If I Had a (few) Million Dollars

Kris from Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino recently wrote a post after attending a book reading about how blog readers are somewhat removed from the blogger. Sure, the emotions are there in words. A life is shared in photos and stories but there is something cold and foreign about never hearing a person's voice, a person's emotions. It makes it hard to relate, put a voice to the name and a face to the words. And so, without further ado, this is my 'book reading' of my latest Chic Galleria article. Feel free to read along or simply sit back and have a listen. And, yes, that really is my normal voice and, yes, I am still single. No correlation, I'm sure.

And, yes, doing this does make me feel a little bit like Carrie Bradshaw.

Like I said, I'm still single.

Shopping

I used to buy things. In anticipation of the future. When We were together it was primarily baby stuff: clothes, toys, books and stuffed animals. I would buy a potential wedding favor every now and then and wedding magazines made their way in under the rouse of the engagement of friends.

After We broke up I still bought things. For the first little while it was done in hope of reconciliation, a way to prove to Him that I never gave up on us. When no reconciliation was to be had I pushed on, convincing myself to purchase things for a future that would exist with someone else. In an attempt to have hope.

I almost bought appetizer picks today. Wooden with pinwheel tops, I thought they were adorable and they were on sale. They'd be perfect, I thought, for a dinner party or when hosting the big game. Things I don't do but might... someday.

It has been a long time of hoping for 'someday'.

I have containers of things that will likely go to waste. Things that can no longer be given away because even my friends have passed those stages of life... the vows have been said, the parties have been thrown and the babies have been had. It's just as well, since the thought of someone else using the things I had so wanted for myself breaks my heart, especially if being used by someone I know, with there being a chance of seeing them being put to use.

It's a waste, really. The amount of money and time I've spent on these things. The thought and love I've given to selecting inanimate objects, considering them to be so much more than 'stuff'. Waiting in hopeful anticipation then desperation and, finally, doubt for the day they would be used. All of it, a waste. Pure foolishness on my part, these things that should have had a home. A use. A purpose.

Needless to say, I didn't buy the picks. They're so whimsical and cute and fun, they deserve better than that. They deserve an evening with friends, full of great food and conversation. They deserve to be admired and talked about. Marveled at. They deserve to be used. And that, unfortunately, is something I can no longer promise them.

What was once an off chance is now a real possibility.... 'someday' may never come.

Clear the Way

We have gotten more snow in the month of November alone than we usually do in the entire winter. People... that is a LOT of snow. Toss in the fact it's been upwards of minus 30 degrees Celcius (that's minus 22 for my friends south of the border) and I've been less than enthusiastic when it's come to shoveling my walk... yet another task, of many, I find myself rather overwhelmed with as a singleton.

The first snowfall was fine. It usually is. It's a novelty. Shoveling is exercise. The cold air is refreshing. And the snow sparkles in the moonlight (er, streetlight). It's a wonderful experience... for the first 20 seconds. At which point my carpal tunnel hurts like a sonofabitch, my back aches from overcompensating for the CTS and my eyes tear up from the cold. Because, really, who doesn't love having their eyelashes freeze together?

So imagine my delight when, trying to pack the night before flying to the coast a couple weeks ago, when I bundled myself up, at 11pm at night, in my thermal jacket, scarf, toque (it's a Canadian term, look it up) and thermal boots, dreading the task before me only to open the door... and discover that someone had shoveled my walk for me! Such a treat when I was so busy... and especially considering I was home the entire time and didn't notice the good Samaritan.

And then it happened again. I came home last night after a work event, knowing I had things to do and the snow would have to wait until morning, meaning I would have to get up early, something I generally avoid doing at all costs, only to pull up to my house... and find the task complete!

I must admit, I've perhaps been a tad harsh on my neighbors. Well at least the ones who monopolize the parking spot in front of my house and leave their garbage on my side of the yard. But every now and then I'm reminded that, for all the annoyances I may have (like the fact some people sit on my step, at 10:30 at night, during the summer to visit my cat), I really am lucky to have such great neighbors. Like the one who, upon getting new windows, gave me one of his old storm windows to replace one of mine that had broken. And the 80 year old who helped push my car out of a snow bank today. Don't worry, he put his canes down before pushing my car. And, yes, that's plural... he has two canes. That's right... an elderly man with not one, but two, canes pushed my car out of a snow bank. And, yes, I tried to stop him from doing it. But I hear the aged like to feel as though they still have something to contribute to society and, gosh darn it, they do. I just never knew it would be blunt force and muscles.

So the least I could do, tonight, was return the favor and shovel the walk of not only my house but the homes on either side. After all, I still don't know who my secret shoveler is so I may as well cover my bases. And the least I can do is clear the way for Deiter, the elderly man with multiple canes who takes a walk around the block twice a day, no matter the weather. Because, really, if he can maintain his stately home (I saw him on a ladder, not that long ago) and exercise twice a day the least I can do is not complain about having to do everything myself, given the fact I at least have health and youth on my side.

Minus the carpal tunnel syndrome, gallstones, gray hair and wrinkles, of course.

Guilt

This weekend was a long one for me, I had 3 days off. I spent almost all of Friday in bed. Saturday was a bit better and, after an afternoon nap, I got a lot of reading done. This morning I woke and was so tired that I rolled over to go back to sleep... but I couldn't sleep. Thoughts went through my mind of all the things I should be doing and the fact that I have absolutely nothing to show for my weekend.

This happens a lot. My week is full of so many sleepless nights that by the time the weekend rolls around all I want to do is play catch up. But when Monday comes and everyone asks "what did you do on the weekend" I can't help but feel like I'm wasting my life away or that I'm lazy. There's so much I could (nay, should) be doing but it isn't until I'm looking back on time that's passed that I realize how much time I've wasted. Like, um, the past five years or so.

I wish I had the drive I see in others. I wish I was driven. I wish I had a goal to work towards and a dream to follow. Instead, the only dreams I have are the ones that come to me, few and far between, while I waste my weekend away.

A Letter From The Bookstore

Dear Woman at the bookstore:

I couldn't help but notice your toddler was throwing a tantrum because she didn't want to put her coat on. Mind you, neither could the 10 people in line behind me because SHE WAS BLOCKING THE TILLS.

I understand the sensitivity of the situation while you try to bribe your daughter with the promise of super at McDonalds and a Happy Meal Toy, all the while reminding her you bought her 2 books she can read at home that she, clearly, didn't get on the merit of best behavior. I waited patiently while you attempted to rationalize with your daughter that wearing her jacket is the cool thing to do because, hey, you're wearing your jacket too(!). But, come on... she's 2. She's testing the boundaries (or lack thereof) and I really don't think speaking to her like you, yourself, are two years old is the way to go. Plus, you're being seriously inconsiderate to everyone around you, including the woman in line with the child who was told no, she couldn't have a treat, and knew that 'no' means- get this- no.

You trying to bribe your daughter may be fine for dentist appointments and hair cuts but bribing her in an attempt to stop her generally rotten behavior isn't helping anyone, least of all her. Grab your kid, force her little arms into her jacket (she weighs less than my purse, it surely can't be as hard as you're making it seem), tell her she's getting a time out when she gets home and move her out of the damn way so we can all carry on with our lives. Believe it or not, the world does not revolve around, nor stop for, your child. If you teach her an actual, pertinent, lesson there is a slight chance that she just may learn something of value, verses what you're teaching her: that throwing a tantrum gets her new reading material, a trip to McDonald's Playland and the attention of everyone in the store.

I used to think my parents were overly strict... upon seeing you I now think there has to be a happy medium. You're painful to watch. Your child isn't a brat, she's merely a child, but you, my friend, are why most kids I meet these days have a sense of entitlement, a lack of respect for everyone around them, absolutely no self-control and a general lack of knowing the difference between what is appropriate and what is, definitely, not. And, yes, I realize it's easy for me to judge, what with not having children and all, but let me assure you that no tantrum is so great that a 20 pound pint-sized human cannot be lifted, kicking and screaming, out of the very-obvious way of your fellow man (and woman). Please, just get out of my way.

You're making my ovaries shrivel up.

From Your Childless (and suddenly okay with that) Counterpart,
LGS

They're All Made out of Ticky Tacky and They All (do NOT) Look Just The Same

You know that voice inside your head that tells you what the right thing to do is? Ya... I should probably start listening to that.

Last Friday I went to the mall and tried on roughly 17 (million) dresses. Of course this made my hair *really* pretty and not static-y *at* all so between the hair, the ever-so-complimentary artificial lighting and seeing myself naked in a full length mirror it was pretty much the best day *ever*. But, alas, I found a dress. It was perfect. Except... it had a bit of a mark on it. And, yes, it probably would have come off and, yes, it was probably from me (invisible deodorant my ass) but I decided to exchange the dress for a fresh one. I went to the rack (ha ha... I said 'rack') and found the same dress in the same size.

And that's when I heard the voice.

The voice said "maybe I should just stick with the one I tried on, since I know it fits". But, no, no... I told myself that was silly. The dresses were, after all, the same size.

And that, my friends, is called 'foreshadowing' because tonight I decided to try on the dress so I could pick out shoes and jewelery (neither of which I ended up deciding on because I'm, clearly, awesome... at procrastinating). And you know what? The f--king dress does NOT fit. It's way too small. What. The. Hell?

Stupid know-it-all voice.

A Rude Awakening

Last night my work pager went off at around midnight. It never does that. It was also one of the rare occasions where I was in bed, and actually falling asleep, before midnight (sure, I can't do that on a week night but as soon as it's Saturday night I'm a *bundle* of fun and excitement). Sadly, it got my mind wandering (as it so often enjoys doing). At roughly 1am my mind was calming down somewhat, after having spent almost an hour wondering what I would do if the phone were ever to actually ring in the middle of night (like it did that one time) when, no word of a lie, the mother f--king phone rang!!

People, I nearly crapped my pants. I'm sure I would have if it weren't for the fact my body didn't know if it should pee, poop, cry or run for dear life, sure the call was coming from inside the house.

I turned on a light (because, for some reason, everything is less scary in the light) and reached for the phone... the very phone I never have at my bedside but decided to last night 'just in case' (that's actually what I thought as I grabbed the phone before heading to bed... how creepy is that?)... and glanced at the number, half hoping for a familiar number, half afraid of what a number I recognized would mean.

It came up as blocked number, blocked name.

My heart is still pounding. I half expected it to be my parents. Figured someone had probably died. I didn't want to answer it, but I knew I probably should... so I did.

It was a wrong number.

It's nights like these when I hate being single. The nights where I'm scared out of my mind. The nights when I have to do things like answer phone calls in the dead of night or investigate (or try to ignore from beneath the covers) things that go bump in the night. Nights when I have to return to bed and try to sleep, all the while wondering if that noise was really the cat and the phone call was really a wrong number or if perhaps there's an intruder in the house or the call was a rouse by a potential attacker to ensure I was home.

When I was little I was deathly afraid of aliens. I blame it on the fact the only 'cool' books in my elementary school library were a cartoon strip called The Adventures of Tintin (sure, it was in French but the pictures were in colour, as was my imagination) and a book on UFO sightings (mildly inappropriate for a Catholic school that promoted a creation story completely void of aliens, yes?). By the time I had read the abduction book for the hundredth time the TV show X-Files had started, further solidifying the fear that I would one day wake up with an alien standing over me, ready to take me away to a far off planet. Somewhere along the line I got the idea that if I simply wrapped myself up in my blankets, like a caterpillar in a cocoon, and held on for dear life I'd be safe. Needless to say, there are many nights since becoming single when I still do this.

And by 'many nights' I, of course, mean 'all of them'.

And, so, if you ever happen to be making a late night phone call, regardless of your sobriety, please be extra careful to dial the number correctly. Because sometimes you might just be an inconvenient wake up call but other times you just might scare the living bejesus out of a single girl, hiding under the covers, who won't be able to get the sleep she was so desperately looking forward to and in need of.

And sometimes, just sometimes, daylight can't come soon enough.

Solicitor(s)

Dear Religious Person(s) Knocking on my Door:

It's Sunday. And, believe it or not, it's a day of rest for me too. It's the one day of the week when I, quite often, make sure I have no plans. So I can catch up on sleep. And all the things I've put off during the week. Like exercise. Writing. And Grey's Anatomy. It might be God's day but it's also my day. The one day of the week when I take the time I, so selfishly, need for myself.

The week is a struggle. It breaks me. And, no, it probably shouldn't take an entire day to build myself back up but, sadly, it does. It takes me 15% of my entire waking, working week just to convince myself to do it all over again. I spend an entire day letting the thoughts of the week catch up to me... such thoughts as "is this really my life", "how did I get here" and "what am I going to do"... so I can, yet again, push them out of my mind for another 7 days in an attempt to carry on, push on through and perhaps make the next week a bit better than the last.

So, excuse me, if I am still in my jammy jams at 4pm in the afternoon. If my hair is a mess and my make up is undone. If it looks like I've been crying (damn you, Grey's Anatomy, damn you) or just got out of bed (mmmm... naps). And, most of all, excuse me if I don't get up to answer the door. I'm aware you can see me, typing away, and, quite frankly, I don't care. After all, this is my home I'm sitting in and it is my porch you are standing on. Today is my day and, today, I'm not willing to share it. I owe you nothing. I have heard the message you speak of.

Now, please, try to understand mine.

Sincerely,
LGS

You Put That In Your Mouth?!?

I'm not a big fan of bathrooms, a fact I've mentioned more than once. I just think they're kind of, um, gross. And for good reason, I think.

I don't remember always being like this. I remember moving into my first apartment, excited to get a toothbrush holder, something my parents never had. Sure, my choice of a plastic cup with floating ducks in the bottom perhaps weren't the most mature decision but, still, having this on my bathroom counter made me feel grown up. Like I had finally 'made it'.

Years passed and I changed the toothbrush holder to something more contemporary. And then one day it suddenly occurred to me that my toothbrush was exposed. Out in the open. In the room that sometimes smells. Bad. How sick is that? That's, of course, a rhetorical question because the implied answer is, obviously... VERY!!! Not to mention the fact that the toilet gets flushed, often without the lid down. I can just imagine all the airborne germs.

Germs. They are precisely why I don't pull up my pants until after I was my hands. Unless I'm in a public bathroom, of course, because that would just be weird.

Ya... 'that' would be weird.

*whistles and walks away*

Dining Alone

I'm over at Chic Galleria discussing the art of take-out as a singleton. Let's just say, given my current diet (or lack thereof) it's probably a good idea it's a bit of a deterrent to ordering in.

Here's a snippit:

Part of the downfall of being single is eating out. And by ‘eating out’ I actually mean ‘ordering in’, otherwise known as take-out. It can pose quite the dilemma for someone who lives alone and it has literally been years since I’ve ordered Chinese food.

This isn’t to say it’s been years since I’ve actually had Chinese food (no, I’m not that deprived), it’s just been that long since I’ve ordered it in. I miss the fun of bringing home a big brown, slightly grease-stained, paper bag that you rip in to (I mean, really, do they need so many staples?) to reveal round corrugated metal containers with cardboard tops. There’s something endearing about having to patiently unroll the sides. Trying, without fail, to remove the lid when it looks like it might come off when, really, you should just learn to fully unroll the whole thing to save yourself the trouble. And while it’s great to have the ‘combo for 1′ meal when out for lunch with co-workers it’s not nearly the same as ordering a variety of dishes such as chicken fried rice, egg foo young and kung pao chicken. And no wobbly table with vinyl tablecloth while being surrounded by poor decor could possibly compare to eating out of the container while watching a movie and having a picnic in the living room. And don’t forget the leftovers...

Click here to read the rest.