering 'why?'.
The one who has seen me at my best- dressed to cause heart attacks with shiny hair and tall boots (and the only one who truly knows how long it takes me to achieve this look), has seen me at my worst- in 3-day old sweatpants and sweatshirt with holes with no inclination to find the hairbrush, and everyday in between. She's seen me in every Halloween costume imaginable (pirates last year was a favourite, but the signature Brandy and Trout costume was defintetly the Olsen twins the year before), and knows exactly what my 'rage' face looks like. She's the one who I can have a 40 minute conversation about a celebrity (and not feel guilty at all) and then yell about George W, and not blink an eye.
She's the friend who feels like the sister I never got.
She was there when my house burnt down (it was her house too, after all). She watched my bag during the 10 hour layover in Germany when mono ravaged my body. She was the one who handed me the bag of frozen peas to stop the swelling when I broke my foot break dancing. She was there for the time 34 eye patches needed to be made for a pirate play. And the time my heart broke into thirty-six million pieces because of a boy? Trout said all the right things, but realized sometimes saying nothing is the best thing you can do. She's been my translator, my therapist, my stylist, my cook (I miss the grilled cheese) and the one person I seem to never run out of things to talk about.
I will see her in a few hours. Because Trout has volunteered her Saturday to painting many faces for my latest childrens play. She will do this and I will say thank you and then I will realize it will have never of crossed her mind to NOT help me.
Why?
Because she's the best kind of friend. The one who wants more for you that even you can imagine, who's hopes for you exceed your own, the one who doesn't ignore your failures but finds the success in them.
She's that friend.
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"
Monday, March 19, 2007
Worth the wait in an instant world
We live in an instant world. Instant coffee, instant messaging, instant car starters. We wait for nothing. We can fast forward our commercials, email our letters and drive-thru for our meals.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn't want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to 'speed up'. My list of what's worth waiting for includes...
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that's homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the "it's the third date so we should kiss", but the "I'm so excited about you, I need to kiss you" kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I'm not the only one who misspells "foreign".
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don't love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an "I love you" to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favourite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect wedding dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn't seem so bad.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn't want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to 'speed up'. My list of what's worth waiting for includes...
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that's homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the "it's the third date so we should kiss", but the "I'm so excited about you, I need to kiss you" kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I'm not the only one who misspells "foreign".
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don't love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an "I love you" to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favourite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect wedding dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn't seem so bad.
Friday, March 9, 2007
#2: Miss Fabulous
In case the "#2" confuses you, this is my second post about women who have shaped my life. I got this idea from Bre and it's been a great way to get me really thinking about the people I know. It's been interesting realizing who comes to mind when I try to figure out who to write about. I find that often my instinct is to write about someone who is funny, or someone who I remember vividly due to their personal quirks or personality but I'm trying to avoid that. To me, the idea of shaping implies something learned, something that's helped guide me into being the person I am today. That's why I have to include Miss Fabulous.
If I didn't love her so much there's a chance I would hate her. I'm not kidding. She's talented and funny and beautiful. She's everything that my New Years resolutions want me to be. She's one of those people who speaks multiple languages, can dance like an extra in a Missy Elliot video, travels (and when she does she sleeps on the beach, not at the resort)to exotic places, knows how to knit and make the best guacamole you've ever had. And if you asked her, she could probably figure out a way to do it all at the same time. And she makes it look so effortless.
See what I mean about the hating thing?
But here's the thing. I couldn't hate her. I could never even be jealous of her, even though she is able to tan the color of a coconut while I burn like a tomato. Or the fact that French rolls off her tongue like it's her native language and I'm still stumbling through "my shirt is green". Or the fact that she kayaks and climbs mountains while I sit in traffic jams. I just have nothing but big love for her.
Why?
Because.
Because she's the person who gets the "ungettable" things about me. She understands why I only like eating green gummy bears with no heads. Or why it's imperative that I discuss why I'm against the idea of peeing on someone as foreplay. Or why I can be a happy and smart girl and still need to call her at midnight just to confirm that I'm not going to die alone.
My house burnt down two years ago. I called Miss Fabulous from the scene and after establishing that I was okay, she giggled. Maybe to someone else this would have been the wrong move, but as the one who knows the unknowable, gets the ungettable, she realized that I needed it. It was the completely unexpected reaction, but one that was appreciated. Everyone had been so kind, so thoughtful, so serious, but Miss Fabulous wasn't. She made me realize that regardless of how I dealt with the situation, my house was still gone. So we laughed. And honestly? The laugh helped. I still cried my eyes out later, but being reminded that I could laugh, made things easier.
We met in school through her, but now Miss Fabulous has moved away. I miss her like crazy. The way you miss the last day of summer or the feeling of discovering something you love for the first time. Though I don't see her as often as I used to, Miss Fabulous still reminds me to keep learning (hence the self-taught French lessons), to never doubt myself when a boy lets you down (again) and to watch Shark Tale for the best hip hop moves. She reminds me that you don't have to live close to be close and that if my house burns down again, it will still be okay to laugh.
And if I don't laugh? I know she will be there to listen to me cry.
If I didn't love her so much there's a chance I would hate her. I'm not kidding. She's talented and funny and beautiful. She's everything that my New Years resolutions want me to be. She's one of those people who speaks multiple languages, can dance like an extra in a Missy Elliot video, travels (and when she does she sleeps on the beach, not at the resort)to exotic places, knows how to knit and make the best guacamole you've ever had. And if you asked her, she could probably figure out a way to do it all at the same time. And she makes it look so effortless.
See what I mean about the hating thing?
But here's the thing. I couldn't hate her. I could never even be jealous of her, even though she is able to tan the color of a coconut while I burn like a tomato. Or the fact that French rolls off her tongue like it's her native language and I'm still stumbling through "my shirt is green". Or the fact that she kayaks and climbs mountains while I sit in traffic jams. I just have nothing but big love for her.
Why?
Because.
Because she's the person who gets the "ungettable" things about me. She understands why I only like eating green gummy bears with no heads. Or why it's imperative that I discuss why I'm against the idea of peeing on someone as foreplay. Or why I can be a happy and smart girl and still need to call her at midnight just to confirm that I'm not going to die alone.
My house burnt down two years ago. I called Miss Fabulous from the scene and after establishing that I was okay, she giggled. Maybe to someone else this would have been the wrong move, but as the one who knows the unknowable, gets the ungettable, she realized that I needed it. It was the completely unexpected reaction, but one that was appreciated. Everyone had been so kind, so thoughtful, so serious, but Miss Fabulous wasn't. She made me realize that regardless of how I dealt with the situation, my house was still gone. So we laughed. And honestly? The laugh helped. I still cried my eyes out later, but being reminded that I could laugh, made things easier.
We met in school through her, but now Miss Fabulous has moved away. I miss her like crazy. The way you miss the last day of summer or the feeling of discovering something you love for the first time. Though I don't see her as often as I used to, Miss Fabulous still reminds me to keep learning (hence the self-taught French lessons), to never doubt myself when a boy lets you down (again) and to watch Shark Tale for the best hip hop moves. She reminds me that you don't have to live close to be close and that if my house burns down again, it will still be okay to laugh.
And if I don't laugh? I know she will be there to listen to me cry.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Under My Skin
There are those who you love. Those who love you. The lucky few who fall firmly into both groups. And then there are those people, the rare- and heartbreakingly lovely people who seem to find a way to seep under your skin and take up residence somewhere close to your heart. Like a memory you won’t forget and can’t convince yourself you should, these people have a lure that makes them impossible to say goodbye to- even when you’ve tried.
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me cats aren't all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be.
I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me cats aren't all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.
The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.
I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.
And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.
And that’s how it should be.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Lent
I'm not really religious. I'm sort of muddled when it comes to choosing a name or a face for what I believe in, but I do believe in something. And I believe that believing in something makes me feel better.
But that's not the point of this ramble. This is about Lent.
I have a friend who practices Lent and I've always been intrigued by the idea of 'giving something up'. Will power has never been one of my strong suits, but that's because I hate the idea of giving something up forever. Forty days of sacrifice? That's something I can do.
It's been explained to me that deciding what you give up should be based on what you like. Since it's about sacrifice, it should involve giving up something you enjoy. (This point was made clear when I heroically declared I would give up folding my own laundry for the next month and a half). Apparently, a lot of people give up a favourite food. I dismissed this quickly. When you've already had to give up your favourite foods (and most food in general), and find that you actually dread having to decide what to cook because there are so few options (think celiac's disease and not a zealous food watcher)... the idea of giving up more food just doesn't seem right. Maybe that's selfish but until you've ate a green pepper for dinner because nothing else in your pantry is safe... do not judge.
I was explaining the idea of Lent to a friend who got me to re-summarize what criteria people used in deciding what they gave up.
Something they enjoy.
Something (in a lot of cases) that isn't healthy.
Something that they eat or use or experience often.
Then it hit me. I know what to give up.
I just have to figure out a way to tell him.
But that's not the point of this ramble. This is about Lent.
I have a friend who practices Lent and I've always been intrigued by the idea of 'giving something up'. Will power has never been one of my strong suits, but that's because I hate the idea of giving something up forever. Forty days of sacrifice? That's something I can do.
It's been explained to me that deciding what you give up should be based on what you like. Since it's about sacrifice, it should involve giving up something you enjoy. (This point was made clear when I heroically declared I would give up folding my own laundry for the next month and a half). Apparently, a lot of people give up a favourite food. I dismissed this quickly. When you've already had to give up your favourite foods (and most food in general), and find that you actually dread having to decide what to cook because there are so few options (think celiac's disease and not a zealous food watcher)... the idea of giving up more food just doesn't seem right. Maybe that's selfish but until you've ate a green pepper for dinner because nothing else in your pantry is safe... do not judge.
I was explaining the idea of Lent to a friend who got me to re-summarize what criteria people used in deciding what they gave up.
Something they enjoy.
Something (in a lot of cases) that isn't healthy.
Something that they eat or use or experience often.
Then it hit me. I know what to give up.
I just have to figure out a way to tell him.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Does anyone....?
Does anyone else ever imagine what the six Jeopardy categories they would most like to have if they were on the show? I think about this regularly and think I have mine narrowed down:
1. Books (preferably books by Melissa Banks or Bob Woodward)
2. Scrabble ( I really think I would do well in this. Probably because when I can't sleep I chose words and try to calcuate their scores. Wow. If I wasn't so awesome I would be a huge nerd.)
3. The Bush Administration (I'm not a fan, I just like reading about it)
4. Sex and the City or The Office (it feels wrong to have tv consume two categories, so I would be happy with either one.)
5. Places that start with "R" or movies starring John Cusack
6. Usless celebrity knowledge
Does anyone else feel that the Barack/Hillary debate is dangerous when people say things like "It's time a woman was president" or "it's time a black person was president", without saying a single comment about where each of them stand on important issues facing the States? Don't get me wrong, although I don't live in the States, I see myself more of a Democrat than Republican, but voting for someone because of what they look like seems just as bad as not voting for someone because of what they look like.
Also, does anyone else feel that there are backup singers on American Idol who should be contestants and contestants who should be back up singers?
And am I the only one who feels just really sad for Britney now? And then, sad that I feel so worried about someone I don't know?
I'm just curious.
1. Books (preferably books by Melissa Banks or Bob Woodward)
2. Scrabble ( I really think I would do well in this. Probably because when I can't sleep I chose words and try to calcuate their scores. Wow. If I wasn't so awesome I would be a huge nerd.)
3. The Bush Administration (I'm not a fan, I just like reading about it)
4. Sex and the City or The Office (it feels wrong to have tv consume two categories, so I would be happy with either one.)
5. Places that start with "R" or movies starring John Cusack
6. Usless celebrity knowledge
Does anyone else feel that the Barack/Hillary debate is dangerous when people say things like "It's time a woman was president" or "it's time a black person was president", without saying a single comment about where each of them stand on important issues facing the States? Don't get me wrong, although I don't live in the States, I see myself more of a Democrat than Republican, but voting for someone because of what they look like seems just as bad as not voting for someone because of what they look like.
Also, does anyone else feel that there are backup singers on American Idol who should be contestants and contestants who should be back up singers?
And am I the only one who feels just really sad for Britney now? And then, sad that I feel so worried about someone I don't know?
I'm just curious.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Tired
I'm tired. Not in the "I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade" way but in the "I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep" sort of way.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
It feels like it's a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.
Maybe it's the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and "I can't believe how much we are meant to be together" talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It's not pretty and I'm not proud. Maybe I'm suffering a Valentines Day hangover?
Or maybe it's the weather. I'm a scarf whore but I'm getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I'm tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I'm tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your truck has tires that are more bald than Britney. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.
It could be my job. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I'm not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that's the good stuff that's easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don't care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.
Or maybe it's nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it's a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favourite pair of mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I'm tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I'm tired because I don't understand what's happening on Lost or because today it feels like I'm the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it's all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.
This much I know
In heaven there will be applesauce, high top sneakers and duvets. You won't need to give explanations, or apologies or change for a dollar. There will be no alarm clocks or tube socks or allergies to gluten. Friendships and milk will never sour with age. You will never lose the reciept, your sanity, or a bet with your brother. Stamps will be free. You won't have the same argument, with the same person, in the same way for years on end. In fact- you won't argue at all.
Oh, and green gummy bears? They will fall from the sky like raindrops.
Oh, and green gummy bears? They will fall from the sky like raindrops.
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.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Love, love, love...
Valentines Day is approaching. Actually, I feel like it charging towards me in a blur of pink and red cellophane. I first noticed this the second week of January while at the mall searching for new mittens. Rows and rows of pink and red boxed chocolates, (enough to throw a diabetic into a seizure with a single glance), stuffed toys clutching hearts with stitched cliches and bouquets of roses were all crammed together in a shiny, blurry wonderland of love. It sort of made me nauseous.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it's cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You've found him! You shouldn't just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I've dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I'm now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over pubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Andy pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.
I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.
Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it's cold outside.) Here is what I found…
My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You've found him! You shouldn't just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I've dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I'm now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking soda constitutes romance.)
Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.
Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.
Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over pubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.
In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Andy pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Hittin' it like a lady
So I was at the bank today and saw a girl wearing a shirt that said:
"i fuck like a girl"
I couldn't help but think that it would have been funny if it said "tiger" instead of "girl". I mean, that would be a t-shirt I would throw down for. Plus, it would (finally) give me something to wear on a first date.
"i fuck like a girl"
I couldn't help but think that it would have been funny if it said "tiger" instead of "girl". I mean, that would be a t-shirt I would throw down for. Plus, it would (finally) give me something to wear on a first date.
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