Corners

I have an older home. It brings, with it, certain challenges that come with age. Homes and humans alike. Wrinkles... sags... cracks... and the odd backup every now and then (a reminder that it's always good to maintain your pipes!). But with age also comes character. The passage of time that makes it unique. Perhaps character comes from all the things it's seen, having one of the first postal codes in the city and neighbors who still have horse stalls attached to their homes (my garage? A glorified miniature barn), or perhaps it comes with living under elm trees that line the street, touching the sky, and each other, high above the sidewalks making an arch that shades us in the summer and slows the snow in the winter so that it (almost) always falls gracefully.


Granted, it's at times overwhelming and more work than I could ever muster, having a home that's almost as old as the city it lives in, but I don't think I could ever live in a home without soul. My favorite thing about the home I live in is its corners. I love the depth of them. The layering of the wood. All the edges. And all the colors. From my living room I can see 7 different colors of paint. My favorite spot in the house is from my bed, seeing the way the morning light plays with the color of my room, the front entrance and the living room.


There are other things about my home I like: having a living room in the middle of the house, meaning I always have light and never have to close the blinds (although I probably should); the sunroom (which I, unfortunately, don't use nearly as often now that I have a laptop that can follow me into the living room) with a window ledge perfect for sitting or placing endless amounts of photos on); and having 2 doors in my bedroom, a feature I initially thought I would dislike (and immediately remedy by closing one of them up) that I would now try to incorporate in all my future homes, it gives great glow to the house... and is perfect for doing laps.


So for all the complaining I may do about my baby blue bathroom with the flooring that always looks dirty, the hardwood floors that need refinishing, the xeriscaped front yard that looks like a nature reserve or the plaster wall in the kitchen needs some (major!) repair the fact of the matter remains: it's the perfect house, and home, for me... and I couldn't imagine myself living anywhere else.

Although I wouldn't mind moving it to somewhere a wee bit lot warmer. Or New York.

Whichever.

Stairs

Last fall I went to Vancouver to attend a wedding. A place I once lived, for only a brief moment in time. So brief, in fact, that it's barely worth mentioning and the main person with whom I shared many of the memories of being there is long gone.

But it is worth mentioning. At least for me. It's important, each time I go back, that I revisit those places, lest I forget where I've been and how far I have (or have not) come. Because if I let those memories fade then who else will pick them up, when they belong to no one but me?

I moved there for all the wrong reasons. I was trying to get away. And part of me (a large part, in fact) wanted Him to prove His love by following me. To realize how much He loved me and that He couldn't possibly live without me. I wanted Him to pick me over everyone else including (and perhaps especially) His mother. I wanted Him to realize He would follow me to the ends of the Earth... but the end of the country would have to do. And follow He did... but He didn’t fare well. I went to school, for no real reason other than the fact it seemed like a better option than working (I love school!). The whole thing was selfish and irresponsible. And it was a very odd and truly unique experience. I savored every moment, despite knowing everything was falling apart. I would come home and find Him messaging Her (and by 'messaging' I mean MSN, as it was the dawn before texts and tweets) and job offers on the answering machine that He had turned down because He didn't want to be there, let alone start a life there. And when I was desperate for answers I invaded His privacy and found an email from His mom with promises of airfare… for a one way ticket home. And so, in a fashion reminiscent of our eventual break up, it all came to a head one night when I uttered the words “than why are you even here”, to which He responded with “I agree”.

I did what I do best. I left. I wandered the streets, in the pouring rain, for hours. Gazing, from the street, into the living rooms of houses that had windows lit in the dark of night... wondering who lived inside, wishing we could exchange lives. It was well past midnight when I finally returned. He wasn't home. Part of me found hope in the possibility He was looking for me, part of me feared He had already left. And every fiber of my being felt horribly alone, unloved and desperate to fix things when He finally walked through the door and asked “what do you want from me”. There was so much I could have said. I could have explained how afraid I was that I loved Him more than He loved me. I could have asked what He wanted, how I could help, how We could fix things. But, in the end, all I could squeak out, half out of desperation of losing Him and half out of anger for having to tell Him at all, “I want you to ask me to come with you”. So He did. Because He always did what I told Him to. Even if it wasn’t what He wanted. After all, that's how we got to that point. In that apartment. Half a country away from where We had started. And We would still be together today... if I had only kept telling Him what to do. So when He did for Her all things I wanted for Us it was devastating to know that She never had to ask.

I wonder, sometimes, if He still hates me as much as the look on His face that last day lead me to believe. The day He had played me a song. Their song. A line of which says “I've been losing so much time”. I wonder if He feels like I stole 2 years from Him. He had wanted to come home to Her but, instead, I came home with Him and prolonged the inevitable by that much longer. Time that could have been Hers, if only I had let Him go.

I knew it was wrong, but I was so desperate to hang on to Him. I felt so far away. So alone. I had no one to talk to and those who answered my calls skirted around the issues. It's understandable, really. It wasn't their place to get involved. But, still, I was so desperate for advice. For reassurance. For guidance. I remember telling my parents and, in typical fashion, instead of asking me if I was okay or offering to help my dad simply said “this better not be because of that fucking boy”. Had he, instead, offered comfort and help who knows where I might be today. I might still be there. I may have not wasted another year and a half trying to fix things with Him that were unrepairable. And I may not have wasted two more years after that, wallowing in heartache, knocked on my ass in disbelief from the blatantly obvious. I may have gotten over it quicker, being so far away and not hearing every detail of His new life. I may have even found someone else. I tell myself I have no regrets. And I truly believe that. I’m glad I went.

It’s the coming back I wonder about.

The most unfortunate part of my time in the 'Couv is the fact that my memories are mine alone. The only person who was there with me is gone. Every time I go back I make an effort to visit my old stomping grounds. This time around I didn't have much time to reminisce but there was one place I wanted to make sure to visit. These stairs. They’re not much, they’re just stairs, but I used to sit on them. Years ago. Every day. While I waited for the man I thought was the love of my life to pick me up. I would watch the bend and, every day, He would magically appear. I was always amazed by that. It was comforting to know that, no matter how my day was, He'd be there to take me home. Sometimes when I'm downtown I see husbands dropping their wives off at work. I wait as they stop quickly to let them out of the car, annoyed that they're holding up traffic. And then I see it. The kiss goodbye. They take the time to stop and lean in, to bid each other adieu and tell each other I Love You. And all the road rage and bitterness that had swelled up inside me melts into a puddle of remembrance of what it was like to have that.

I used to have that.

To get to the stairs I had to walk from my office in the basement of the Physics building. I had to leave one building to pass through another. First the Biology building and then, finally, through the Chemistry building. A courtyard between each department, the last of which had a bust of the Dalai Lama. At the beginning of the school year he stood alone but as the year progressed people would place flower necklaces on his shoulders. By winter they were dry and void of colour, so abundant that only his bald head could be seen.

I saw the most amazing sunset of my life on those stairs. Perhaps it was the altitude, perhaps it was a moment made just for me, but there it was... a horizontal rainbow. Every colour, one on top of the other, reaching across the sky. It was breathtaking. So much so that every day thereafter I took my camera to school, in hopes of seeing such a sight just one more time and capturing it on film so I could look back on it always.

But I never did.

To me these stairs represent a time in my life when I was loved. When I knew that, no matter how icy the roads or how inconvenient the trip, someone would be there for me. I could (and probably should) have taken the bus, like I did every morning, but it was such a treat to know- at the end of a day where my heart and my brain were elsewhere, full of worry- that I had something to come home to. Some one to come home to.

Perhaps part of me knew there would come a day when no one would be there. Perhaps I watched the bend in the road every day with bated breath, forever wondering if that day would be the day. Because out of all the months and all the adventures of living there it is these stairs I remember the most. The smell of the mountains, the sound of the run-off through the trees. There was a trail I had always meant to follow, never venturing far lest He be early and I not be there. There was the garden I always admired and the maple leaves I always picked through, searching for the perfect shade of red. I never ran into many people on those stairs. They always felt like they belonged to me and me alone.


I remember the last time I sat on those stairs. I knew it was over. I had dropped out of school without warning, so nobody could talk me out of it... and then instantly regretted it. I had been surprised that nobody even bothered to ask why. And then I scrambled to get back in. From day one it had seemed like I was only a ghost there. That I had fallen through the cracks. That my presence didn't matter. That nobody would notice if I was gone. When I emailed the Dean to see if I could transfer to Engineering instead she said that I could... had I not already withdrawn. I felt betrayed. Abandoned. By lovers and strangers alike. I wrote her an email and told her everything... everything. It was more than I should have divulged, but I wanted her to know that I dropped out because I didn't know what else to do. How my decisions were rash and I feared I would one day regret them and how, above all else, it felt as though nobody wanted me. That if I stayed or if I went, it didn't matter. That I feared what the future would bring. I got a reply immediately. She told me not to leave. That she was sorry she had let me down by letting me drop out without having ever asked why. She told me to stay where I was, that she was coming to talk to me. But it was too late.

I left.

I sat on the stairs and I waited. For the moment I had dreaded all along. For the last time the car would ever come around the bend. The brand new car We had boughten together just before the move, for the start of our brand new life. The very same car He would eventually use to take Her to Palm Springs. In hindsight, I think that's all I ever wanted... a vacation. A trip. So why didn't I just ask for that? Grad school seems like an awful lot of effort... just to get away.


I wonder how many more times I'll go back to them? If I will always chose to remember the girl who used to sit there: so hopeful; so naive; so afraid of what was to come and so desperate to avoid it. Some might say I'm dwelling, each time I go back, but it’s more about closure. I sit and reflect on a life that once was and, each time, I'm able to leave them behind a little easier than the time before.

There's a special connection to being in that place, sitting in the spot where the old me once sat. The same spot, different moments in time. The same people, yet no longer anything alike. I go back so I won't forget her. To let her know she's not as alone as she thinks she is and remind her that it won't hurt forever.

They're just stairs. But they're not. They're my stairs.

They belong to me.

Lower My Standards? Up Yours!

I am 32, unwed, childless and single. By today's standards, I’m pretty much the worst case scenario. All of my friends are married and every last one has, or is trying to have, children. I am, quite literally, The Last Girl Standing.

It has taken years but I’m finally at the point where I’ve accepted my ‘situation’. I’m content with life as it is and not heartbroken for the life it's not. And while I'm okay with being single the one thing I’ve discovered is that other people are most definitely not. I get asked, all the time, why I’m not seeing anyone... as though it’s a personal choice I’ve made and a clear-cut explanation exists. Sometimes people will even follow-up with “don’t you want children”, “that’s a shame” or “have you tried online dating” as they try not-so-subtly to instill fear, guilt and blame. It may be annoying (and rather inappropriate, if you ask me) but it’s nothing I can’t handle. What I can’t handle, however, is how it all seems to imply that the onus is on me. That, somehow, my singledom is all my fault because, surely, if I tried real hard I could find someone. Anyone.

I know I've joked before that I'm in no position to be picky but the thing is I am. I don't want just anyone.

Perhaps I'm a tad naive with respect to the ways of the world. Perhaps I missed the day at school where they explained what it is a woman requires to be deemed successful and happy. Or perhaps my catalog for a mail-order husband got lost in the mail because, somewhere along the line, I seem to have missed the memo that said the only way to be happy is to expect less out of life. And to think... all this time I’ve been setting my sights high and expecting more. How silly of me!

I see this ‘don’t wait for Mister Right, settle for Mister Right Now’ mentality all the time. Heck, I've even been tempted by it myself, pondering the idea that being with someone I can barely stand is perhaps better than being with no one at all. That, maybe, I could make it work. Love or no love. There are even books to this effect (written, I'm sure, by someone with the highest of standards and the happiest of marriages). And this theory doesn't just apply to us single girls, either. It can be seen on TV each and every week when a man is expected to pick a wife over the course of 13 weeks and 30 potential suitors. Surely one has to be 'the one'. I mean, it's not like he doesn't have plenty of options, right? There *are* 30 women. And they don't all seem to be the same *at all*. They're all *completely* different and complicated and have so much more to offer than looks and a desire to be on TV and marry an attractive, moderately famous man. And we, the viewers, have every reason to be mad if he doesn't chose someone (like last time), right? Because how dare he be so selfish and demanding, right?!?

Really???

Is this what the world is coming to? Do we really live in a day and age where choosing a wife from a gaggle of superficial, self-absorbed woman who are 10 years younger than the man in question after knowing them for merely a handful of weeks that include only a few hours of actual one-on-one interaction (and by 'one-on-one' I mean 'one-on-one-plus-sound-guys-and-camera-men-and-producers'... and by 'interaction' I mean 'kissing') has become socially acceptable? If so, Lord help us all. No wonder why I'm single.

And, yes, it has actually been said that if I really want to find someone that perhaps I should lower my standards.

Um... excuse me?!?

Because the *perfect* advice to give someone who is trying to get over a relationship is to tell them they'll never find a man as good as the one they just lost.

Good Lord, no wonder why I was so depressed.

Why is it we make such suggestions when it comes to love? When it comes to other aspects of life we tend to demand the very best: the best job; the best home; the best car; the best friends... but when it comes to the person we plan to spend the rest of our life with we have to sacrifice to the point of being in a competition and sharing him with other woman? Begging for affection, attention and a rose?

When was the last time we turned to an athlete, researcher or presidential candidate and said "you know... maybe you should set your sights a little lower"? We encourage people to go for gold, find a cure and change the world so why would we expect anyone to 'settle' when it comes to something as important as choosing a mate? Call me demanding but I refuse to settle for Mister 'Good Enough'. I won't settle for anything less (or even equal to, for that matter) than what I once had. Not only because it would otherwise all be for not but because, gosh darn it, that's what I deserve.

Isn't it?

After all, love is not a game. It's not a spectator sport and it is most definitely not a reality show. I refuse to decide on matters of the heart based on how many roses I have left to give. And I'm sorry but I will never be able to lower my standards to the point of kissing a man who still has another woman's gum in his mouth.

So to you, the women of The Bachelor, I can only say this... have some self-respect. Find a man of your own, not a man of the people. Don't treat love as a competition because word to the wise ladies... if he's capable of being 'in love' with 4 women during courtship do you really think that will change when he's put a ring on your finger?

And, yes, I will still watch the show. If not for entertainment purposes than out of sheer dismay, patiently waiting for the moment when it all changes and everyone smartens up. Thing is... I think I might be waiting a while.

Unless, of course, I lower my standards.

TGI(V)F: The Hoodie Footie

So let me get this straight... I have to get naked in order to go to the bathroom in the middle of a cold, winter's eve... *and* pay $50 for a pair of pajamas ($100 if you order through pajamagrams) I can't even wear, in good conscious, to get the mail, despite the fact getting the mail doesn't require me to leave the house so much as reach my arm outside the door? I don't think so.

Let's review this infomercial, shall we? Marshmallowy soft? I don't know about you but a bag of marshmallows last me approximately 3 years. They are anything but soft. You know what I bet is soft? A kitten. A cloud. A pillow. Or velvet. Just saying.

This isn't hot. It might be warm. But it's not hot. Jack Frost isn't going to be the only man kept at bay, believe you me.

I'm supposed to take all the most comfortable things I own and wrap them into one? How about the fact that they're small, medium and large sizing probably doesn't account for the fact my friend and I are both a size medium but she's 5'9" and I'm 5'4". So either I'm going to be tripping over my (conveniently detachable) feetsies or her crotchal area is going to be... well, uncomfortable.

There's really only one thing I can say about this: No. Just no.

I'm a Survivor

It's what... the 40th season of Survivor?!? How is it that contestants are still showing up on the island wearing nothing more than their underwear or Armani suit? Do they pick these people up at work or the tanning salon? Surely they must have some notice. I mean, really... A suit? You deem that as appropriate attire for a jungle adventure? And to the dude in the poorly fitting, faded red undies... Seriously?!? You forgot your swim trunks? This is a month long trip to an island, not a weekend getaway to the Super 8.

Here are the top 10 things I would wear if I were a contestant on Survivor. And by 'wear' I mean constantly. Or at least from the time I'm told I'm going to be on the show until I'm apparently abducted and taken to the island.

10. 8 pairs of underwear. I came to this number by dividing the maximum number of days on the island (30) plus estimated days for travel (2) by the fact I can wear a pair of underwear normally... and inside out and not have my dirty bits touch, well, the dirty bits. I then divided again by 2 figuring that, worst case scenario, I get voted out mid-way through (no sense jinxing things by being cocky) or, best case scenario, I have to wear each pair twice (which is actually four times if you're keeping track of inside out verses right side in).

9. Tear away pants. Because, yes, it's the jungle but even jungles get chilly at night. Especially in the rain season, which seems to be when Survivor likes to do their filming (I bet they get better hotel rates in the off season). And tear away pants? Are a great way to celebrate after winning an immunity challenge. Nothing says "I win" like ripping your pants off. Am I right?!?

8. A rain suit. Not a rain jacket or a pair of water resistant pants but, rather, a rain suit... complete with a hooded poncho because a) ponchos are cool, and b) it's a fun word to say. (Pon-cho!) I might be willing to substitute a poncho for a rain hat. But only if it's Yellow.

7. A bikini top... with a sports bra sewn into it. And by 'a' sports bra I mean 'two' because have you seen some of those girls doing the challenges? They should not be running, they're going to hurt themselves. In place of a bikini bottom I would wear board shorts because, hello, 30 days in the jungle? Bushy. And why a bikini over a one piece, besides the obvious convenience factor when it comes to using the bathroom (aka hole in the ground)? Because girl who's a picky eater is going to lose weight when her only options are fish, rice without soy sauce and not eating. And girl wants her skinniness documented. On. National. TV. (why is it called National television when, clearly, the fact I'm in Canada watching an American TV show that's filmed in the tropics, by definition, implies it's INTERnational TV?

6. Sunglasses. With one of those dummy string things that goes around the neck. Because I'll be dammed if I'm losing my spectacles in a water challenge.

5. A travel pillow. You know... the ones that wrap around your neck. And if that goes against the rules then a neck brace. I could have whiplash... I'd like to see them prove otherwise. Neck support is crucial. Especially when sleeping on a log.

4. Runners. Because people in flip flops (or dress shoes) are dumb. I briefly considered wearing flippers (and a snorkel mask instead of sunglasses) but I didn't want to get carried away. Because this list is *clearly* not about getting carried away.

3. A necklace. And should said necklace look like an immunity idol than so be it. I don't dictate fashion... I just follow it.

2. A beekeepers hat. Have you *seen* the bugs in a jungle?!? I would also consider a welder's mask, in lieu of a beekeeper hat. But only if my rain hat, sunglasses and travel pillow (and/or neck brace) would fit underneath.

1. And last, but definitely not least, a hoodie footie. It's like a snuggie, but different (I feel a TGI(V)F post coming on). Did I mention I'd be sleeping on a log?

There are other things I'd like to wear. Like one of those rings that doubles as a can opener. And fishing hooks as earrings. But, like I said earlier, there's no need to get carried away.

Now where did I put my flint belt buckle...

Home Alone

The mind is a powerful thing. Like when it wakes you up at 3 o'clock on a Monday morning because you're *sure* you just heard the doorbell, despite the fact the cat didn't budge an inch and the motion light at the front door remained off.

Living alone is great when it comes to letting the dishes pile up, napping and wearing pajamas all day. But when it comes to boogeymen and rapists? Not so much.

I'm counting this as exercise. After all, I'm sweating.

Cold sweats count as sweating, right?

Much Ado About Nothing

I went out on Saturday. Like out-out. To a place with music and dancing and booze. I believe the youth of today refer to this place as a bar.

And at this bar there were boys. Young, young boys. Boys I am not quite old enough to be the mother of (thank God) but most definitely could have babysat. They were nice enough. They did, after all, dance with a couple of old brods all night. I even recall being twirled around a time or two (how I didn't suffer from motion sickness, given the state I was in, is beyond me). It was fun. It's been a long (LONG!) time since the last time I was out like that. So long, that I don't actually remember when the last time was.

And there was one boy. Who was actually my age (ie. old) and seemed to fancy me (based on the number of text messages, and the subtext of said messages, received after the bar... reminding me of all the reasons why I should never give out my phone number, at least not my real one, when somewhat intoxicated). A boy who had just broken up with his girlfriend of 6 months the night before while concurrently being in a custody battle with his ex-wife of 9 years for their two children, having just moved to the north end of the city in an attempt to "get away from all the Asians" in the area of town I live in (a statement which is bizarre considering I have never actually noticed an abundance of Asians and, regardless, would much rather prefer to have some culture over the riff-raff white trash that exists in his neck of the woods). And yesterday morning, as I remembered all of this, I realized... that while before I may have thought "it's better than nothing" I now know it's not.

Sometimes nothing is most definitely the way to go.

What a nice discovery to make, right before Valentine's Day! A few years ago I would have spent today mopey and downtrodden, certain that nobody loved me. Today I know that I am, indeed, loved. Although I must admit that, for a brief moment, the fact I'm loved slipped my mind when my doorbell rang and a delivery man stood on my porch with a heart-shaped pizza, insisting it was for me while I told him, many times, "you have the wrong house". Turns out he was right... he did have the right house.

And to top off my day of love I also got chocolates. And coffee. From the Empress. I saw the package peeking out of my mailbox as I pulled up to the house and I practically ran up the drive (I say practically because it's covered in ice, so it was more of a shuffle than a run). What a wonderful day!

Today I'm grateful for love. Because for the first time in a long time today isn't about the love I'm missing from a partner. It's about the love I feel, so very often, from so many people. Near and far. I am so very grateful. For each and every one of you. More than you could know.

Happy Valentine's Day, my loves. Thank you for giving me all the love I never thought I'd have.

xoox!

TGI(V)F: Shake the Dust

This is for the people who go on vacation alone.

Ya... that'd be me.

This might sound a little blah-blah-blah. But keep listening. It's for you too.



Sometimes I think we forget how great we are. We become so consumed by what we are not that we can't remember what we are. I know I do this. So many thoughts whirl through my mind that I am not a mother; I am not a pregnant woman; I am not a wife; I am not a bride; I am not a fiance; I am not a girlfriend and I am not loved that I forget all the things that I am because, when put in terms of words, they pale in comparison. But when put in the words of a poet? They are magical.

We forget. That we are all people who should be celebrated. Who should shake the dust off ourselves and stand proud. We forget that even the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling deserves to be celebrated. We're all so busy, so consumed by other things that we forget. We forget that we can make a difference simply by doing the things that make us good people... or by not doing the things that would make us bad. And that's something.

We each have enough gallons of blood to make us an ocean.

But, sometimes, we forget.

Today you are reminded. Don't let a moment go by that doesn't remind you that your heart beats a hundred thousand times a day. Don't let the dust settle in your veins. Grab this world by it's close pins... and take it for a spin.

Shake the dust.

Happy Mr. Sunshine Day!

No, that's not what was on my fortune cookie... today is the premiere of Matthew Perry's new show, Mr. Sunshine. Unless you're Canadian in which case, for some odd reason, it aired on Monday. Regardless, I figured it would be a good day to remind you that I had a crush on Matthew Perry long before it was cool to have a crush on Matthew Perry (wait... what?!? It's still not cool?!?). So here's a repost or, as we in the tv biz (or pretending to date someone in the tv biz) like to call it, a rerun from March of 2009:

It’s been suggested, in the past, that when it comes to men I should perhaps lower my standards in order to expand my pool of potential suitors. I thought I was making good strides at broadening my horizons and keeping an open mind... until I phoned a good friend. This is the conversation that ensued:

Me: I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamt I was at [a friend’s house] except her name had changed and she was pregnant and there was this huge room in her house with all these windows and the entire cast of Friends was there.
Friend: The cast of Friends?
Me: Ya, I would totally marry Matthew Perry.
Friend: He used to be a drug addict.
Me: Well he’s not anymore.
Friend: You deserve better then a drug addict.
Me: I think we both know I’m in no position to be picky.
Friend: So you’re idea of not being picky is to marry Matthew Perry?!?

Hmmm….. maybe my standards are a tad high but even my friends can't deny we'd make a super cute couple! And could our pretend kids BE any funnier?!?!?

And while what started as merely a joke has turned into something more (cough-obsessive-cough) I figured things were perhaps getting out of hand after making the photo of me and my fake boyfriend my Facebook profile pic. Seemed harmless... until an old mentor of mine befriended me and sent me a message that stated nothing more than "who's the guy... you look very happy together". Um, ya... oops. But who was I to correct him... this person who had never been witness to the wildly popular sitcom of Friends. Easy to miss, really. It's not like it was on TV for TEN YEARS or anything.

And there you have it. The story behind how I was Mrs. Perry long before Mr. Perry was cool. Oh wait.. he's still not? How about now? After all, this is the new intro for his show...



Well, I tried. Happy Mr. Sunshine Day anyway! Hope you enjoy the show. And if you don't, would you mind pvr'ing it anyway and just deleting it right away? You know, to keep ratings up? So I can keep seeing my boyfriend from afar.. at least until the restraining order expires.

That's One Hot Piece of A$$

My cat is a creature of habit. And she knows that when I get home in the winter the furnace is going to kick in (thank you, programmable thermostat!). So as soon as I walk in the door she plops herself right on top of the register and waits for her Marilyn Monroe moment.

I'm not sure if this means the house is too cold during the day or if perhaps I've become a tad predictable but, either way, I'm kind of glad that, for once, I'm associated with having a hot ass.

Even if it's not my own.

It's A Wash

I have a Rubbermaid container of 'stuff'. Things that I used to associate with Him. Photos, books, cards from anniversaries, birthdays and Valentine's day. I put them away, out of sight in an attempt to be out of mind, when I couldn't bear to look at them but wasn't yet ready to throw them out.

It had been years since I last opened it. It sat in my basement, at the bottom of a pile of containers. Forgotten about. Until I came across a bunny hug that was taking up valuable closet space. Something I rarely wore. Truth be known, doesn't fit. Something I had gotten from him. In perfectly good condition, hope to one day fit into again one day, I decided to add it to the 'stuff'. Opening the container for the first time in a long time, I started going through it and I was surprised, happy to see a lot of it and indifferent to see the rest. No twangs of heartache and pain occurred and I was proud. Until I saw something... yellowed shirts, a discolored pillow and a stuffed animal whose once white fur now looked dirty. My stuff. Things I now wanted solely for me. Stained by the time they spent sitting idle.

There's my University rowing shirts. The only school sports team I had ever been on. Sure, it was where we had met but that's not my first thought. It was where I got to be one of the cool kids. Travel in a bus with team mates. Wear a medal around my neck. Shed a tear when I thought I had let my team down. It was where I first got to celebrate wins in a bar and where we drowned our losses the same way. And it's where my confidence soared. And there it was, this memento of that time, of that me... ruined.

There's the Dr. Suess stuffie. A replica of one he had had as a child. I saw it in a downtown window one day and just had to buy it for him. It was $60, far more than I could afford to spend at the time, but after telling the shop owner my story she gave me a discount and the look on his face had been priceless. It used to remind me of the sensitive man I had loved and a future we had planned that included our children having a Cat in The Hat stuffed animal, just as he had. And now? It reminds me of just how much I had cared. How I did make an effort and that I wasn't nearly as horrible as I had let myself believe, when it was all said and done. It's no longer a tribute to his childhood anymore, it's a tribute to me. How sad it was, then, to open the container and find this thing that was brand new and pristine looking ragged and worn. It's white and red stripped hat looking cream-colored and dull.

And then there is the pillow. Which, really, isn't a pillow at all. It's my baby blanket. Or it was until I, one day, discovered the cat had shredded it to pieces. Heartbroken, I threw out one of the few happy mementos of my childhood only to, months later, open a present from under the Christmas tree and discover he had picked each and every piece out of the garbage when I wasn't looking, washed each one by hand and pieced them together, like a puzzle, turning what could no longer be salvaged as a blanket into a pillow so that it could be slept with, once more. The cartoon lions on the white fabric looking back at my astonished face, amazed at the most kind, tedious and selfless thing anyone had ever done for me. It was that night that I knew, and told him, I loved Him. The blanket is now a shell of it's former self. The lions fade into the background with only a single, missewn patch revealing the true colors, literally, of what once was. This thing that once broke my heart to know that I could have lost someone who loved me so much to have done something so kind now broke my heart not because of that but, rather, because I lost a piece- the same piece, in fact- of my childhood once more. Hugging the pillow now does not make me miss him but, rather, gives me a reminder of how I want to someday be loved again... but in a way that doesn't fade, like a blanket does.

These three things are no longer in the container. I took them out, sad to have ever been so rash to have put them there so carelessly and without preparation, certain that I would never overcome the pain they caused me. Instead they are soaking in my washing machine in hopes that the power of oxyclean can undo what time and heartache has done, unable to allow the wash cycle to continue because I'm not yet ready to let go of these things one more time, all over again. This time not mourning the loss of Him but, rather, of the things themselves and the joyous fact that these things aren't about Him anymore. What a tremendous moment of discovery that was, tarnished only by the stains of too much time having passed in too poorly a Rubbermaid container.

Eventually I'll be ready to admit that I don't need them to remember, that I don't need proof of how far I've come. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to keep them for a while longer, eventually having to let go of the fact they are ruined, accepting the fact that even though I still have them they are gone. That they, much like my memory of what once was, is no longer the way I remember it. Not nearly as clean. Not nearly as perfect. And most definitely not nearly as critical to my existence as I had once thought. Eventually I'll be able to let them all go. And move on.

Just maybe not tonight.