dear larry (part 2)

I was sad to leave. I felt like I’d dropped out mid-sentence, just when we were getting to the verbs. I went back to Dublin to meet my girlfriend and my mood was less than ebullient. I felt bad and tried to turn it on for her, but I couldn’t shake the comedown from such an awesome experience. I had to go back to where my sister lived immediately after, as we had tickets to a show in London later that week.

Off to Edinburgh for the weekend, I had again, a couple of days to kill before going back to the UK for my flight home. We’d been texting, and drunkenly I asked if you missed me and if you wanted me to come back. You said you did, but were starting classes and couldn’t be with me during the day. I assured you I’d be fine, and booked a flight for the next day. When you picked me up at the train in Sligo, the sun was just setting over the town, and I wondered how our reunion would play out. After some witty banter about me being Batman (because of my sunglasses and penchant for wearing black), versus you being my sidekick Robin, things were very much playing out as they had left off.

Stopping for some Chinese food on our way to another remote country cottage, we saw a tractor parked in town as I pondered what Chinese food would taste like in small town Ireland. I had bought some bottles of wine during my one night stay in Dublin before taking the train, and our picnic complete, we took off into the sunset, driving through dirt roads on the emerald green fields in the countryside. Wowed by yet another beautiful view of the remote and rugged terrain, I had some trouble concentrating on our conversation, but you made it easy, and before long we'd made it to another cute country cottage.

Greeted by yet another friend of yours we made ourselves at home in the chill and the candelight of our 17th century cottage, bereft of electricity. We cuddled a bit and watched TV while visiting with your friend after dinner, and then retired to our room, which you had fitted out with dozens of tea lights, which you kept in your car? Impressed at your preparedness, I knew what to expect, but those expectations were totally surpassed in that little country cottage.

The next day after dropping me at Sligo for the day, we met up after your classes at a pub in town. I had already made quite a few friends, and could tell you were jealous. You swaggered in and sat right down beside me, as the occupant was in the loo. I smiled and told you you couldn’t sit there, and you grabbed me and asked me if I wanted to get out of there with you. Did I ever. We went for dinner at a little Italian place, and shared a dish, our aspirations, dreams, and what we thought we’d be doing at this time next year. It made me sure I was going to have an even harder time leaving the next day.

We couldn’t wait to get back to the cottage and made like high school kids in the back of your station wagon on an abandoned road in the country as the sun set. Continuing our party at home, we opened the blinds to reveal a backdrop of stars, clear as day without city lights. I could feel time running out. I hardly slept, wanting to hold those last few moments in my hands, feel your arms holding me from leaving.

I had to catch the train early the next day, and groggy in the dawn, you held me from going. We were almost late, but we made time for breakfast at a cute little café, and I gave you my email address. Deep down, I knew it would peter out, but I didn’t want to believe it.

When I got back to my sister’s place, I cried. Had I just left the best thing I’d ever had? I would never know. We didn’t have enough time. But the time we had was amazing. I think about it fondly, whenever I’m down and out and wondering where Mr. Right might be. Because I know there are amazing guys out there like you, and that gives me hope.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Lawrence, and I just want to thank you for being so good to me. I don’t find it very often, but I did that day in that crowded bar in Dublin, and you gave me the experience of a lifetime.

xo
A

mind trip

this is a must see

dear larry

That night, in Dublin, you weren’t my first offer. Some guys we had been sitting with offered to take me golfing on the couple of days I had free after my sister left. I love golfing, and they were very nice guys. You were standing by yourself, no one around, in the middle of a busy bar. Or maybe, that’s how I saw you. The grin on your face was mysterious, and my sister spoke to you first, told me you claimed to be from Belgique. The accent wasn’t so far off, but when I tried to speak to you in French, the blank look on your face told me you were throwing me a load of blarney. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, intrigued, but not enough to digest why you’d try to pass yourself off as someone else. When I got back, you asked me if I liked to surf. Wondering why, I, of course couldn’t answer yes or no, had to answer a question with a question. Finally you asked me if I wanted to go surfing with you, the day after next. I just said yes.

When I tried to call the next day to arrange our meeting spot, I was really nervous. I felt like I was calling a boy for the first time, and even though you’d asked me, I didn’t know why. I had to call 4 times, and ask the guy at the front desk how to even dial, as I had no idea. I finally got through, and we planned to meet the next day.

Trinity College is a big place in the middle of busy Dublin, I saw you right away, tall with windswept hair and a smattering of freckles with those mischievous green eyes. You didn’t see me right away, so I followed you into the stone courtyard till you turned around and saw me standing in the middle, waiting for you. I followed you back to your car, and carried my own bag, even after you offered twice. Typical surfer boy, you were wearing flip flops, had a station wagon complete with a surf board inside and sand everywhere. The drive was four hours, and I had brought some roadies just in case. The countryside was beautiful as we drove across Ireland, and we even met some gypsies along the way (they were kind enough to wave back at us with their middle fingers). You told me about your family, and I told you about mine. The conversation was easy, and the ride went fast. When we got to Strandhill, that little beach town on the edge of the northwest coast, the sun was low, and it was windy but beautiful. We got out to walk on the sand barefoot, check out the surf, and then drove up to your friend’s cozy cottage.

You made me feel at home, you warned me about his big dog, offered me tea, and sat me down to smoke a joint, have a tea, and throw around some bullshit with your buddy. You arranged for a surf board and wetsuit for me and we drove out to the spot. Cows munching on grass bordering the rocky beach, I felt like I was in another world. The freezing water didn’t even faze me. I was surfing in Ireland in September with a gorgeous boy I had just met. It was fabulous. We each changed on either side of the car, and when I got back in, I was freezing. You touched my eyelashes, amazed at the power of waterproof mascara. And then you kissed me. Softly, it sent chills down my spine. I opened my eyes and saw yours closed.

We went for dinner and then met with some of your friends at a pub, where real Irish musicians were jamming together. I wanted more kisses and so did you. We both agreed we weren’t the PDA type of people, but we couldn’t help ourselves. After going back to your friend’s cottage, we sat around and smoked some more, but I was tuckered and went to bed. You automatically assumed we would share, and I’m glad for it. You cuddled up to me, holding me close, still chilled from surfing in the cold. We didn’t waste time, and I’m glad because it was one of the best nights of my life.

I had to leave the next day, quite early as I had planned to meet a girlfiend in Dublin and couldn’t reschedule. You begged me to stay the weekend, come out to a surf festival with you. It was the hardest 'no' of my life. I wanted to drop everything, stay with you, drive around finding surf spots, camping out where we could, smoking irish spliffs, living like gypsies, warm in your arms. But I had to go.

(to be continued….)

lockdown

Just giving away the milk has not been working for me lately. obviously. I'm a girl who likes to have fun, doesn't really know the meaning of no, and only sees when she's gone too far in hindsight. How would I even know if I got what I asked for for Christmas if I can only see looking back and not when it's right in front of me. What does this mean, literally? I think, trying to only give my milk to the right milkman when I know it's the right milkman. A little dribble now and then to a milkman who feels the same as I do - unpropriatry - i think is okay. I'm not going to flog myself for this. But i don't want to be a dry cow and put out to pasture before I'm thirty. A little far with the analogy, I know. I want to see straight, basically, and I can't see anything with all these little distractions in front of me. If the lockdown helps me to have a clearer perspective, I'm all for it. Of course, old habits are hard to break, and I only hope I will persevere in this endeavor. Not calling this a New Years resolution, 'cause it's not New Years yet; calling this a small kindness to myself (dependant on the outcome). Let's see what happens..........

ghosts of christmas past

The best gift I ever gave……was probably something I made when I was little and gave to my mommy out of pure love and not the materialistic shit I purchase with my maxxed out credit card nowadays.

My most inspiring holiday moment…..was getting really stoned with all of my cousins on Christmas Eve and revelling in the snowy world, the glowy lights and the sense of togetherness we had from trying to conceal how high we really were when we got home to our drunken parents.

The worst gift I ever got…..came from Santa and was wrapped in the same Christmas paper I had previously discovered while snooping in my Grandparents closet. That’s the year I discovered Santa wasn’t real.

If I could sit on Santa’s lap I’d ask for……What? I still can’t sit on Santa’s lap? Bump that. Last time I sat on Santa’s lap, I was eighteen and I asked him for a texas mickey of Rye. This time I’d ask him for a car that has no broken signal lights and where I can lift the hood so I can actually use windshield washer fluid and get an oil change. For fantasy’s sakes, it’d be a very cool 78’ oldsmobile pimped out snoop doggy style. Then I could wear my furs and fedora with it and rep like I’m already an eccentric old lady. Cane required.

One time I stood under the mistletoe……and wished that the first boy I loved still loved me. It took me a long long time to realize that even if I got that kiss, it didn’t mean what it used to. And, that no kiss would ever come from that place when you love someone with so much naïveté, you can’t ever imagine that they would do anything to hurt you or you them. And, you look back and can’t believe you didn’t enjoy it more at the time.

One time, when I drank spiked egg nog……one time? Come on now, many times during the holidays when I drink spiked and straight anything, my family likes to play inappropriate games where you realize your grandma might still be getting lucky and the form response to most questions is ‘hookers and booze’. Obviously being drunk is required.

weekend jekyll

When I get asked at work how my weekend was, my response usually ranges from a vague ‘good’ to the ever ambiguous ‘busy’. I wonder if they notice the little twinkle in my eye when I think back on the snapshots of my weekend, suppressing giggles just thinking about all of the naughty/fun/rawkus/ weird things I got into:

cozy at home with my friend eating goat cheese pizza and drinking winter spice.

sliding into the side of a cab boxing my ears between the door and the cab….requisite drinking injury.

outside a club, way too early, bouncer refuses to card us, we realize we’re the only ones there over the age of 19.

drinking shots of wild turkey, dancing at the next spot, lesbian grabs my waist and whispers something in my ear, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen enough for one night.

wake up feeling not as rough as anticipated meeting some friends for greasy breakfast and deciding a course of caesars is required. When it’s -26 degrees Celsius, the only thing to do during the day is drink. No wonder Canadians invented caesars.

deciding that the prescribed course of action should also involve naked dancing girls, we head to the peelers.

realize that it’s so cold that guys won’t even come out to ogle strippers and we are the only people watching the show. Creepy.

generously two of us decide to spend ten dollars worth of loonies on the dancer. My visiting friend is shocked that launching the coins at the dancer is ‘normal’ in Alberta.

on to the next spot, we rack up a $200 drinking tab before 4 pm.

friend drives us home in the frigid cold. Kisses me goodbye on the lips?

12 hours of drinking later, back at my place, friend asks me if I want to Hawaiian hot box my bathroom. Ummmm, yes. Then he proceeds to get naked. Obviously the next portion is x rated.

drinking port and eating gingerbread cookies on a Sunday night, dreading the cold and the fact that tomorrow is Monday, but cozy and warm together in my humble adobe.

xmas wish list

Dear Santa,
If having fun constitutes as naughty, I fully admit to being a bad girl. Although this admission predicates coal in my stocking, you would think that a 24 year old girl’s belief in Santa alone would be rewarded with at least a little sumthin’ sumthin’. And not the ’bow chick a wow wow’ sumthin’ you’re probably thinking. Although that would be nice. On a regular basis. If you deem me to be really really good, maybe you can remember that. Anyways, if after observing my behaviour since last Christmas , you think I might be worthy of something in your fat sack of presents and want to come down my chimney, here’s a list- filled with some things definitely fantasy, but most, definitely do-able. Especially if you’re really as magical as they say you are.

1. A beer tap beside my water tap. At this time of year, filled with Winter Spice, but changeable with the season, and for my taste, slightly (just a touch) flat.
2. A teleporter. So I never have to drive, or think about catching a flight ever again-and see my sister just for the weekend whenever I’d like. If they can do it in that T.V. show- Star Trek- you can definitely do it.
3. A maid. No, no, not one that’s around all the time and comes to my beck and call. Just a once a month, deep cleaning, fanatically detail oriented cleaning lady who has big arms with which to scrub and laser eyes with which to see those microscopic dirt mites.
4. Access to borrow basically any item of clothing I would like. Then I could dress as fantastically as I’d like, and never wear the same thing twice-unless I want to.
5. Tall, dark, handsome, nice, accomplished, likes to sit around with the newspaper and not speak with me all morning while cuddling in front of the fire. Likes to drive and travel, reads real books, dresses not like a slob-perhaps even a bit fashionably, nice to my family and friends, able to be social, but set his own boundaries and respect mine- Man. Not boy. Not man-boy.
6. A weed plant that grows in my house, but I don’t have to water it or take care of it, and it produces grade-A ganja.

I just want to remind you that, over the years, I’m the one who leaves you some really nice over 15 year aged single malt scotch, as well as a beer and some yummy cookies and carrots for your reindeer. Hope you’re having fun ramping up to the big day. Thanks again for giving me what I asked for last year—six packs of Winter Spice. It was a little late, but gratefully received nonetheless. Do you like cigars? Maybe I’ll leave you a Cuban I got while in Mexico this year. Also wondering, do you have x ray vision to see what we’re all doing? You must get a good show.

Hope your yearly endeavour goes off without a hitch this year.

Best Wishes,
Amber

xoxoxo

swoon

four words: James Franco. General Hospital.
Cheesy at times, but wait till he starts the kissing and suddenly you'd give your right leg to be Maxi and have the horrid job to be on a soap opera and make out with JAMES FRANCO.




Best lines:
"More than a one night commitment makes be break out in a rash."
"Your pants are already halfway down your thighs."
**Le Sigh.

de de de

Does humming make people happy or do happy people hum?

Sent from my iPhone

creating solitude in the 21st century

As someone who doesn't even have a remote control and who gives many people the impression I don't have cable, I have become my worst nightmare: an anti-social, smart phone obsessed girl.

In fact, I just figured out how to blog from my phone and have added a total of 5 applications since I acquired this beast less than 48 hours ago. The reprecussions to my social life are binary in nature and my new appendage is most certainly becoming life-changing.

Yesterday morning, in place of my usual Saturday workout, I sat on my couch for 4 hours giving my thumbs a workout uploading the phone with songs and all my contacts. Instead of actually speaking to anyone on the phone, with the advantage of a plan that has unlimting texting, I can now inhabit a world where face-to-face socialization is scarcely necessary. And when it is occuring, I can be socializing with scores of alternate people at the same time. What happens to monogamous friend-time in this new world?

Instead of enjoying downtime in a relaxing fashion, I can constanly be occupied with the thousands, if not millions is activities available to me through this phone. Bye bye to sitting down with a book. Paper versions are so antiquated. I can upload any book or newspaper on here and read it on my 3 by 2 inch sceen!

And if my real-life plans with friends fall through, and i'm left alone at home? Not alone! Virtually connected to everything with my phone.

And a possible loss of my device?(As many people are aware of my loser tendancies).

I'd most certainly shrivel up and die.

Sent from my iPhone (ie. 21st century crack)

lessons in spanish

Ola! As I have just returned from Mexico, I thought I'd share some lessons I learned while south of the border, indulging in some much needed relaxation, sun & lots of tequila.

1. Eat where the mexicans eat. It's the best food around. Hands down. Wherever the 'gringos' (ie. us white tourists) are, it's likely to have hamburgers on the menu. And hamburgers taste like shit in Mexico.
2. Apparently some men think that showing you pictures of their children will make you swoon over them and possible even make you horny(!?!) and want to hook up with them. This is completely untrue, and the need to run away intensifies after they tell you that their kid was concieved in Alaska. EW.
3. Chillin' in a cougar bar and watching the action go down can be one of the most entertaining activities ever. The barracudas can be a liablity, but once you let them know you're not interested, they will turn to the heavy scent of desperation coming from the rest of the bar patrons and be all over those ladies like a cat on tuna.
4. Happy hour is quite backwards and can get confusing pretty quickly. Instead of 2 for 1 it's 1 for 2 or 2 for 4 and 6 for 12 and before you know it you have a table of drinks in front of you and all you really know is you're probably only paying for half. But you're paying double the next day.
5. Garlic tastes really good when it's cooked. Almost like a baby potato. Easy to mistake the two, especially after a couple of salty dogs. The mistake is quickly revealed the next day, when 7 cloves of garlic emanating from your pores have people feeling from nostalgia for their local pizzaria back home.
6. When you're playing volleyball on the beach in Mexico, right around happy hour, no one wants to play with you when you start dictating rules and formation (hint hint Mr. Hardcore Califonia). Hitting the ball over the net and in the court in any way shape or form should be sufficient. Extra points for the more tequila you've had.
7. Salsa is the best invention ever. It's pretty much a food group unto itself, or it should be. You can eat it in a million ways and at every meal. Picante!
   

Hopefully the tequila still emanating through my veins will provide me with enough zen (sedation) as I re-adjust to reality. If not, it's only a plane ride away.

why fun things are so much better

unfourtunatley, in real life you have to do shit you hate to do. these things are infinitley more 'fun' (if you can even use that word) when you're fucked up, but this is not always possible.

i did a lot of things i hate to do today, such as:

1. folding laundry and putting it away. i've already put it in the wash and switched it to the dryer. why should there be any more steps?
2. standing in line when the person behind me feels the need to invade my personal space. because that always makes the line go faster.
3. doing dishes. that's what the dishwasher is for.
4. getting out of the shower and getting changed in the winter. it's cooooolllldd.
5. phoning people i don't know. like for delivery or appointments. even though I know it's their job, i dunno i just don't like it.
6. dealing with salespeople who ask me if I need help too many times.
7. anything that involves my car and getting my hands dirty.
   
   If anything, these possibly indicate that I need a butler, or a husband, or a wife, or a nanny. But I will settle for enjoying doing the things I like that much more in contrast to the things I don't. Happy Friday!

o la la

This is why you should watch Brothers and Sisters. And he has a very hot french accent.

the dirtbag allure

Most of my friends would agree I have a penchant to be attracted to guys who have a certain look, a certain 'je ne sais quoi'. It's been characterized as being drawn to men who look "homeless"; like a "dirtbag", or "greasy". I do admit to really liking long hair, beards, and tattoos. But there must be more. In an attempt to analyze what this mystery 'thing' is, I have decided to peruse some men who I would 100% fall in love with and why:

I like a guy with some girth to him. I mean look at this guy, he could totally throw me over his shoulder and take me into the woods with him and give me duck mites. And the belly definitley would be awesome to cuddle with. I'm in, Brawny paper towel man.

Personally, I think Justin Bobby is a dick. Wait a second--perfect for me! Look at the hotness that just exudes from his cocky attitude and beautiful hair. The chest hair gives him bonus points. I would definitley ride on the back of his motorcycle.

This is pre-'only by night' album, before they sold out to the man and started making nickelbackesque albums. I can't decide which one is the hottest. But since the guy with the glasses (second from left) still has his hair and glasses I'd totally get busy with him on that hardwood floor with him for not selling out. Extra kudos for the sweet sweet mustache.

It's cliché and he's like forty, but I would still love him when he was sixty five.
What James? You have like three degrees and would probably romance me with some beautiful poems and intelligent conversation? Make room for me on that bed.

You can't tell if he wants to kill you or make sweet love to you. Hot.

Totally out of his mind, bat-crazy. Perfect. I love the cleft lip too. Probably second in line to be as crazy as Joaquin. But Natalie Portman used to date this guy and she's a totally smart woman. Extra points for dressing like everything from an indian guru to jimi hendrix to a 70's pimp on occasion.

Three yeses.

Moral of the story: I just prefer a guy who has a look in their eye like the next thing that comes out of their mouth may be totally wacked out, but is totally and utterly interesting. Clean cut is always welcome (I mean most of these guys have the capability to go that route), but they most certainly have to have the 'je ne sais quoi' that all of the above have.

directionless? rock on.

sometimes people (usually older adults/A++++ type people/your parents) ask you where you see yourself in five years.

five years?

i don't even know where I see myself tonight. or this weekend. or next week. or next month.

i mean i do see myself doing some key things:

-partying

-trying to have a good time

-chillin

-eating some meals

-rocking some cool outfits

-reading some good books

-travelling

-talking/hanging out with my rad friends

-flirting

-getting laid (fingers crossed)

-all the other little things that make me happy/amused (ie. not waiting in line for coffee, reading the paper before I go to work, eating rawkus breakfasts, not eating eggplant, dancing, drinking red stripe, etc...)

i've heard that us gen xers need to 'get a life', 'grow up' ecetera, ecetera. but really when will your life ever be as comittment free as to be exhorbitantly selfish ever again? i'm not invested in a career. this is my time. i can think about what i like to do. and maybe it's sad that i have no real long term goals, don't see myself growing up, and don't really even care if i have the same job and live in the same city in six months or a year.

when i was in elementary school, i had goals: to get the other girls to like me and to get to junior high alive. (and secretly, to become a catholic saint???)

when i was in junior high, i had goals: to get the boys to like me (and still the girls), to experience all the new 'bad' stuff as fast as possible, and to get to high school.

when i was in high school, i had goals: to do as many 'bad' things as possible without getting caught, to get the boys to like me (and still the girls), and to do well enough to graduate and to get into a cool university.

when i was in university, i had goals: to party as hard as I could and still manage to get a degree, and have fun while doing it all.

now, i have a job (supposed next step), and i don't have goals (other than the ones above, but those are more action items). but, i'm cool with that. it means the next step could be doing anything: travelling, having a real-ationship, getting fired, going back to school, eating a pb & j sandwhich, tripping on acid. really the possibilities are endless when you have no plan, and no plan to plan. rock on.

P.S.- I've noticed as of late, my blog is really word heavy. So, as a tribute to rocking on, above is my Jimmy who rocks, and who, i would love to rock his world.

bed breaker

make no mistake. i'm not a virgin bed breaker. i'm also not a heifer. so let's go with...energetic. i like some adventure, and if it means mystery bruises and broken furniture, i'm there.

but, i feel different about this one. i can't get it/him, out of my mind. mostly the cadence of his voice. like a fast but slow way of speaking. kind of musical. it had a beat. a very happy beat.

the whole way he carried himself had the beat. so refreshing to be around someone who clearly cares about his friends and even strangers and is genuinely kind.

it was fun. really, really fun. but i can't dwell on my bed breaker partner in crime. the sound of the beat will fade and maybe i'll forget the sound. but i hope i still remember the fun, crazy night, destruction and all.


P.S.- i discovered a new blogger today and she says something i think every girl should remember:
"in a perfect world, you'd only be having sex with guys who, if they accidentally got you pregnant, you might not even consider an abortion." genius.

you're so crazy it's funny

how refreshing! I hear the c-word (or it's synonyms) used a lot, but never like this.
Usually it's...
"I can't even believe what you did last night, that was insane." So, I got kicked out of a bar for breaking some glasses and getting it on in the bathroom. Get over it.
or,
"Are you crazy?" Is that really that crazy to get pulled over by a cop car while wearing lingere at 3 am? I got out of that ticket, that's for sure.
or,
"I chased after you for six blocks after you stormed out of a cab after making a scene at the club, are you out of your mind?" That person was probably pissing me off in the first place, no wonder I wanted to get away.
or,
"I can't believe you asked me to get it on with you on top of a cop car. Are you insane?" I thought it would be fun to get arrested that way. What a party pooper.

But I liked this particular one. I recived it via text last night, and it really made me smile this morning. The sender is pretty off his rocker himself, so I guess it takes one to know one. And at least he doesn't take it too seriously. I've had to deliver warnings to new dates about my behavior being percieved as off-kilter (you could say), but i like when someone gets it. It's just part of my temperament. Love it or hate it, better to take it lightly and laugh.

of dying of the heiney, and other things.....

the whirlwind that has been october so far reminds me of my current thought process. so much is going on, the focus becomes split second. adjusting the lens, it becomes clear for a moment and then reverts to a blurry approxmiation of what i'm seeing. the reflection of my fragmented thoughts is as follows:

-i could very well die tomorrow of the heiney (H1N1), if so, i want to be high on acid. this way i'll have no idea what's going on (or it could be ten times trippier, but whatever, i wanna go out with a bang).

-i tend to pursue really toxic boys. i feel like it's that cocktail party where the nice normal coversations make you nod off. but then, someone starts going off on how twizzlers were actually invented by the japanese back in the 5th century, and you know they're totally off their rocker, and it's fun. way funner than a diatribe about how Obama should have or shouldn't have won the Nobel Peace Prize. snore. it happened. get over it.

- i really like dancing by myself in public. especially when there are smoke machines.

- getting drunk is overrated. getting to the point where you feel you can't get drunk but then everyone tells you that you were, in fact, probably quite inebriated, is way funner.

-my family is really fun. if you wanna have a party, invite two or three of us, and it's on. Case in point: Thanksgiving. What began as a hungover morning with Bailey's and coffee and five recipes and raw ingredients, ended as a perfectly executed turkey dinner proceeded by a rawkus impromptu dance party.

-the pizza joint is the best place to be at the end of the night. there is always something entertaining happening. some guy could say you're a scary crazy person and try to make out with you in the same sentence.

-skinny fat is the new black. essential for winter. camouflaging. if i die of heiney tomorrow, i don't want to deny myself my mom's banana chocolate chip muffins. plus, it's too goddamm wintery out there to work out (minus the dancing/dance parties).

-if you don't check your mail for a couple of weeks, maybe you don't have bills to pay. (plus, when i die of the heiney, i won't have to pay them anyways).

- over analyzing anything takes the fun and spontenaiety out of it. let it go. live now. (you might die of the heiney tomorrow).

-if you enjoy the things you have, you won't miss the things you think you need but don't have.

of course, i could go on and on. but here ends the prothetizing of a hybrid brothers grimm/wacked out philosopher. i know the whirlwind will end soon, and I will most likely experience nostalgia for the fast pace, but hopefully, i will relish the time for reflection on what has been a very fractured and schizophrenic existence.

poor man's bread

"Sensationalism," he said, as his mustache stroked his bottom lip. "Sensationalism, is what we strive for. It's how we sell ideas, it's how we make money." The twinkle in his eye was not sarcasm as I had hoped, but a reflection of what he saw every day: Dollar signs.

Unimpressed, I looked at him drolly. "Sensationalism," I began. "Is poor man's bread. Easy to make, easy to give, easy to take, easy to digest. Creating sensationalism isn't art, it isn't even a trade. There's no real talent or technique needed. There's something to be said for someone who can capture even the most mundane moment in words. How we interact with each other, the little nuances we notice but can't properly articulate. Henry James was the master of this. I think real talent lies, not in piquing people's interest, giving them fast food, but in piquing their intellect, giving them something to chew on, think about."

My words hit his dazzled dollar sign wall. I could tell he was listening, but not really. His eye was on the prize, and to him, the dollar was almighty. As to where our paths would lead, I would hope to very different destinations. I would never want to recognize myself in that place.

bookend

it turned out to be a bookend. not the flaming burnout I expected, no explosion leading to death. just a faint whimper. of relief. that i finally know how it turns out. i can finally move on, without wondering. did i miss 'it'? am i suffering alone like he is, wondering how it would be if we could be together?

he smells the same. when he speaks to me and he's alone, it's the same. same as it's always been. witty banter, comfortable silences. we're familiar with each other. but there's something missing. something distinct. the sense that alone, we're floundering without each other. i still beleive we understand each other like no other. but i know now, I can make it alone. i don't need him. i'm not dying without being able to bask in his glow.

in hindsight, it was a half glow. we both wanted to be fully immersed, but sensed in each other, the vortex. and fear. we'd get lost in each other, and lose ourselves.

but now, the intensity seems to have dissapated. and i realize. that's all we had. we only had the vortex. and like any tornado, at the core, it was empty. the feelings swirled and we were surrounded. i basked in the feeling i got from it. i mistook intensity for love. and we did love, but not the kind of love that sacrifices for each other. because if that was the case, seven years later, we would have done everything to make it work. but we didn't. we gave up when the tornado became too much to bear. it was agonizing. i felt lost without him. and now......

i don't. i've found my place. and being with him again. made me see. i can do this without you. it makes me sad, but it's painted right in front of me. and it's beautiful freedom. i will always love him, but now i have a bookend to our story. a place where my fifteen year old self can find peace. i don't wonder why we didn't do this or that, because everything we did lead us to this place. hopefully the place we're meant to be.

dear aly

it's been two days since my last confession. since then, I have tried to be good, but failed miserably. time warp two years and I'm back to square one. minus the intense emotion. it was weird. quite unemotional and all functional. perhaps i've been burned so much i'm numb? not sure what will happen next. guaranteed surprise.

check please?

Tuesday night, we went to my favorite neighbourhood pizza place for my aunt's birthday. Pulchinella's makes what I consider to be the best pizza in town, with a real wood pizza oven. It's casual but elegant; nice bottles of wine accompany a variety of gourmet pizzas. I arrived to join my mom, who already had a glass of prosecco in hand and greeted by a very cute waiter who offered to bring me one of the same. He was very friendly and charismatic, making fun of the fact that I was filling out my aunt's birthday card moments before she arrived. There was an instant rapport, but as someone who used to be a waitress, I know you try to develop that with most customers you serve, it makes the experience more pleasant for both, and you might get a good tip out of it.

As the identified wine chooser most nights, I was torn between two varieties of Pinot Grigio. I explained it to our waiter and he offered to bring me a taster of both. When he asked me how I was enjoying the eventual choice (one that I did not prefer), he could tell I wasn't enamoured and asked me what kind of wine I liked. Then brought be a mini glass of gertzweimmer as I had told him I like sweet wines. The flirting was so overt, that he came over to ask my dad if he wanted another beer, the indicator being an empty glass, began talking to me, and promptly forgot.

Further on in the night, he was joking about something I didn't clue in to, and was appalled I had never seen Monty Python. He told me to watch it and "come back, we can talk about it for 20 minutes, or the whole night depending on how it goes." Right in front of my whole family.

Now, I ask. Was that asking me out? Is my mother right to wonder why I didn't 'seal the deal' at the end of the night? I thought it was awkward to put my number on the bill, or even, my email. Maybe I screwed it up, but I intend on going back. Not in a stalkerish way, but when it's slower, and maybe he's not my waiter and I can make sure the interest is real and not just an overdrive on customer/waiter rapport.

I can say, however, that I was six shades of red by time I left.

the bet

As I indicated in my last post, I have become a shoe-rich pauper. In order to alleviate this issue, I have gone to extreme measures. Sitting in a bar over a ceasar with my sister as we waited for her flight to depart, discussing our mutual money woes, we made a bet. No shopping for two months. First one to cave buys the other one a pair of Nudies. This is a big bet. The only things allowed are tights, bras and birthday presents and necessities (ie. food, face cream, tp).

At first I was really anxious that my shopaholic monster might not be able to adhere to these guidelines. But quite quickly, after my mother took me on a torturous trip to a new big awesome mall in town (like immediatley after we made the bet), did I realize that I can survive this form of self-flagellation. I do, however, have some strategies:

1. Go shopping with others who are allowed to buy stuff and encourage their outrageous purchases. (Any takers?)
2. Post my services as a FREE personal shopper. You have $$? I have the interest and the time.
3. Copious amounts of online shopping with the concluding click closing the browser window instead of purchasing the cart.
4. Shop my own closet. This will definitley force my creativity, but with the seasons changing, I think it'll be fun to find gems I haven't worn since last fall.

I know I can win this, and a new pair of Nudies would be nice, but I hope both of us win, cause really we can't live in a house made of shoes (contrary to the thought espoused in popular nursery rhymes).

one of those girls

I always knew I was a shoe whore. I mean nothing makes me giddier than a brand spanking new pair of ass kicking shoes. The kind of shoes where you can pretty much wear all black, or jeans and a t shirt and they take centre stage. I mean sure, i have the basics, white leather keds, black flats (with stylized cutouts), black pumps (very expensive italian patent ones), etc.. But I also regularily covet the ones that give other people reverse whiplash. Their head whips down super fast, and around as you strut away... where would my swagger be without these babies?

Shoes definitley aren't the key to my self esteem, but they definitley boost my confidence. i can't even imagine having that feeling in a pair of flip flops!

Today I have realized that I am one of those girls. You know the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie has no money for a down payment, but a closet full of shoes. I am now one of those girls. I haven't bought groceries in a week. I am seriously considering a cereal diet in order to facilitate future shoe buying (and crawling out of the shoe debt I am currently in). I have to say, my daddy raised me to be more financially responsible than this, and now look- i'm one of those girls. I may be bummed, but I'm not ashamed- I still have my swagger. Complete with a fierce pair of studded strappy heels.


N.B. I always find money for drinking. Food is really third on the list.

binge state

typically reluctant to live in reality, I've discovered a way to create a film between myself and what may or may not be real (enough there for another post) in order to keep myself coasting in my non-real fantasy realm. drugs and alcohol. i know, i know it seems so obvious. but really, you have to go on a pretty intense binge in order to get yourself to the point where, while still functioning in the world, you don't give two flying fucks about what is supposed to be happening. cause it's all one long dream, waking or asleep, the film creates a distortion that is perfectly suited to enough unreality to satiate me.

it just so happens that when you're fucked up 80% of the time, the 20% of the time, when you're not, you can be unbalanced enough to wonder what the hell people are doing, but write it off as if you're at a party where everyone is blasted and their odd behavior can be attributed to drugs or alcohol. basically, it means that when people act like complete idiots sober, you laugh in your head like that 'ha ha look everyone is drunk' moment at a party or a club, when you realize you're just off enough to think it's funny, and really, why take it seriously.

so this binge state has lead to a 'i don't give a fuck mode'. and because we only live once, why have a mini anxiety attack every day because people act like idiots.

when this wears off, it might be a real bitch. but if Hunter S. maintained it for years, why not? (other than the inevitable psycosis).

faded ochre

the dust settles, leaving it in the middle of the road. the once rich velvet holds a dusty glamour; still elegant, the worn spots on the arms and seat indicate something well loved, or well used. the rich ochre has faded but still holds a jewel tone bringing out the rich mahogany of the arm insets, scratched but still shining from varnish, applied lovingly, long, long ago.

such a beautiful piece of work, it's apparent it was crafted back when crafts were valued and treasured. now it's disposable. left here, in this dirt road, in the middle of nowhere. waiting for the next person to see the elegance under the dust, see how loved the seats were, how valued the aesthetic was. something not to be missed. but here it is, lying in wait, covered in grime, waiting. because someone who appreciates the work, the understated elegance, the love put into it, will see, and belong.

nights make the day dull

societal expectations are out of control. it's almost illegal to say you don't care about a sucessful career in the corporate world. because what other type of occupation is acceptable? perhaps it's the WASP family background I come from; example:
why in the hell would you get an MA if you could get an MBA?
because i have no desire to be a CEO or the like.
why the hell not?

seriously, these two perspectives don't really conicide. and any disscussion around them leads to a roadblock.

i like the idea that societal ideal needs to change to become a place where people feel comfortable and supported succeeding in whatever they're most passionate about and talented in. weather that's being the best stripper you can be, the best politician you can be (lots of comparisons between those two occupations, but that's for another post), the best teacher you can be, the best artist you can be, or whatever.

what's the point if you do well at it and you don't give two shits? you're living in a shell where you function in the expected way, but you're removed from yourself. When talent and ambition coincide you find a place where you not only do well, but you want to do well and it makes you happy. I don't know if that place exists for everyone in our current society. I think many people like to beleive it does, and believe that they're in that place. But I think it's probably a fantasy. Because dreams live at night and vanish during the day. Stifled by our product driven, time crunched society, dreams have no place to flourish during the day.

save your shoes! use a condom!

Watching octomom on Entertainment Tonight last night (I know, I know, not exactly the most intellectual endeavor). But, driving to work this morning, and noticing how my fifties-esque dress made me look---shall we say, slightly pregnant--- I had a horrifying thought. What if I did accidentally have some type of extreme lapse of judgement and let some guy's spermazoid attach to one of my eggs? With my budget, paying for diapers, cribs, daycare, etc... would mean I would have to stop buying shoes. Sacré bleu! Thank the lord for modern contraception. Let's see what the catholic church has to say about using visualization as birth control. I bet they'd like it.

Just think, you're in the heat of the moment, and nobody has a condom. Then you think "Do I risk it? Do I risk losing it all? Those snakeskin booties, hot pink heels, thigh high patent boots, pewter croc platforms?" I think not. Is it worth the time he takes to get off (most guys average 3 minutes max), for a lifetime of fabulous shoes? Hells no. I'll take shoes over diapers any day.

a world of memories

I live in the world that I create. Does reality touch this world? It depends how you see it. What is reality? If the world I live in is real to me, real in that, the way I see it, it becomes my reality. So the old cliche "things are what you make of them" would be true. I can't control what people do to me, but I can control my reaction, my personal response to these things. More and more, I just let things go. I forgo lucid, vivid living for a dreamlike existence that sets me apart. Unengaged, aloof, I appear bored. Because, the day to day---that bores me. Worrying about the cost of gas. Who's writing the report, etc.. I don't really care. Worrying less amplifies the world I want to live in. The world I choose to live in. I know it's not real though. Things happen to me, but not really to me. My blank eyes take it in, and it's like a memory already. I live in memories, when more I want to live in the present. But when you live in your own reality, the present is what you want to see, and for me they are instant memories. Like dreams. It happens so fast, I don't know if it really did happen, and it's an instant memory. The way my mind has shaped reality, becomes what the present was. And the memory is something i can mould. I can choose when to remember, choose if it's important to me, choose to hold on or lose it.

the pariah and the butterfly

Marked by a look of sadness and loss, her dead eyes always seem to be staring into nothing. The thin veneer of optimism and sensitivity for others wears thin and the anger bubbling below becomes visible. Anger for the void she feels all of the time, waiting for something, someone to spark the flint that she believes is dead. Angry that nobody seems to want to or try to love her the way she needs---and angry that she needs this, that it eats at her and wears down the paint. The gloss is gone and the color is fading and it won’t be long until she fades into the background or burns to the ground.

Approach with caution, the pariah is volatile. One extreme to the other, she can’t seem to find her bearings, her emotions taking her further and further from herself.

In stark opposition: The butterfly. A beautiful creature, nothing seems to scar her, mark her as affected. She flits over the world, in reality, but it doesn’t seem to weigh on her as heavily as it does on the pariah. Memories last forever in the vault that the pariah has created in her head. The butterfly has the ability to forget, move on. The green monster grows as the pariah wishes to fly, but the vault weighs her down. She turns red, angry and wants to crush the beauty, the assuredness, the pure freedom that seems to bless the butterfly. And when she does; shows the butterfly her ugly face; scares her away for good, she instantly regrets it. Living without beauty, she no longer has any reprieve from the joy that the butterfly gave her. Just to watch her, so sure of herself, so free—should have been enough. But for the pariah, as much as she tries to avoid it, the void engulfs her, and nothing is ever enough.

scheduling spontaneity

"I'd do anything for you"
"I'm there for you, whatever, whenever"

Romantic statements. I believe my loved ones when they say this to me.

But what about those other times? You know, when you're sitting around and you just want someone to sit next to you, even if it's to comment on the ludicrousness of some reality TV show. Or to sit outside of a coffee shop with you and people watch, imagining the back story of every couple and family who passes by. Or to ramble around the city on a nice day, no destination in mind, stopping for a drink on a nice patio.

Our world is so scheduled and organized. We have to allot time for people, pencil them in. It leaves no room for that sunny day when you realize you just want your friend to hang out with you, or someone to just sit with you when you feel the world encroaching and you want someone to share it with.

Because the days are long, but the years are short. And looking back at some of my favorite moments, they were never penciled in my calendar.

mistaken heart

no longer young and naive, I try to keep it tucked in tight. inherently honest and trusting, I give a lot away. i mistook your words for the truth. i gave more than i should have.

we were there, in that place where everything looks like it fits just right. i imagined you fit right in, and projected the same was true for me in your life.

i feel foolish, like i was dancing around in my underwear, not a care in the world. sudden pain, bleeding feet, i hobble back. i see the scene with fresh eyes, and I still can't understand how the glass got there.

mistaken heart?

not on my part.

pause.

i work my leg around your torso and rest my arm over your shoulder. pause. i feel you around me. pause. i nuzzle your ear with my nose, licking it with my tongue. happiness doesn't feel like this. dreams do. slowly it's right. pause. your jaw line presents the path, i follow. slowly making your way to your mouth, I wonder if I'll get there, but it doesn't really matter. pause. i'm too happy to make up my mind about the next move. i'm intoxicated by the path. pause. your lips feel like i was never gone and never there at the same time. new but so comfortable. pause. if only the pause could last forever. but time slips. slowly but not. i pause. and know.

trying my patience

they say the body is made up of 70% water. I swear today mine seems to be made up of 99.9% and I can keep the water from welling from behind my eyes, threatening to spill out. I want to scream, to cry; but I know, the harder way, the calm way might just get me through it. I'm trying to be patient, trying to stay calm, but living with this sudden uncertainty is making me wonder if sanity is the vacation and insanity is life.

no more kid gloves

I believe there are two reasons people fight in a relationship (and conversely, two reasons they don't).

One is because they really, really care about the other person and want to make their relationship stronger and better, and that only happens with open and honest dialogue that can sometimes verge into the disagreement field. I often avoided fights in my last relationship because it wasn't worth the effort; I was ambiguous about the caring factor. Perhaps I secretly knew we weren't meant to be together.

The other is a sense of self-worth. You know that you're worth him calling back/making time for you/treating you right, and you're willing to tell him that when it's not happening. Conversely, I never started a fight in my last relationship for this reason, I let my self-worth be overriden by fear because I was terrified he'd break up with me and then what would I do, who would I be without him wah wah etc....

So I've got to say, the gloves are off this time, and I'm not scared. I'm also selective. As my good friend pointed out---it's not always about me, it could be something going on with him when he acts all, well, wierd. But I'm willing to ask for what I want and say what I need this time, and sometimes it feels bad. But most of the time it feels good. Because I know, that in the end, I worked for it, whatever it turns out to be. Because fairytales aren't really true. You can't just sit around and it will happen. You have to make it happen for you.

Look what happens with 'fairytale endings':

Probably should've eaten the apple in this case.

I guess this is better than sweeping floors for the wicked stepsisters?

L.A.L.A. land

like waking up to the sun peeking through your window. knowing. you have nothing you have to do today. we strolled leisurely up to the diner. americana blaring back at me, but the edges so softened by the heat and the laid back 70's vibe. two pancakes, pieces of turkey bacon, eggs and toast later, I'm floating on your hand as you guide me back to the car. the silence is comfortable and the salsa music softly fills the background, adding to the dreamlike atmosphere. the sand is surprisingly hot on my feet; the breeze softens what could be opressive heat. the azure and turquoise and gold stretches for what seems forever. lay back. listen to the sounds of people living in that minute. your hand on my back, I close my eyes.

strolling back to the car and the white white face startles me. two nuns. white as winter. full habits, navy blue headpieces framed with white. one leans over a rosary while the other just reclines, reaching her white face to heaven.

we stroll down the promenande, looking for a sunny spot and some libations. a french bistro, snuggled in the middle of tourists, shops, street performers and eventually; a crew of firemen, and paramedics. sounds frantic, but feels just right. we order some foie gras and wine. the wine augments the beach buzz we have going on; I feel warm and happy. wondering how I got here but not worrying about it in the least.

tick tick

This day has been torture. E came over last night after we both finished hellish days, and I'm pretty much we both just wanted to jump on a plane ASAP. We settled for a local sushi joint and some japanese beer. But it just felt mediocre. And today---every minute has been amplified seriously pushing the boundaries on how long a minute should really last. But I can see the bright sunshine at the end of the tunnel. 15 MINUTES. That's right. Only one quarter of an hour until I leave this joint, get in my car and get home to start my vaycay. And I can assure you. At exactly 3:15--when I anticipate getting home-- I will be cracking a Red Stripe. I can just hear it now. That satisfying hiss and the cold white steam that emanates directly after you pop the lid on an ice cold beer. OOOP. Now only 12 MINUTES. I'm not even giddy. Just fucking thirsty. It feels like the sahara desert in here. Or Salt Lake City. Both venues, where I'm pretty sure you can't satisfy the kind of thirst I've got going on here. Either way, in the interest of making time go by faster, I decided to blog. The results appear to be a rant that ends in a quite alcoholic sounding whine. Apologies. I'm off to L.A.

don't we all...

http://www.eyeweekly.com/article/55882

...feel this way lately. Way to get out of the rut? To each their own.

so slowly yet so fast

Time is so subjective. One minute life is running, swirling, buzzing past--I can't stop the moments, enjoy what I should, savor the deliciousness of the new and wonderful that I continue to be blessed with. The next minute--I can hear every whirr of the fan above my desk, I check the time, and it's not even noon, the slow march of expectations and appearances weighs me down. Like running underwater.

Three weeks ago, when E and I decided to go to L.A., it seemed like it would be soon enough. But, I swear it hasn't. My perception of time has been so schizophrenic that I can't believe it's already the week of our departure and at the same time, think Thursday is still four days away, and that seems like forever.

men in uniform. and not.

No longer is my 'problem' a problem. I knew we'd work it out. Because I'm sure there are bigger fish to fry in life.

My world is evolving and a main component is my 'new' job. They have transferred me to work for and at EMS. Quick rundown of what that means? Men in uniform. More men than women. Less bullshit. More conservative (for the time being) dress. And last, but most notably--work to do!! Being busy is definitley better than being the 'lady of leisure' I've been for the past couple of months. My credit card is gonna love it.

Other flourishing landscapes? E and I had to have 'the talk'. A very terrifying prospect for a tried and true committment phobe. I actually had a two year 'relationship' sans talk. Plus, it's only been a month. But---when you know, you know. And seriously. We're going to L.A. together. Which, in fact, was probably the impetus of this talk. 'Cause Daddy's getting a little crazy about the prospect of his little girl travelling to a different country with some guy. He threatened to kidnap me. My Dad, that is.

"You know. There have been known cases of fathers kidnapping their 24-year-old daughters because they're not happy with the situation." Seriously.

So, I treaded softly and explained the girl child clause to E. The girl clause means: It doesn't matter how old you are. Your dad will be inherently overprotective and overbearing until he trusts the guy. And quite simply, Daddy's only met E once. So now I have to set up another awkward meeting. This time Daddy promises to get down to the dirt and not spend 20 minutes talking about a kinetic sculpture.

and the 'not' referral in the title? Let's just say, I am wondering if E and I will even leave our hotel room in L.A.

how could this be a problem?

Anatomically, I did not realize that you could have a problem getting it on if your guy was too large. I've never heard a woman complain about this issue, and why would they. I'll tell you why. It's when you can't walk the next day. That's when you feel it might be an issue. And then he tells you he has to really be careful about what kind of pants he buys to make sure all of his stuff fits inside. Seriously?

P.S.- When researching this 'problem' I came across a large penis support group. Awesome.

sunscreen

Stress at work is palpable. Cold sores are popping up on colleages and, notably, a nice big one on my mug too. I feel tired from conversations that revolve around uncertaintly like the one I had this morning and shut down quite quickly; "Where are you going? Do you know? I don't know."

Jesus christ.

"No, I don't know and I don't want to talk about it, it stresses me out". They probed a bit futher, but I shut it down a little more forcefully. People understand repetition, apparently.

Yesterday, after the emotional rollercoaster that was my day, E (the new guy) described a scene from our upcoming vacation to LA. Bascially it involved shopping, being on the beach, some nudity and a bottle of wine. Fabulous. Just imagining the pink sky, warm toasty skin, comfy arms to cuddle in, soft sand, and fresh denim was like an instant spa treatment. I can smell the sunscreen already.

test?

So, last night, who knows why or what I was thinking, I got shit cranked. In front of the new guy. Apparently there was yelling and demanding and then an epic pass out right when he tried to come over as per my demands. According to my cousin, it was laughable. Exactly. Let's all laugh it off and move on. I hope. So we shall see. Two apology texts. 1. When I realized I was passed out when he tried to come over and; 2. After my cousin told me I was yelling. Fingers crossed he can deal with crazy sauce. It's not like I do this everyday. So, perhaps a test. And here's hoping he passes. 'Cause I really want him to.

little sis turns 23

Today is the day, when I was a mere 15 months old, my lovely little sister was born. Two sisters could not look so different, and my paternity began to be questioned and has been ever since that day.

Our love/hate relationship began early, documented faithfully on video. I thought she was my little dolly and loved to undress and dress her and force her to be my sidekick in our cardboard box 'car'. Of course, she had to sit in the back. I'm the driver! She still has a piece of lead in her collarbone from the time I stabbed her with a lead pencil in anger.

She was also always my faithful playmate. We pretended to be indians in our backyard and make face paint by grinding up grass and water. We would go on family ski trips and we'd be in and out of the trees together, me trying to catch up to her death defying speeds. Nickname: 'Lil Tonka. We went to summer camp together--she always the popular one, chasing off the boys.

In High School, she had a reputation to live up to, and poor girl, I wasn't always the best example. We shared clothes, rides to school, burnt CD's, joints and rarely; boys.

Now, 23 years later, I consider us best friends. It took a while. I think it was when we both left home to go to University on opposite sides of the country. We made our own lives, separatley, but missed being together. We needed the distance to realize how much we really liked just hanging out and being there for each other.

I definitley have grown to admire my sister in so many ways. She's been through a lot, and made it through, becoming confident and self-assured-- even if she may not always be feeling that way, she projects that aura and it's very powerful. She forgives herself more than I sometimes do, and is generous with others--sometimes to a fault. She knows her boundaries and is not afraid to tell others when they are infringing on them. She enjoys life, and lives fully in the present--still looking to navigate her future, to become the sucessful young lady (**sniff, I sound like a mom!) she is fully evolving to become. As many of my friends have observed, I'm a better person when she's around. So from the shitty half person I am currently, her being halfway across the world, I am sending my love out to my boobie, wishing her a Happy 23rd Birthday. Things only get better from here babe!

xoxoxo
Your Sis

sober (ish) sex

....is better. Wow. As my momma would say, "You're growing up!" Because finally I realize why getting drunk to get it on is not an ideal situation: You can't remember getting off! I could see the advantage if you were with someone who really sucked in the sack, but when it's good - why block it out? It is however, kind of nice to have a buzz on. You know, a couple of glasses of champagne type buzz - but definitley not a lawnmower (ie. vodka bottle) buzz/roar.

This month has been a constant source of these maturity revelations, and I'm not sure if I should thank the retrograde, or just accept that I'm moving into a different realm. You know when you used to go to the amusement park and see all of the couples together and wish- 'If only I could have someone to hold my hand'. Only you don't realize it's so much more, and will, at that young age, pick almost any guy who's willing to just (and not much more) hold your hand. I finally picked a guy who wants to do way more than hold my hand and I'm seriously surprised, but very happy so far. Who says old habits die hard? I think you just discover new ones, but ones that are much healthier, productive and all the good bullshit you never thought you wanted.

I tried to work my old m.o. for one night with the new guy. And? And, he didn't catch bait and run away screaming, and I didn't feel like it was something I should do anymore. 'Cause I wake up so much happier remembering how great the night before was. So now, I've found a new m.o. and variety is the spice of life-- so here's to hoping I can stick to the change-- and most importantly, enjoy it!

new dating paradigm

Dating when you're an 'adult' sucks. You're busy, you don't want to stay up too late because you have to work the next day and you don't want to get too wasted either (because it really sucks when you're older to be hungover at work). This eliminates the whole 'let's get drunk and make out and get it over with' possibility. Which encapsulates my current quandry. We've been on four dates and not even had an open mouth kiss. I think it's time for some type of drunk date. And I have to mastermind it, because he's just so goddamn nice. I'm not complaining, we're going nice and slow, but if we don't switch it into second gear soon, I'm afraid we might stall.

So, I have two options. 1. Call him on Friday when i'm already tipsy and convince him to come down and meet me and join in the debauch or, 2. Straight up tell him that our next date has to involve getting drunk and making out (or just making out).

I swear to god, when I was younger I could've never imagined that dating be so much work. Thinking up ideas, working around two busy schedules is really challenging. But, fingers crossed, things will get easier once we put it in second gear.....now I just have to figure out how to get there....

mercury in retrograde

........this 'special' astrological phenomenon means mercury appears to be moving backwards and its happening all freaking month. May 8-31 is fated to be rife with personal misunderstandings due to muddling every form of communication and perception we have. Call me crazy for believing in this shit, but I swear -- the feeling like I'm running in water and not moving any where has definitley been a theme this month.

I'm anticipating a clearer head and sense of direction later this month- and I must say 'thank god'! The ambiguous world I've been living in has tested my patience. I can't feel a connection with people- even people I have long-established relationships with. It's like we're talking but not knowing what each other is saying.

As for my writing hiatus-- i can't even discipher what my thoughts mean--- let alone feel the clarity to express them in black and white.

Mercury in retrograde---you're a dirty dirty shame. You're a perpetual morning after. And I really hate you for that. So, here's to next month, and the caffiene finally working the way it should!

toxic cocktail

A writer, a person, a friend, a woman. I wonder why the planes are so flat, paradoxically, I can reach the bottom but not the top. The upwards slope is idealized in a way that makes me wonder what's really up there, and why I keep slipping. Is the peak a construct of society, and the happiness portrayed there simply fiction?

I have anger. Lots of it. I've never been able to figure out where it comes from. Tossing and turning last night after reading John Updike's Seek My Face my flitting thoughts kept me awake, but were more than revelatory.

..............I'm not really interested in what random people have to say to me (unless it's someone I really care about), even if it's some ridiculous story that might have really happened. I put on a good show though. Appropriate 'un huns' and 'reallys?', mixed with eye contact and appropriate questions. Is that even human? Therefore, I detest socializing without a little bit of booze mixed in to numb myself from feeling so exhausted bythe effort required for these encounters.

..............I'm not your typical artist/writer (stereo) type who lives in their own world and is absorbed in it, not affected by external factors. Quite the opposite. I feel too much, think too much, overanalyze and expect too much. This leaves me saddened and perennially dissapointed and unsatisfied- ultimately angry that I can't reach that mythical peak. Blissful ignorance. That place where people are happy and content with what they have and where they're going, and the simplest encounters are enjoyable.

Mix these two and a bit of booze together and you have a recipe for anger. This toxic cocktail takes me from mildly interested and sociable to completely angry and destructive. Starting at the root ingredient means looking at why I'm so mad at the world and expecting less from it. Expecting that I won't find that idealized version, and becoming comfortable with the version I have now.

Or, realizing that Truth is Ugly. My version of reality and reality seems to have a large discrepancy. And I think it's the truth factor. To seek the absolute truth about what kind of world I live in and the life I've created within it, I have to realize that it won't be pretty and won't meet my expectations. Ever.

I think alcohol works to take the blindfold off for me--- it shows me how distorted my perception of things are-- and it scares me. It makes me mad. Because in my world, I create an idolized version of things. The version at the bottom of the cocktail glass is certainly as raw as you can get. The guts, the marrow of how we live, it somehow never satisfies me. Reveling in the everyday workings - interacting with people, enjoying the sunshine, the satsifaction of a nice meal. I'm somehow numb to it. I think back and wonder- why was I not happy at that time?; that time I lived in the most romantic city in the world; that time I wandered the streets of Portugal- free to do as I pleased; that time I was with all of my friends in a bar watching a show. I wonder why I always feel that something's not there--- every moment has a missing piece.

I don't accept things how they are, but how I want them to be. And maybe that's why I write. Maybe I can write the effects of this toxic cocktail out of me, until all of my idealized notions of life are laid bare, splayed on the page naked. Except it's the naked parts, the ugly marrow that seems to come out-- the truth about how I think. Because, I play it well. Life that is. I play to the idealized notion that everyone has of me. Because how can I expect it from the world if I don't play the part? And when the blindfold comes off; the toxic cocktail plays it part? I'm desolate, i'm barren, i'm destructive, i'm angry, i'm sad, i'm ugly--- and maybe, that's the truth.

it destroys me

what we had was dangerous.

the feeling you get when you walk into a dark alley looking for a high. your vision is imparied by the dim lights and the narrow space gives the illusion that you're in a tunnel. the feeling in the pit of your stomach is rushing to your head, giving you the impression that you're already jacked. you believe you'll find what you're looking for at the end, and that it will make you incredibly happy. or at least give you the illusion that that is your reality.

the lines started to blur between illusion and reality. what I thought was real, wasn't, and what I thought was illusion, was, terrifyingly real. our love was like a drug - making me feel good, but knowingly temporary. i thought i could distance myself from the addictive properties. i thought i was always detached from it fully-- always having a backup plan so my lows weren't so, well, low.

so why i'm I still thinking about it two years later?

beacause I always knew, always felt, that we had something different, something that was literally too good to really exist. and when we discovered it did, it was terrifying. like seeing the vortex of a tornado. powerfully beautiful. and it destroyed us. it still destroys me.

one day late

walking with his head down, eveloped by a dark countenance, visibly separated from what was now. what had was all. his long dark curls bounced with his slow gait, his face peering down with a pointed intensity, as if he could decode the cracks in the sidewalk. the dark overcoat insinuated a much colder day, and the wooden cane aged him beyond his years. visually distinct, separated from a reality where most people were celebrating the first day of sun after a long winter.

Perhaps he was one day late.

fuzzy edges

The feeling when you've been napping too much. You wake, and look around; spots and fuzzy edges. My brain has been napping for so long, the world has taken on this look, and I'm scared it's permanent. Moments that may be exciting or joyful are tempered by this lens and I start to feel numb. Out of body. Looking at myself and others and life as if an observer, calmy noting the markers of the day.

7:00 am - Get up, excited for coffee, blast some music and dance around to get myself 'pumped' for the day.
7:30 am- Get dressed. Wear new shoes today. Yay.
8:00 am- Decide wheather it will be a Starbucks day today or not.
8:30 am- Get to work, check Facebook, Google blogger, and various other sites for a couple of hours.
10:30 am- Coffee break, a chance for my new shoes to go for a walk.
12:00pm- Lunch time- read my magazine and decide wheather I should ditch work for the afternoon or not.
12:00 - 4:00 pm- Either work from home (ie. watch a movie and keep email open) or go shopping/errands and hope that I don't get any emails- usually I don't.

And they pay me a ridiculous amount to do this. I just asked my boss for more work, and she kind of laughed. What kind of alternative universe is this? Fuzzy edges and all.

Also had a FML moment last night. Blind date, arrived early - where a very hot, very my type bartender served me a drink. We probably would have struck up a conversation, had my yucky, eventually obnoxious date not shown up.

Three things since my last post that have, surprisingly, made me happy:
1. Army & Navy Annual Shoe sale. THE premier sports event for shoe aficionados like myself. Momma got herself 6 new pairs of shoes. Yay!
2. Reuniting with friend I hooked up with who made it awkward for three months after. We had beers, talked philosophy, Ayn Rand- it was lovely.
3. Rediscovering how sticky green gets me motivated to clean house, and feel really good about it.

as the years pass

hopfeully crazy doesn't go off the rails.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mk9rtgF5bsc

a lesson in contradictions

inspired by Walt Whitman

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes).

A lesson in self acceptance for me. I always beat myself up about my jekyll and hyde nature. But really, being one thing is boring. My 'other' sides create textures, interest, something that I need to learn to love and not loathe.

Being with my sister always reminds me of this, she is herself, no apologies, no questions. I admire her in so many ways because her confidence seems unshakeable. Of course this can't be true- we all have our vulnerabilities- but she forgives herself and 0thers, because she accepts how they are, not how she wishes them to be.

I'm learning lessons everyday. And this is the one I want to learn today.

Three things I'm grateful for since my last post:

1. Time with my sister. I swear it makes me a better person.

2. The sun is finally out, and I'm enjoying it.

3. Some time to relax at home and soak in the silence.

jolt me to life

I keep having fantasies about crashing my car. I'll be driving down the street, someone will turn in front of me, and I'll accelerate slightly. I tailgate on purpose, imagining that solid impact. The feeling of metal against metal and the reassurance that I won't be here forever. That things can be changed. That, with enough force, you can permanently change the shape of a seemingly indestructable piece of metal.

I have this fantasy for several reasons. I'm hoping the force might jolt me out of apathy, make me awake and alive- available for living my life. I'm just wandering through right now, sometimes I can't distinguish dreams and reality. The less I do, the less I want to do - it's a vicious cycle. I would hope that being in peril of losing my life, or my life as I know it, would force an intense re-evaluation of the status quo. Or what I accept to be status quo.

So right now, the only light through the fog, is those headlights, my unwavering optimism; and I pray they are real and that I have the courage to approach them head on. To crash into them and jolt me into life.

I haven't done three things in a long while. So here it goes:
1. The sunshine is finally out, and hopefully the scourge of this long winter is over.
2. The support of good friends at my graduate school rejection :(
3. That I will see my sister in two days.

bewildered

The sun beats down. Hades here. Beads of sweat drip down, into your eyes. You use your elbow to wipe it away, your hands occupied. Every muscle is tensed. This is the moment.

You pull. And white. Then red.

You wipe it away with your elbows again. Then your hands are freed and you look down. It's so hot you feel lightheaded, not present. You rub your eyes and look down again. Agitation about the scene in front of you builds. What just happened? Were you there? You look at the red on your hands. You rub your face again as if the action will bring you face to face to reality. But what you've made, what's in front of you right now- that's your reality.

And you wonder; 'how did I get here?'

i'm left a figment

in the dark, i remember that place. the cup the backs of your knees made for my caps. curled against your slight frame, my cheeks against your ribs, feeling your rythmic breathing. comforted in that place, i'd drift asleep, knowing, that in the morning, you'd turn. that slight crooked smile, a sliver of your teeth visible, but mostly- the look in your eyes. knowing, that i was real for you, and your nightmares were just. that.

i read it all in that look. and nothing at all.

because i believed, but never knew, when your belief would fail. would drift. into your nightmares. and i would be left. a figment.

that place still exists. the cup the backs of your knees made for my caps. it's real in my memories and always, just. that.

insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results

the world is mine, they say
and yet I choose,
to throw it all away
and repeat.

i wish the black was less
appealing than the light,
that peace could satisfy more
than a fight.

if it's not sharp, I can't feel
not leaving scars, it's not real.

elusive are the rose colored glasses
imminent,
the impending destruction
that lives with me,
waiting
in the wings
to bare its snarled grin.

the world is mine they say,
and yet I refuse it
and repeat.

illusory perfection

When I drive past the house, mornings on my way to work, it stands out. The front lawn is always perfectly cut and green, the bushes and hedges trimmed, and the flowers beds planted just so, blooming just one day earlier than all of the other gardens in the neighbourhood. Although the house isn't new, it looks fresh and, any wear and tear is unnoticeable with a yearly paint of coat and required maintenance.

What is noticeable, however is that the interior is always dark. I can never see any lights on, and if there are, they are flashing or intermittent, almost like an SOS.

One morning, I notice the front door wide open. I swings in the wind, and if it weren't for the fresh coat of forest green paint, you would think the house was abandoned. Curious, I slowly pull up in front of the house. As I make my way up the front walk, I see one of the curtains, normally pulled tight across the front window is hanging loose, exposing the darkness of the interior. I knock on the flapping door, quietly at first, and then louder. "Hello?" I say timidly, then louder when there is no reponse. Satisfied that any inhabitant would have been properly notified of my presence, I enter.

The smell is overwhelming and I wonder why I didn't notice it at the threshold of the house. It smells like rotting wood and wet mould. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the scant natural light let in by the ripped curtain reveals a path of broken glass, blackened patches of carpet and leads to a shockingly destroyed couch. The couch is in a cream floral pattern that harkens to the mid seventies and is riddled with holes edged in black. They look like very large burn marks and some are so deep you can see the woody skeleton that lies within.

I back out of the room slowly. I don't want to see the rest. The destruction inside is so shocking, I can't imagine what goes on to leave it in that state. And I don't want to.

free from the closet monster

I'm attempting a renewed effort to write here. I feel like it's good practice, if I want to develop a 'style'. Unfortunatley (or fortunatley, depending on your view), as a pisces, style is fluid. I notice it most in the way I dress- biker-ish chick one day, professional and polished the next. I feel I can assimilate into any environment, and differentiate when I want to. Would it be vapid and vain to discuss style for a quiet moment? The rhetorical question begs an evaluation of your view of style as an intellectual entity. The girl who cleaned my closet last week (I got rid of FOUR large garbage bags full of clothing- some I haven't worn since Junior High), has a definite position on style. She says that "how you present yourself is a reflection of how you're feeling inside". I have to say that minimializing the clutter in an area I consider important (my closet- the doorway to how I'm feeling), has almost lifted a weight off of me. I can focus on other things now. Shopping (one of my favorite activities) has been revitalized for me. I know what I have, what I need, and what I want. I'm more efficient at it, therefore I don't have to do it as much, I don't feel obligated to buy, and when I do, I know it's really something I need/want.

Basically, I've been blessed with some clarity in that area of my life. It leaves me time to focus on other things, and leaves me less frustrated in the morning.

So, for this week, I want to focus on writing- and make an effort to veer away from the vain and vapid. I want to experiment with style.

Three things I'm grateful for since my last post:
1. The closet clean. AMAZING.
2. Finishing my article-judgement/discussion comes Thursday.
3. A quiet weekend. Bless!

Below are photos, of my organized, color coded closet:

lost in words

I know I haven't written for a while. Why, you might ask. Well, I've been busy writing. My first attempt at slight infamy, I've slotted myself into the next issue of a local magazine. So last friday, I wrangled my photographer/bestie and headed to Saskatchewan to see what kind of trouble we could get into. I was ready for lame sauce, but instead, I got awesome. I was ready to protect my neck (as the Wu would say) but I would say we were greeted like long lost family. We met most of the people our age at the bar attached to our motel - yes, that's not a typo- there was a bar AND an off-sale (liquor store if you're not aware of the slang) attached to the Heartland Inn. Booming bass greeted our arrival, and as my travelmate informed me (she is a small town veteran), Friday nights are THE night in small towns. It definitley was. And of course, we had to get drunk enough to sleep in the dirty motel we had chosen.

Anyways, more on the trip later....gotta get back to writing!

Three things I'm grateful for since last post:
1. An AMA membership. They say curiosity killed the cat, and I'm curious. So driving through a snowy field to get a photo of an abandoned chruch didn't faze me. Until we got stuck. The tow truck driver was quite perplexed by our choices to say the least.
2. My bed. Never felt so good after the motel.
3. My bestie for being such a good travel buddy and fabulous photographer.

i got a promotion. then i cried.

The piscean roller coaster never fails to amaze me. After six months of hard fought lobbying for a promotion to match what I was already doing, I got it. Then I cried. Out of happiness, you might think. But no. Sadness. Of how anti-climatic it was. How I had no one really to share it with. How more money doesn't equal more happiness for me. How I still really hate my job. How everyone acts like I do so much, but the brainpower needed to do it is in the low percentages. And so on.

So, I went out and bought a ridiculous pair of shoes. Then I heard my neighbours above me having sex. But I didn't care. 'Cause the shoes are hot. Really really hot, and they were steaming up my front hall with their hotness.

Three things I'm grateful for since my last post:
1. Recognition (and compensation) that I don't need babysitting at work anymore and haven't for a long long time.
2. A good friend to help me shop, and therefore, spend some of the new moola.
3. A beautiful sunny day yesterday and a nice walk home from downtown (and that my house didn't flood like half of the others in my neighbourhood).

one day older

I'm one day older than yesterday, but legally, I'm also one year older. What have I learned since yesterday, if age purports to engender wisdom? Well, I've learned that when you start drinking at 1 pm, you have to continue on a steady but moderate pace. If and when you stop, you will be down for the count. I've also learned that I might have a chance with Karma, because I woke up to birthday weather that was out of this world. Sunshine and fresh powder all day. Like the dreams you have where every track is fresh, and the sun is glinting through the trees in the glade, waxing golden on your ride as you float along. Except this dream was real. I've learned that a drive through liquor store is probably one of the best innovations that I've discovered recently. We drove up after dinner and the birthday girl simply rolled down her window, ordered three tall boy Pilsner singles and some shooters. No getting out of the car, going into the cold cooler, showing ID or anything. AWESOME. And lastly, I've learned that unlike my first birthday away from home when I cried like a baby in my dorm room- age has mellowed me out and I was cool with the chill day that I had yesterday.

Three things I'm grateful for as a 24 year old, so far:
1. Powder, sun & beer
2. An awesome father, who as described in the words of dude at the hill; "It's pretty cool that your dad is willing to get crunked to celebrate your birthday". Well said.
3. That the rest of my family, maxing, relaxing and chilling by the pool in the Canary Islands, put down their drinks to give me a call and tell me they were thinking of me on my birthday.

yes, you can run away from a birthday!

So I'm off to Vernon this weekend for some poudre sauvage, or as a friend coined it; "More powder than Kate Moss has ever seen". For once, at least I'm anticipating the lonely feel on my birthday, and perhaps even feeling like a contributor. So not a powerless feeling at least. I've absenced myself from the expectations that my friends will rally around me on that day, and am aware that the other half of my family is halfway around the world. So there. You can run away from a Birthday. I can be 23 for at least one more year!

My parting three things I'm grateful for as a 23 (version A) year-old girl:
1. The presence of hilarious and inspiring company on Tuesday night.
2. The anticipation of a short but needed vacation from my life.
3. The friendship of a brillant artist in my life who makes images that can make daddies cry.

PS-My letter got published in the post yesterday. Boo ya Barbara Kay!

newspaper nonsense

My morning ritual is not to be messed with. Beans are ground. The coffee goes on. Into the shower and make uped and blown dry and dressed preferrably before I sit down for my first meal of the day. I like my coffee strong, unadultered. I prefer quiet, but don't mind the radio from my alarm. It repeatedly tells me the time and the weather, keeping me on track both satorically and time wise. I go get my newspaper, and sit down and enjoy that time, getting ready for the day- some calm before the storm.

This morning, pursuing my usual peruse of the newspaper, an opinion article caught my eye and made me mad. 'Fictional drivel'. My response to this appropriately titled article could only be remedied in writing, so I got to work, and got to work:

Letter to the Editor

Re: Fictional drivel- Barbara Kay, Opinions, Wednesday February 25, 2009

Ms. Kay's opinion that Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale is "merely a tale told by a feminist" takes an important and well-written piece of Canadian literature and reduces it to "signify nothing" in her one-sided interpretation of the oeuvre. Kay posits that dystopian fiction only deserves critical respect when its premises are grounded in psychological or historical reality. But Kay seems to miss the point that Atwood's tale is fictional and therefore should not need to be grounded in any reality, and must not parallel any guidelines that Kay's perspective demands.

Kay takes her own interpretation of the work as an ideologically, self indulgent nightmare and magnifies it, using examples of the Nazis and Lebensborn to give her perspective credence. Fair enough. Everyone has their own interpretation of the work, and that's the point: To incite discussion and to create a forum for competing perspectives. But publishing such a one-sided un-balanced perspective on the work seems more than irresponsible, rendering Kay's column an overblown piece of propaganda designed to influence the reading of this work and its use in public schools. The Handmaid's tale is a text that may or may not have a feminist angle, depending on your reading of it. Atwood's work deserves more from the Post than the hysterical fear mongering that Kay's article incites.

Pleased and intellectually satiated, I continued my day.

Three things I'm grateful for since the last time I did three things I'm grateful for:
1. Major restraint shown on my shopping excursion/walk around the mall with 3 inch heels excercise last week.
2. Confirmation that we're going to Saskatchewan to write an article for a magazine!
3. A good workout/crying on the tredmill/getting frustrations out at the gym with my Dad on monday.