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.

just here for a drink?

Her whispy grey hair billowed around her grizzled face like a storm cloud. The venom in her eyes was unmistakable.

"You think you hussies can come in here and make all of our men forget their wives?"

I shifted on the rotting bar stool I was sitting on, put my beer down and turned from the conversation I'd been having with a town lifer. It wasn't clear if the difficulty I had understanding him was from an obvious dental situation that encouraged his inadvertent whistling, or my lack of education in the slang that seemed to be common knowledge to the regulars.

I smiled at the brash defender. Patted the seat beside me. "First of all," I said as she sat down. "I'm too young to be a hussy and too old to be a slut. So you're gonna have to find something else to call me. And...we're not here for your men."

She cocked her head up to look in to my eyes. My look of bemusement confused her.

"Well," she said slowly. "What on god's green earth are you doing here then?"

Good question.

the unstable myth

When I was younger, I wanted to be a Saint. Anyone who knows me now might think that out of character for a girl, who at 16, got gussied up to sneak out of Christian camp in an attempt to buy booze. But for me, it was a life that was rebellious and different. I devoured tales of lives of the Saints, admiring their dedication to one thing, a dedication that often superceeded their physical or personal needs. Their lives were mythical and their stories have survived for that reason. They said 'fuck you' to what society required at the time, weather that be marriage or paganism or materialism and did their own thing. I know that's what drew me to their stories- the courage to be different, no matter the consequences.

Being on the fringe of society fascinated me at different times in my life, the willingness to be above or below the 'normal' and say fuck the consequences. But now, It just seems more challenging to balance the expectations of society with my own quiet rebellions. It results in a kind of schitzophrenic identity that doesn't reconcile. In high school, the girl on the honor roll, A+ choir student was hitting up strip clubs at lunch with her pot head girlfriends and drinking vodka in church. I seem to be able to emulate the correct side for those people who need it most, the ones who don't want to think that reality is a stability that doesn't exist. It just doesn't always add up. And that's okay. Because, even if I don't know exactly what I want, I know I don't want to be 'normal' or 'average'. What the definite definitions of these words are are obviously negotiable, but, from my understanding of what that might be (something like a suburban horror story)- terrifies me.

So I will continue on, as a Valentine's day card a friend got from his dad said; to 'Be Bold'. Hopefully it's the myth I aspire it to be- minus the stoning/burning at the stake/whipping oneself type of story.

clothes whore

It's a well known fact that I am a MAJOR clothing whore. Everytime I open my closet, something falls on me. Sometimes, it's something I've haven't seen in a while, and it gives me the opportunity to rediscover it's greatness, or wonder why the hell I would wear something like that it the first place. Oftentimes, it's more of an ambigous feeling. Like, maybe I'll wear it again, most likely not, but I probably need someone to come pry it out of my hands.

Today, I rediscovered a skirt I hadn't worn in about 9 months. It's like getting back together with an ex boyfriend. At first, it's shiny and sweet and why the hell haven't I worn this/done this in so long. Then you wake up with his hairy snoring fat beer belly in the morning, try to mitigate the regret with a nice breakfast and then he, the lazy ass that he is, sticks around till 2 pm playing wii and grunting. I still haven't passed such harsh judgement on the skirt, so it might get another chance in the much nearer future than he ever will.

So if clothing can be equated with sex, the fact that I am not getting any will soon be remedied by a binge of clothing whoreness that my credit card can't handle- or to that end- a spree of window shopping that will surely disappoint (hummmm, crappy one night stands anyone?).

There's only one way to damage control. Keep the tags on for the first couple wears. Don't you wish you could return him after the first couple times?

Three things I am grateful for since my last post:
1. Online shoe shopping.
2. A lack of a sense of guilt for really anything currently.
3. whowhatwear.com

vacation from hedonism

'We are weighed down, every moment, by the conception and the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping and forgetting this nightmare: pleasure and work. Pleasure consumes us. Work strengthens us. Let us choose.' ~ Charles Baudelaire

Today I chose work. Seriously, it felt like a long day, but I least I got a lot done. The last two days I've been hibernating. Sometimes it's sorely needed. Movies and tea and couch and fireplace and my own cozy space, being as slobby as I want to be. I've been choosing pleasure for the past couple of days, and my hedonistic bent has caused me to need some rest. So I feel refreshed and ready to finish of my week in style.

Three things I've thankful for since my last post.
1. The editor of the magazine me and my friend are trying to pitch an article to finally got back to us. He sounds stoked on the idea and wants to talk this weekend.
2. I left my charger at work all weekend and finally just charged my personal phone today. Added to the vacation feel.
3. Got a crapload of money back from my health insurance for more yoga yay!

powder gods

Spiritual experiences don't just happen every day. I believe certain contributing factors lead to circumstances where you feel like you have just been transported into the clouds and felt the ropes to earthly pittances go slack. Basically your mind fucked when you realize real life will hit you in the face eventually. So what factors are needed to experience awesomeness? I believe it's about mind state- so anything that affects your mind state, wheather it be euphoria, sticky green or just plain old beer. So, you think- does getting high and watching a movie count. Maybe. If you're laughing so hard you lose all the blood from your brain and start thinking you're in the film. But the more likely venue? That would be travelling to a new spot, and seeing something from a new perspective, influenced by a picturesque or even horrifying vista.

This weekend, I kneeled at the altar of the powder gods and was rewarded with the ability to float across the earth, feeling weightless, free and perfectly in control. Completed by the backdrop of some amazing vistas, and inhuman heights- emphasizing how small we are in the big picture and making me feel just a little luckier to have this great feeling. And later? We were a drunk and rowdy crew, feeling invincible, just out for a good time in some amazing snow, playing games and having fun. Only one thing could have made the picture complete- a missing piece, but we'll anticipate her presence for next time. So, after a long day of board meetings, does any President call it a day? No, we continued on into the night, getting our work done and thanking the powder gods for blessing us with the spiritual experience.

Signing out as El Presidente, I will get on with the three things that have made me happy since my last post.
1. Powder.
2. Beer.
3. Good friends and family to party with. (Still missing you boo!)

a mess of melted molten heat

It was warm in the club, but not hot, not sweltering like we both felt. The ability to make a man feel uncomfortable is not unfamiliar to me (I've been labeled intimidating), but the ability to make a man feel physically uncomfortable is a new one. There were sparks coming out of our eyes. Even brushing up against him seemed to emit a force field that was incomprehensable for both of us. How much conversation we had is something I can't even recollect, it was just those eyes.

So how much does Karma love me?

Enough to love to give it to me from behind and poke my eyes out at the same time. Because chemistry means nothing when someone has a significant other. Despite what J says, homewrecking is not an option. Especially when I found out his girlfriend is moving from Vancouver in with him. Wow. So he left. Because terribly, I couldn't stop flirting and neither could he.

So now. Nothing. Except the memory of sparkle flashes and heat.

O yeah, and L rubbing in how perfect we would be together.

I will still take time to give thanks for three things, because what else do you do when all you want to do is lay in your bed and smoke opium and have dreams about your unattainable dream guy.
1. I spoke with two of my Van friends on Sunday, and that always makes me feel good. Besties are the best.
2. I might, maybe, shouldn't type it here, but finally get my long hard fought promotion. Mama needs a new pair of shoes (not really, but a vacation would be nice).
3. My lost camera could be replaced thanks to my Mom's Visa insurance.

waking words

Sometimes in the twilight before I fall asleep or the dim mornings when I float between dreaming and waking, words threaten to overwhelm any potential sleep. Sentences run behind my eyelids, begging to be spilled on to a page or be typed out and read. I used to give in, but lately, I let it torture me, editing with my eyes closed, turning over variations of sentences and words in my brain. Then it's lost. In the waking world, the dream-like magic has disappeared, and they're just words again, not beautifully cadenced sentences singing like music to me and painting beautiful visions behind my closed eyes.

ignorance intolerance

I have a low tolerance for stupidity. I understand it can be construed as difficult to muddle through our modern world, but I have a feeling that it's the modern world that's producing and environment where it's easy to be ignorant. Information doesn't have to be learned, it can be found. With one key word in google, we have information on pet psychatrists at our fingertips. We don't have to learn where things are, we can just gps them or google map them. So if information is so easy to get at, why the prevalence of stupidity? I think it's exactly that. Information is so easy to get, we don't have to retain it, we have the security of knowing we can find whatever we want whenever we want. More and more common sense is becoming a scarce commodity because we don't need it- we just need google.

Why the rant regarding my ignorance intolerance? I've been victim to it several times today and it's still early. The starbucks girl- a long winded debacle that I will confine to my complaint letter. The email from some employee assuming I am the contact for parking concerns because I am listed as the webauthor for the whole hospital website. And to those, who, because email seems so much more modern than a letter, have lost all sense of any type of polite, business-like letter which is clear and concise but contains all of the information needed to reply or act with efficiency.

Our modern tools have most certainly contributed to the downfall of common sense and the diminshed valuation of the traditional learned individual. Back in the day, men and women were trained with a broad but deep knowledge of all subjects and even languages. They didn't have modern conveniences to enable a lazy passivity in honing their common sense and only viewing knowlege for it's usefulness rather than its intellecutal stimulus. Woe to the modern man, who most often loses a sense of poetry in a world filled with need-to-know.

To cap it off on a positive note, here are three things I'm grateful for since my last post:
1. Went to one of my favorite cocktail bars for a girlfriends birthday, and the third member of our childhood trio was there! It was great catching up with an old friend, and the three of us have plans for this weekend.
2. I finally vaccumed my house. Yay for no more super sized dust bunnies!
3. Today is Thursday, and I have a date......as to wheather I'm looking forward to it or not is still in the ambiguous stage.

reveling in eccentricity

It doesn't just take laziness and procrastination to become a hermit. It takes skill. You have to conciously be so conspicuous with your weirdness and anti-social tendancies that people eventually wonder why you would leave your house...aka....enclave of eccentricity. I think this weekend really exemplified my prelediction towards hiding out in my enclave of eccentricity, and in an act of rare generosity, I'm prepared to explain what it takes to feel completely and totally like you don't belong in the company of normal society.

1. Hang out with your parents execessively. Use them as an excuse for any social events you really don't want to attend. People will think that either a) your parents are sickly and that you are simply a dedicated slave daughter or b) you are some wierdo daddy's/momma's girl.

2. Skip going into the office for a full day and spend your time not uttering one word to anyone. You may have trouble speaking and especially socializing after this type of fast, to the point where you're telling the starbucks barista about your broken vaccum and your exploding egg burrito.

3. When you finally decide to socialize, go to a party, make the cursory wierd comments in lieu of small talk and then fall asleep on the couch. When you finally revive from your much more interesting dreams, observe the party from your self exiled spot a good distance away and secretly laugh (or for more oomph, laugh out loud to yourself) at the inane conversation that seems to be entertaining the lot.

Basically, that was my weekend. There was also, some wierd children's theatre thrown in there and sarcastic conversations with seven year olds. Identifying with the gibberish language of a five year old really seals the deal. All in all, the complete package down the road to insanity.

Now to conclude, there are still three things I must be grateful for over the past three days.
1. Seeing my really good friend L dance around in a bee costume. Priceless. And I have video proof for her fortieth birthday.
2. Erratic shopping trip with A. Seriously had major buyers regret, wondering if the purchases would go with my bursting at the seams closet, but of course they do.
3. Not going into work all day Friday and working from home. Does wonders for the soul. Not so much for the social skills.