The Last Girl Standing

Just Call Me Peggy

2012-01-22T19:40:00.007-06:00

And so continues the craft room saga. Today I decided to focus on the walls and make myself a pegboard for organization. Actually, I lie... it was a two day affair and it wasn't so much about organization as it was about wanting something pretty and the fact I had seen this on Pinterest. So I'll spare you the how-to details because I did exactly what I do with most things in life... I copied someone else.

When it came to the supplies, however, I got creative. I got the pegboard from the scrap bin at the hardware store. You know what's nice about the scrap bin of the hardware store? You ask "how much", they say "twelve dollars" and when you say "no way" they say "okay, how about $5?". Sold! It was the perfect size and, sure, it had a rather big scratch on it but it's pegboard... I just used the other side. Besides, I might end up painting it some day so it really didn't matter.

When it came to accessories I decided to keep it on the cheap and headed to the dollar store. I found a wire utensil basket and some plastic little baskets that will work wonderfully for the likes of markers, pencil crayons and paint brushes. I also found these plastic cups. A bargain at 3 for a dollar. And, yes, I did buy 2 sets solely to get more pink cups. Don't judge!

After some trial and error (mostly error) I found the best way to drill the holes needed for hanging the cups on the pegs was to first put masking tape on the cup. Not only did this prevent cracking but it had the added benefit of acting as a guide as to where to drill:

I then started with a small bit and progressively got bigger. Actually, that's a lie. I first tried using the big bit right off the go. This resulted in a squished cup and a lot of smoke (not a surprise, coming from me). What can I say, I'm a strong she-man. And, yes, I know what you're thinking.. I should clearly be a hand model:

In the end I used 3 bits: (Shave and a hair cut? Two bits!)

And then?!?!?!? I put them on the hooks! I love them!

The only 'problem'? The room is actually too organized. Between bookcases, shelves, ribbon storage and now the pegboard... I have nothing to put in the cups. Fear not, I'll come up with something.

I'm thinking candies and bon bons...

It Isn't Rocket Science... or is it?!?

2012-01-20T23:24:00.002-06:00

In creating my craft room I decided to 'pull a Pinterest' (Patent pending on that trademarked phrase... yes, I know that doesn't make sense) and make myself an island. I dabble in stained glass and my back always ends up getting sore because I'm too ~~lazy~~ dedicated to sit down while cutting glass knowing I'll just have to walk over to the grinder on my now-turquoise workbench after each piece is cut. So I figured the height of an island would be perfect... not to mention all the extra workspace and storage!

And how does one create an island, you might ask? By folding a Strawberry Shortcake blanket, circa 1982, into various lengths and widths and moving it all over the damn room... of course.

After deciding on the size and position of the island I got assembled the necessary bookcases (courtesy of Martha, Martha, Martha!) and bought a melamine topper... which I had the friendly folk at the hardware store cut into 2 pieces not only so I would have the option of having 2 smaller workstations in the future (perhaps in an L configuration against 2 adjoining walls) but mainly so I could get it home in my car. Never mind the fact I had to drive home with my window open. In the winter. In the middle of the Canadian prairies. Brrrrr!

Some assembling, a lot of leveling (stupid basement floor!) and a few brackets later... and here she is:

Now all I have to do is fill it... and use it! Next up? A spot for sewing!

When a Workbench isn't a Workbench...

2012-01-07T20:00:00.003-06:00

One of the nice things about being single is not having to share my home with anyone else (with the except of the space currently being occupied by my cousin, who's staying with me while she's in school). I used to think my home was empty, lonely and depressing. Now I consider it to be my refuge. My quiet place. My haven. If being a hermit paid well (or at all) I might never leave it at all. And while one person may not need an 1100 square foot home with 2 bedrooms (plus den/sunroom) and a finished (a term I use loosely) basement it's nice to have lots of room to be frivolous with. After all, what single girl doesn't need a sewing/stained glass room, am I right?!?

Right...

But none of this is my fault. I blame Pinterest for the fact I'm dedicating an entire room to crafting. With lilac walls, turquoise accents and a reading nook. And for turning this:

And these:

Into these:

And this:

Not gonna lie... I LOVE it!

Thanks, Pinterest! I'm sure I won't be singing your praises when it comes to putting all the crap back in the room.

Along For The Ride

2012-01-02T21:40:00.002-06:00

There's something about car rides that intrigues me. Perhaps it's the notion of going somewhere or being able to get from point A to point B at the drop of a hat and a tank of gas. Or perhaps it's the way it feels to be in your own little world, singing along to the radio or beating the steering wheel like a drum, all the while watching the world fly by, knowing that you're the one who's actually doing the flying.

I like the way it feels to have the ground pass beneath you with nothing more than a floor mat and piece of steel between you and the open road. I like the way you can feel the rumble strips and speed bumps without ever having to touch them, making the whole situation feel like "The Princess and the Pea". I like the way it feels to get out of the car, at long last, and stretch your legs and reach for the sky, a feeling that seems to say "I've finally made it".

I like how road trips sound happy and light. With rarely a negative connotation. With imagery that includes buying snacks for the road, making playlists to listen to and saving things to talk about on the way. I love the sunlight that casts a shadow as it passes trough the trees that go by, flickering to the tune of the tires below. I love drifting in and out of consciousness while being lulled by the rhythm of the road. There's a trust that comes in being able to sleep while someone else is behind the wheel. Seeing the world behind a curtain of eyelids while life flashes by in streaks of red and yellow, eyes flickering back and forth on the cusp of dreaming. Not only is your life in their hands but there's a level of comfort and intimacy that's required to not feel obligated to keep the driver company, keep them entertained. To allow them to be alone with their thoughts with you in the 'room'. To be an arms length away at all times and not say a word.

I miss the hum of the road. The excitement of the journey and the moment of arrival. One of my favorite things in the world is being chauffeured around while I look at houses and passersby. I look forward to the next time I get to use my seat belt as a pillow, buy gummy bears at a gas station and stop beside the road for an impromptu photo of an over-sized novelty item.

Where the road takes me, I do not know... but I sure do look forward to the journey.

Simmer Down Now

2011-12-29T22:32:00.000-06:00

The weather outside is frightful! Baby, it's cold outside! No really, it is. I spent twenty minutes de-icing my car after work today. Given the fact the weather stripping on my car door ripped off as I opened the door, you can imagine how much I enjoyed the whole experience.

It's gross. It's icy and snowy and it hurts when you're outside and Mother Nature pelts you in the face. So when I finally did get home I decided it wasn't a snow day... it was a soup day.

With the exception of French Onion (which, let's face it, is just a conduit for cheese) and Bean with Bacon soup (because, hello... bacon!) I'm not much of a soup person. My mom made lots of soup growing up (tomato and macaroni, beef barley, chicken noodle, minestrone, barfed... I mean borscht) so I've had my fill. And when I eat out I always opt for fries or salad (but mostly fries) instead of soup as my side dish and I never, ever, pay money for soup.

Ever.

Except once. At a fancy-schmancy bachelorette party at the type of restaurant where french fries are clearly out of the question (they wouldn't have gone well with the wine anyway) and the only type of salad available is one made of weeds and flowers. And so the soup of the day it was. And what a soup, indeed! Moroccan Tomato and Peanut soup. So delicious that I googled it as soon as I got home. A few batches later and I think I have it down to a science. Especially since I forgot the 'add water' step for the first few batches. Needless to say, it was a little thick.

Kind of like me.

It's a great soup. I make mine a tad on the spicy side (kind of like me!) and with less peanut butter (I have nothing funny to say about that). It freezes wonderfully and makes a great, filling lunch. The type of lunch that makes you feel like all warm and fuzzy inside, like you're at home instead of the company cafeteria. Like I said, I'm not a soup kind of girl but this soup? Isn't like soup at all... it's like a bowl full of awesome.

That's right, awesome.

Don't believe me? Try for yourself. Don't mind the pencil markings (I figured out the Weight Watchers points, for the old system) or the food stains... it's a recipe that's been well used and well loved.

Enjoy!

Until Next Year...

2011-12-27T02:34:00.010-06:00

My lips are the color of bright pink hot pants and my face, arms and jeans are covered in body glitter. Such is life when you get a makeover at a 4 year old's birthday party on Boxing Day (Canada's version of Black Friday, retail-wise).

Tomorrow I attend Christmas gathering five. Five! So overwhelmed am I by this Christmas season that I've been getting up early (relatively speaking, of course) just so I can move to the couch and nap in the glow of the Christmas tree, enjoying every possible moment before it's time to put it all away.

I wish I had taken time off work. To prolong the inevitable. To putz around the house, doing nothing more than catching up with friends between cheesy movies on the W channel and naps in front of the fire. But, alas, it's almost all over. Tonight is the last night I don't have to set an alarm and tomorrow is the last of the Christmas gatherings. I'm down to the last of the candles for my German pyramid... A Christmas trinket I've wanted for years and stumbled upon in a local flower shop. With no price tag, I played the game of "I won't pay more than..." in my mind, knowing I had paid $80 for one as a gift to my mother almost two decades ago and having seen similar ones online not that long ago for $300.

And so, with trepidation, I asked the store manager how much it was... only to be told he'd give it to me for $45. And so it came to be, this new Christmas tradition. The heat from the candles causing the blades to turn, making the characters on each level
go round and round. It's a shame to put it away. It all seems to have gone by so quickly.

It ended too soon.

Christmas Past

2011-12-25T02:11:00.000-06:00

I haven't always been a fan of Christmas. In fact, there was a time when it was my most dreaded day of the year, the only highlights being a few hours spent at an afternoon matinee or going out, post family dinner, with an old high school friend in town for the holidays to sing karaoke at the the only bar in town open Christmas night. Catching up on the year past in the smokey, dingy type of establishment that rents rooms by the hour, surrounded by people who were, like us, trying to escape or, sadly, had nowhere else to go. People from different walks of life, sitting together in silent comradery without judgement or trouble, calling a truce on social standings, or lack thereof, and sharing the same space and moments in silent understanding.

The bar has since been torn down, the friend is no more and there never seems to be any good movies playing this time of year. Things change. And so has my Christmas. No longer is it filled with awkward silence and palpable tension, having being guilted into going only to be told my presence ruined the day. No more is it a tug-of-war battle between my conscious and my heart- telling myself it was the right thing to do, all the while feeling resented and unloved, wondering if the material value of the gifts was worth a day spent being so conflicted and confused. Painfully longing for something better.

Now my Christmas is mine and mine alone. To spend as I see fit. With family I was given not by blood but by fate, luck and love. The family I have in my friends, near and far. Not just for a day but the entire season. All the Christmas cards... the secret Santa gifts... the traveling from one home to another, knowing that I'm wanted and loved in not just one home but many. So much cheer has come my way this month that my cousin, who's staying with me while she completes an internship in the city, has started calling me "Hollywood". She thinks I'm famous... I tell her I'm just incredibly, amazingly lucky. To have met the people I have, both online and off. It never ceases to amaze me that people give me a second thought, let alone a third or fourth. I think of my friends and I am so overwhelmed and amazed. It seems impossible that I could give to any of you (yes, you!) even a little bit of what you all give to me.

Now, at Christmas, I spend the day thinking "I don't deserve this" instead of "I deserve better".

And now, the day I hated so much? Is one of my favorite days of the year.

And, so, on this day, so very different from Christmases past, I wish you a Merry Christmas. May your heart be as full and overflowing as my own... and may you feel as loved as I do tonight. If not by the people you'd most expect than in the most unexpected of ways. Because while one type of love may seem your given right the true joy comes from the kind you will spend your entire life in awe and gratitude of. The kind that makes you want to be a better person because you may not know how you got it but you sure as heck want to do everything you can to earn it. And this holiday season?! Makes me want to do everything I can to earn it because, hot damn, am I lucky.

Christmas is so much better when it truly is Merry!

Time for a Tune-Up

2011-12-18T21:32:00.000-06:00

What else have I been doing? Well... after years of owning a piano I finally got it tuned (funny how it still sound bad when I play it) and managed to find a pretty kick-ass piano teacher. I start lessons on Tuesday and have been practicing what I do know so I don't look completely inept at my first lesson.

Just mildly.

And I baked a cake. The cake part sucked (a baker I am not) but the decorating? I sure do like that part. Fondant is like playDoh for adults. The cake was to celebrate the arrival of twins so I opted to go with the cliché 'two peas in a pod' theme. And, yes, I copied a couple cake designs off Pinterest. Which is the best thing since sliced bread.

Seriously.

In the end the cake was a huge hit (again... more so the decorating than the cake itself. Not gonna lie, it was kind of gross inside) and although I kind of wish I had used more of a pastel color scheme (when it comes to both icing and paint I have this theory that if it's all the same price I may as well go all-out. If you saw my house you'd understand) and had made a taller, narrower cake (for effect) I'm pretty impressed with how it turned out. So much so that I had to stop myself from naming the babies.

(Charlie and Sam)

Patience is a virtue For Losers

2011-12-16T23:45:00.005-06:00

On the topic of "where the hell have I been" I finally managed to sort through all of my trip photos and put them in an album. Writing and all. A feat I still haven't completed since my last big trip, three and a half years ago (oops). I probably still wouldn't have it finished if it weren't for the Christmas deadline and the fact I had a coupon code for 25% off. And I'm cheap.

But that last one's beside the point.

The point is I finished it! Despite wanting to delete the damn thing after spending 17 hours on it in a 24 hour period... and regardless of the fact I accidentally chose a 12x12" format when my other books are 11x13". *sigh* Yes, the important thing to remember is it's finished. I submitted it last week. And then proceeded to log into their website, at bare minimum (and, sadly, this is not an exaggeration), 8 times a day to see if the status had changed from 'in production' to 'shipped'. It's been a long 7 days.

So today I gave up the dream of it arriving before Christmas. I told myself that I didn't have to check it because, surely, they'd have an automated system that sends an email notification, complete with tracking number, the moment the status changed. I'm in IT after all, I know how these things work.

So I didn't check it all day. Except for that one time this morning. And another time on my lunch break.

But just now? One last time? Just to make sure it hadn't changed... I checked it.

AND IT'S SHIPPED!!!!

I can't wait to see it. All 358 pages of it (don't judge... a lot of the photos are a full page). And the two hours spent photoshopping the cover?!? Totally worth it!

What Are You Trying to Say?!?

2011-12-02T07:32:00.001-06:00

I think a person's phone says a lot about them. Or so I thought... until I caught a glimpse of the keyboard shortcuts I've created for myself. Because if a person's phone does say a lot about them my phone is trying to tell me that I am one (or two) of the following:

a) An 11 year old girl
b) An embarassment to the English language
or...
c) Eminem

Glad Tidings

2011-12-01T21:04:00.001-06:00

Today was a long-ass day. Got up at 4:30am to do an implementation at work. Had a full, busy day. One of those days where I felt pulled in a million different directions. And while it was hectic and stressful (almost) every task was enjoyable. It feels like I'm coming into my own at work and I really enjoy the new things I'm learning. Like search engines. Because search engines are fun, am I right?!?

Regardless, it was a long, tiring day. I came home wiped and exhausted. But I came home to a wonderful surprise. For the second year in a row I have a secret santa!! It never crossed my mind that I might be so lucky and loved two years in a row.

I lie: it did cross my mind. But I pushed it aside, deeming it too selfish to hope for... And too good to be true.

And yet so it is. That on a day like today I come home to find myself instantly refreshed. Content. Happy. Grateful and humbled.

So very humbled.

Thank you, secret Santa. I'm glad you're a secret. You could be anyone. But I'm so very glad you're you.

And I'm so very grateful you're back.

Xoox

Creep-tastic

2011-11-27T14:16:00.003-06:00

Do you ever get the feeling that someone is watching you?

Sometimes it's subtle....

Sometimes not so much.

I Blame Hollywood

2011-11-12T22:41:00.005-06:00

I spent some quiet time alone today. An occurrence that seems to happen less and less these days, causing me to ponder the fact that I not only enjoy my alone time but that I covet it. I've been thinking this a lot lately... that being alone is a good thing, the way I like things to be. That, at the end of the day, the person I'm meant to come home to is... no one.

And then I watched a sappy movie for the billionth time. One I've seen more times than I can count: a tale of a family with lots of kids... all grown after a lifetime in a home of love and memories... with all their trials and tribulations but full of joy and laughter, acceptance and love. I'm drawn to it, time and again, this glimpse into a life I will never know, a life that probably doesn't even exist in the real world. A life of happy endings, even after sadness and heartache.

I don't know why I do it to myself, these movies. These shenanigans. Silly thoughts and hopes that leave my heart heavy and sad for what I've lost... these things I never had to begin with.

I blame Hollywood. For grandiose ideas that exist in my head and heart. Of storybook tales that exist onscreen and never off. For thinking that everyone, maybe even me, deserves- and gets- their happily ever after.

I think of myself, so many years ago, and my heart aches for that girl. The one I let down. The one who was so jaded, refusing to see what lay before her out of sheer disbelief and stubbornness. I mourn what she lost... and the loss of her. I'm sad to have let her down. It seems unfair that she didn't watch, or believe in, such movies... while I watch them time and time again with a heavy heart. I spend every day trying to make it up to her but how does one even begin... when movies play of families gathering at Christmas; couples sharing a love-filled embrace amid silent snowfalls beneath moonlight; and coming-of-age stories of women ten years my junior finding it all in The Big Apple? How do I tell the old me that the life I live alone is the life I've come to realize I actually want and enjoy when sappy movies tell me that the best life possible is anything but the one I'm living?

I wish I had been a pioneer woman. Life would have been so much simpler then. I'd be a nun by now and my parents would be so proud.

Eye Candy

2011-10-30T00:58:00.003-06:00

Mid-way through photos from my trip, here are a few of my faves:

Passing the Time

2011-10-29T23:44:00.001-06:00

So what have I been doing with my time now that I'm no longer checking my Facebook/twitter/email/blog fifty times a day? Although, if I'm being perfectly honest, I must admit that I did keep an eye on my blog stats after that last post to see if writing about not caring about page views happened to increase my page views and, just as I had expected, it did. Thus proving a theory I have about blogging and negative gratification... Which is a whole other post, one I've had drafted for years but have been too worried about my (lack of) social standing to post. Until now, of course (insert dramatic music, indicating foreshadowing of some sort).

But I digress. So what have I been doing? Well let me tell you...

I've been reading. Not a page here or a page there but chapters upon chapters. Books upon books. Plural. As in 'two'. Whatever, it's progress.

I've been taking a lot of long, relaxing baths. The type where the water is so hot it burns (just for a little while) and you exist in the state of limbo between falling asleep and worrying about the risk of drowning. It's been nice to take the time to unwind in a sea of bubbles. And, no, I don't just say this because I still don't have a shower... not because I'm lacking the tools or know-how (both of which are true) but, rather, because I'm too nervous to install it, sure the ceiling will fall down, the walls will cave in or the floor will buckle. In fact, if I didn't have my cousin staying with me while she goes to school I would honestly wrap the shower kit up, put a bow on it and give it to the home's next owners as a house warming gift. After all, if baths were good enough for my ancestors they're good enough for me! Never mind the fact they lived in grass huts and wore corsets, we're total twinsies!

I've been going for walks and generally hanging out with said cousin. And because of this maybe, just maybe, she'll still talk to me in 10 years because we'll have things to talk about instead of her remembering me as the girl she lived with who played on her laptop and watched TV all the time. Instead, I'll just be the girl she lived with who played on her laptop and watched TV some of the time.

On that note, I've been trying to spend more time here, in the chair I promised myself I would use "all the time" but have rarely sat in because my butt has been firmly planted on top of my couch... and beneath my laptop.

I went for not one but two massages! At an actual remedial massage therapy center. A real 'it hurts so bad you bruise' massage. It was glorious. And I feel much better, despite the fact the masseur told me I was the worst case she's ever seen. When I do something... I like to go all out.

I did yard work! And by 'yard work' I mean I put my patio set in the garage so it doesn't get ruined by the snow like it did last year (oops). If you knew how much I hate (despise, loathe and dread) yard work you'd know... this is a huge deal. I might even sweep/rake up all the leaves for the trick-or-treaters. Progress!

I've attempted to eat better. And by 'better' I mean I bought flavored pretzels, thin chocolate bars and 100 calorie snack packs of cookies and fudge bars... and then proceeded to taste test them all on the way home from the store. I'm awesome like that.

I cleaned my car! And by 'cleaned my car' I mean I washed and vacuumed, then took the seat covers off to wash them only to realize they would probably fall apart in the washing machine, wherein I left them in a pile on the laundry room floor. Like I said, I'm pretty much awesome.

I've sorted through the photos from my trip. All 3475 of them (I don't know what's wrong with me. Actually, I do: I blame my poor memory for my incessant need to capture every little moment, lest I forget). In my defense, I've deleted more than half of them. Now I just have to do something with the ones that remain. Guess what I've done with the photos from my last big trip, the one I took 3 years ago? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Because, you've guess it... I'm Awesome.

The long and short of it is I've had more time to 'think' (always a dangerous thing) and 'do'. I wouldn't say I've been overly pensive or productive but I'm trying. I know I have things to figure out and stuff I want to do... all of which I've been putting off because I've been 'too busy' when, really... what the heck have I been doing this entire time?!? Oh ya, I've been here. Vying for everyone's attention.

Don't get me wrong, I don't regret my time online at. all. It's been an outlet for me when I've been sad and lonely. When I've shed tears, people have listened. When I thought I had something overly witty to say people have humored me. And when I thought I was alone, you taught me that was never the case. I've met some really amazing people who have become really amazing friends, some of whom I've adopted as my family. It's helped me grow and change in the best possible ways and I've often lamented that I'd be perfectly capable (and content) to live inside of my computer. In the past few years, I've gained more friends and opportunities online than off of it and I've loved (and still love) each and every one. I just can't help but think that it's time to find my place in this world. Of course I'm not so naive as to think being on my computer less will lead me to discover where it is I belong, I just figure it can't hurt.

Who knows, I just may find that it's exactly where I am now.

Unanswered Questions

2011-10-03T21:07:00.007-06:00

When I was on my first of my two tours in Italy someone posed the question to me "how will your life change when you go home". At the time I was taken aback. I, honestly, didn't have an answer. This wasn't my first big trip and I remember feeling that way the first time... that surely life would change when I got home. But it didn't. It went back to the same old thing. And having those expectations of a momentous self-discovery and a life-changing experience resulted in only one thing: major post-trip blues.

So, I thought, why would this time be any different? How could life possibly change simply by going away, only to return again? It made me wonder if maybe I expected too little from my travels, that I should perhaps be demanding more from wandering the world than mere photographs and souvenirs. That I should, at the very least, be able to answer the question.

It bothered me for a little while but I soon forgot what was asked of me with every sight I saw and memory I made. And then I noticed something. Every time I managed to get online I noticed that something... was actually nothing at all. Emails lacked replies. Comments were made by people I rarely saw not by people I wished were there with me. Blog traffic was at an all time low and texts and tweets were nonexistent. For all I was sure I was missing back home the cold hard reality of it all was that I wasn't missed at all. At first it was heartbreaking. I felt like I didn't belong where I was... or where I had come from; that my presence didn't matter, regardless of where I was or who I was with. Home or away, I felt lost. But as time wore on I realized that the more I wish I was missed the more I was missing out on. Until I just stopped checking. Stopped expecting.

Having limited internet access for 3 weeks was a huge wake up call as to how much of my everyday life is spent online, begging for attention. Whether it's emails, Facebook updates, Twitter mentions or blog comments the bulk of my day is spent refreshing pages and loading the same urls again and again. It's as though I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room yelling "look at me, look at me" hoping that someone, anyone, will acknowledge my existence. I'm constantly seeking validation. Encouragement. Reassurance. All the things I used to repeatedly ask of Him I now ask of anyone who will listen, whether it be a friend I've known for years or a stranger who just happened to stumble upon me on Google.

So the real question is this: what if I just stopped? What if I stopped trying so hard to be heard? What if I stopped checking my blog traffic and page views, emails and newsfeed? What if I stopped begging people to acknowledge my existence... and was happy to exist? Because if I have to yell that loud and be that persistent (and, frankly, annoying) just to be heard then is anyone really listening... or are they just appeasing me?

I still don't have an answer to the question I was asked. I don't know how life will change now that I'm home.

All I know is that it needs to.

Back to Normal

2011-09-28T13:45:00.001-06:00

You know you're home and life is back to normal when you spend all morning looking for your carpenters glue.

Oh, wait... That's not normal.

Ciao, Italia

2011-09-26T12:44:00.002-06:00

I'm at that stage. The one where I can count the number of clean underwear left on one hand (at least I still have some left!). Where I use as much shampoo as possible and, when putting it back in my travel bag, consider what to throw out, leave behind and abandon in order to make room. Where the number of days changes to sleeps, hours and train rides. Where eyes grow heavy but fight to stay open in an attempt to prolong the inevitable. The end.

It's inavoidable. I checked in for my flight, had my last plate of pasta, my last cone of gelato and my last (and, fittingly, best) cup of Italian coffee. I packed my bag for the last time (both a blessing and a curse) and I just used my last Oil of Olay cleansing cloth. The facts are undeniable.

It's time to go home.

Cup of Joe

2011-09-25T07:18:00.002-06:00

I couldn't sleep last night. Despite bring completely exhausted, my mind raced... as though staying awake would somehow prolong my stay and delay the inevitable journey home.

Surprisingly, I was still able to rise early, likely due to concern that a malfunctioning website meant all trains to Rome on monday were sold out. Even when confirming all was right with the world (that's still not to say I have a ticket, of course) I got up. To enjoy one last, long day before heading back to the city in preparation of going home. To do what? I don't know. Nothing, perhaps. Aside from floating in the sea, basking in the sun and soaking in the view.

Coffee in hand, I'm off to a good start.

(Day)Dreams of Good Intentions

2011-09-24T13:05:00.002-06:00

I had big plans for tonight. Back in the beach town of Sorrento on the banks of Italy's Amalfi coast, I began the afternoon at the pool and spent the rest of it walking around town, shopping and having a delightful lunch, people watching for over an hour as I faced out on to the markets. After I scouted out the beach situation for tomorrow (turns out it's much quieter here on the weekend, so beach chair positioning will not be an issue) I walked back to the hotel and told myself I would return at night to one of the pubs to have a glass of beer and mix with the locals. I daydreamed of meeting someone. Extending my trip. Falling in love. A daydream that made short time of the walk and furthered my determination for the evening, keeping an eye out for any good pubs along the way.

I was excited, confident I would fight my solo travel inhibitions and force myself to follow through with the plan. Yes, that is what I intended to do... until I had a nap and the past 19 action-packed days, late nights and early mornings caught up with me.

And knocked me on my ass.

Alas, my daydreams will remain just that, dreams. A means of passing the time and making life seemingly more exciting and hopeful. At least now I can pretend it could have been... i stead of returning emptyhanded from a lonely evening of trying to fit in and make friends, knowing it was not meant to be. Sometimes wondering what could have been is better than what actually was.

And so the daydream(s) continue... an easy task in my favorite place (this is my fourth return to Sorrento), full of happy travelers, amazing views, hidden treasures, wonderful memories, great food, delicious gelato and locals that smile hello in recognition. I have just one more night until I leave this place, only to return in memory... and daydreams. Thank goodness for both, I will miss this place dearly.

Customs

2011-09-16T13:52:00.002-06:00

In Italy drinking is not for getting drink or having a buzz, it is merely something one does while socializing. As such, there is a rule... you don't drink without eating, so that each beverage becomes an event. And since I've never been one to argue... why start now?!?

Life's a Beach

2011-09-16T13:51:00.007-06:00

I have come to the conclusion that chips and beer taste better consumed while lounging on the Mediterranean with the isle of Capri in the background. Go figure.

Life is different here. School days are extremely short so there is still time for an afternoon swim in the sea, a decent compromise for the fact they make up the time on the odd Saturday every now and then.

Girls as old as 12, or thereabouts since I'm a bad judge of age, go topless at the beach an everyone who's anyone, regardless of their age, size or shape, wears a bikini. Or at least the females do. Not once have I been made to feel fat, except for the times I make myself feel that way. And it's been quite nice to not feel as though I can't have an afternoon gelato without wondering what people will think. In fact, it seems as though no one cares. I get far more looks wearing my flip flops on the street than I by showing my flab on the beach.

And the way people interact with each other is refreshing. Friends hold hands while they stroll down the street, teenage girls wrap their arms around their fathers when talking and everyone kisses hello and goodbye, even the men. And kids speaking Italian, with inflections and hand gestures? Are pretty much the cutest things ever.

Emphasis here seems to be on living life. Good food, good times, good company. The Italians may be poor when it comes to money, with a high cost of living and an average income of $1200 a month, but they sure do seem to be rich when it comes to everything else.

So it begs the question... Which is better: a life in a house that that could fit 20 Italian apartments, with a washing machine and internet... Or REALLY great beer and chips?

Perfect Strangers

2011-09-16T13:51:00.001-06:00

If you ever happen to stay at the Hotel Albatross in Piano di Sorrento I would highly recommend you request a room that is NOT on the first floor, lest you be directly above the dining hall and have to listen to the sound of wooden chairs being pushed and pulled across the marble floor during a continent breakfast that starts a wee bit too early, in my opinion. Because you just know people will show up for free breakfast, even at 7 am.

Today I'm taking the train to Sorrento (which is not the same place as Piano di Sorrento... Damn you expedia, suberbs were not part of my hotel search criteria! You're lucky it's only 2 train stops away and was way cheaper!) to enjoy a leisurely day of strolling around town, napping on the beach and, if extremely lucky, enjoying spaghetti alla carbonara and a nice glass of wine for supper.

Despite my best efforts this morning I missed the first train. Thank goodness I had the good sense yesterday, after getting lost for the first of two times upon arriving, to walk back to the train station and take a picture of the town map posted on the wall. Is it possible I'm becoming a savvy traveler? Doubtful, considering I still got lost this morning, despite my initial instinct of "those look like train tracks, maybe I should turn here" but continuing to go straight. It just goes to show: always trust your gut, especially when it's enlarged due to 13 days of non-stop pizza and pasta. Pretty sure the five course meals didn't help the weight loss cause either. Who doesn't finish a huge plate of 2 different kinds of pasta and think "you know what would be good right now? Some chicken/beef and risotto/potatoes... And then dessert!"

When I did finally arrive at the train station I met a nice man who help me find my platform since the man selling the tickets told me to wait for the announcement when the train arrives because, really? It must be a HUGE surprise which way it comes from, even to him. Regardless, the fellow who helped me was very nice, which made me wonder if I wasn't perhaps meant to lose my way this morning just so out paths could cross. His English was quite good and he had even been to Vancouver to "work on vessels", working on building a cruise ship, cargo ship and "a vessel that goes under water on tracks", which I wasn't aware existed in the 'couv.

As he stood on the platform to catch his train to Napoli he caught my eye just as the train arrived. He smiled, waved and was gone. And, much Luke the random local person in Verona who just happened to be riding his bike at the end of a road race, raising his arms in victory and grinning from ear to ear as though he had just come in first place when we erupted in cheers and applause, I can't help but wonder if it's possible, in such a brief encounter, to leave a lasting impression? To have people think of you long after you're gone, wondering where you came from and where you went... Without ever knowing your name.

I hope so.

A Quick Hello

2011-09-15T13:38:00.003-06:00

It's been a while. I hope you haven't forgotten about me. Internet in Italy has been sparse, to say the least. It's been a hard habit to break, reaching for the interwebz to document my every thought, especially since I wanted to take you all with me. But, alas, it's probably for the best that I wasn't able to tweet every moment of my trip, this far. Annoying, much?

I'm in between tours, taking a two day reprieve in a small coastal town while I regroup for what lies ahead by doing laundry, FINALLY catching up back home and floating in the pool. I've finished all the main touristy sights of Italy (surprisingly the one I found most annoyingly busy was the fictional one: Juliet's balcony in Verona, it was mob-like) and will start my tour of the Amalfi coast on Saturday.

The trip has been good. Different, but good. Moments of sheer excitement and awe have been equally mixed with pangs of loneliness and sadness. I'm a much different person than my last tour. Stronger. More mature. Less dependent on others. But it was still disappointing to not fit in as well as I did last time. I'm hoping I'll fare better in round 2 and am impressed that I'm still here at all; pushing forward, still hanging on, although barely, to the idea that I won't always have to travel alone, even if it means I end up as one half of the two cute little 80 year old women I saw the first day on my shuttle from the airport in Rome. I'm hoping I don't have to wait that long but it was a nice wake up call that it's still a possibility... eventually. In the meantime I'll enjoy the solitude of having the pool to myself, floating beneath a lemon tree a stone's throw from the mediterranean at the foot of a mountain.

I may be going it alone but it's really not a bad way to go.

Prolonging the Inevitable

2011-09-09T14:05:00.003-06:00

I sit at the feet of David, in awe. Amazed at the sheer size, the incredible detail and the indescribable beauty. The veins, the abs, the dimples of the knee and the length of the thumbnail, the thinnest layer of marble surpassing the bulk of the thumb. This man made of marble; not from a model, neither human or clay, but from solely the imagination and genius of a true artist. A master.

It is indescribable. No photo, if they were to be allowed, could ever do justice of the depth of this man. The gentle curves, the attention to detail. The lines of the feet are more realistic than my own. The shadows from the light of the windows above cast in such a way that each bend of a limb and curve of the belly are as though frozen in time for just an instant, instead of an eternity.

I long to touch him, just once. To feel his cool beauty for myself. To feel the nave of his neck, the lines of his chest and to perchance, in even the slightest of ways, to feel what what michaelangelo must have felt, if only on the surface.

I nearly cried at the sight of him and, as I force myself to leave after an amount of time that will surely never feel like enough, my heart sinks to my stomach to think I nay never be back , that I nay never see him again. And as I pass by him once more, while exiting a nearby exhibit, I find my being drawn back in once more, if for no other reason than to know that the last time I saw him will not be the last.

My Place in this World

2011-09-08T16:03:00.000-06:00

I have come to the conclusion, in my travels, that I am destined to be alone. That's not to say that I'm not enjoying myself, it's just blatantly obvious that no matter where I might be in the world I am meant to be without a partner. That doesn't apply to just a partner in marriage but also a friend to travel with, a companion to try new things with and someone to do the normal everyday things with- from grocery shopping to dishes, vacation planning to furniture rearranging.

The trip is good. Of course it is. I'm in Italy, for crying out loud. The scenery is fantastic and everyone is very nice but time after time, no matter how hard I try, I keep finding myself in the same position: alone. Today I practically begged people to hang out with me. But, deep down, I knew it wouldn't work, despite their veiled kindness of agreeing to meet me after I visited Michealangelo's David. I knew that being separated from the group would bring an end to it all. After all, anyone who's ever had a taste of life without me has yet to come back. And so it was that I meandered Florence alone, questioning my validity in the world. I know I mean a lot to many people every now and then but, really, is there any one person who couldn't possibly live without me? Who doesn't go days, if not weeks, without thinking of me?

It's a question I ask myself, over and over. Along with "why". Why am I always the last person people think to include, despite my best efforts to be likable and fun? Why am I always on the sidelines, when I try so hard to be one of the "cool" kids? And why is it the same thing time after time, over and over... Why am I always wandering around the city of Florence (okay, maybe it's not always Florence... Sometimes it's Las Vegas, sometimes its New York and other times it's the middle of the Canadian Prairies) thinking about everyone else having fun without me, going through a list of all the things that are wrong with me that makes them not want to include me.

I love seeing the world. But it's tiring doing it alone, knowing that the memories I make will be mine alone, with no one to reminisce with. And while a spark of hope ignited within me when traveling from the airport to my hotel on a shuttle bus with two 80 year old women going on a tour I know that's just not meant to be for me. That, for whatever the reason, I have a place in the world that I need to open myself up to and accept. it may not be the place I would pick for myself but it's not the worst place in the world.

It just happens to be a lonely one.

And so it begins...

2011-09-01T23:17:00.008-06:00

As of 4:30(ish) today I am officially on holidays. I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this fact, partly because this trip feels so anti-climactic in comparison to the last one and partly, I'm sure, because I am incredibly unprepared. After all, I'm pretty sure when they named the book I bought "learn Italian the fast and fun way" they probably didn't mean the night before you leave for Italy.

That probably wasn't the best investment on my part.

I just finished packing my bag. A task I like to pride myself on as being very good at, otherwise how else would I manage to fit 24 days worth of clothing, toiletries and electronics into a single backpack, with room to spare? And yet I still don't know exactly when my plane leaves, how much time I have to catch my connecting flight, all the sites I'll be seeing or where I'll be staying 100% of the time. My tour book is lacking post-its and highlighting; and the novels I meant to read in preparation sit unfinished. It's not as though I haven't had plenty of time... I just don't know where all that time went.

And, yet, it doesn't matter. The time to leave will arrive, regardless. And perhaps it will be better this way. I can't worry because I don't know what to worry about. I can't over plan because I don't know what my plans are and I can't set expectations too high (or too low) because, at this point, I don't know what to expect.

Of course, I still have tomorrow. To book hotels, reconsider what's been packed... learn languages and such. Although I do have a lot of tv shows on my pvr and I won't be home for the finale of Big Brother... I should probably skip the language lesson and clear off some room.

And so it goes...

And so it begins...

Some Compliments are like Tennis: Backhanded

2011-08-29T20:29:00.002-06:00

Someone at work today gave me the once-over and exclaimed "you're looking rather healthy these days".

I'm not really sure what to take by this comment but I'm pretty sure my options are:

1) It's a polite way (?) of saying I'm looking rather chubby
2) I was apparently on death's door
or...
3) The coldFX I started taking in preparation of my trip is really working!

And, to think, the other day a coworker had, upon returning to work after being away for 4 months, came into my cubical and stated, point-blank, "your hair is short". To which I replied, after a rather awkward silence, "that's very observant of you". And then he left.

What the hell?!?

What.

The.

Hell.

TGI(V)F - A Case of the Giggles

2011-08-19T12:35:00.003-06:00

When I saw the original video I thought it was a tad too punny (gotta hand it to him, though, the puns just go on and on... there were 26 potty puns, in fact. And, no, I didn't count them... Anderson did) but when AC breaks into a child-like fit of giggles... well, it's classic. And it makes me smile. Perfect for this week's Thank God It's (Video) Friday.

Making Room

2011-08-18T20:39:00.006-06:00

It has come to my attention that I am past the age where it is appropriate to wear graphic tees. Mind you, that's not to say I don't have any. I just know better than to wear them.

Shocking as this may be, I have a hard time letting go of things I'm emotionally attached to. So you can imagine how well I'm doing, right now, cleaning out my closets. My cousin is going to be staying with me for a few months (eight, to be exact) and even though she lived with me less than 2 years ago (and I don't recall having this much of a problem last time) I have somehow managed to take over every square inch of what will be her room.

The one with 2 closets.

I've gone over the same clothes, again and again. Moving them from one house to another, from upstairs to down, from the guest room to my room... and back again. I ponder each one, sometimes able to let them go but, more often then not, hanging on to the ones I just can't say goodbye to. They remind me of moments. Memories. Times and events I had long forgotten, until I feel the fabric, see the pattern and recall the past.

I've always had a poor memory. It's the one thing (aside from my wide-ass feet) I would change about me, if I could. I've forgotten the name of people I've dated (which is pretty bad since there's only been like 5 of them), things I've learned (my love for Physics in University can be described by two words: formula sheets) and places I've been to. There are days, months and years I can no longer recall, while my brain overflows with things I try to forget but can't. So when I stumble across the t-shirts I thought were clever and empowering that I would never end up wearing after discovering that, perhaps just maybe, they represented something bad, instead of something good; the outfit from my one and only first anniversary where new clothes were just one part of a city-wide scavenger hunt that ended with finding Him setting out a picnic in the park, even though it was raining; or the bunny hug from a shopping trip to Washington during spring break, having driven 2 days with a classmate I barely knew but would become fast and forever friends with, playing Sarah McLachlan's Mirrorball on repeat and running across the mall at the first glimpse of the Abercrombie and Fitch store us Canadian girls had only ever dreamed about... whenever I remember any of these things I am grateful. For what they represent and what they remind me of. It's hard for me to let go of the very things that trigger those memories.

Very hard indeed.

And so I move my clothes from closet to closet. Getting creative as the years go by and the collection increases, forever marveling at the size of many of the items (was I ever really that tiny?!?), taking in the familiarity of the very things I had forgotten. A sweater here, a memory there. I tuck them away in the corners of my closet... and my mind.

And hope moths get neither one.

Almost There

2011-08-15T11:51:00.005-06:00

I spent part of the morning at a table in Starbucks, reading my Lonely Planet guide to Italy as I waited for the plumber to install my clawfoot tub; a task I decided it best I not be home to witness, which is probably a good idea given the carnage I came home to (they scratched my brand new tile moving it into place... one incident of many from this reno that has absolutely broken my spirit and left me to feel, as I often do, that no matter how hard I try it doesn't matter: things will always turn out shitty). My trip is only two and a half weeks away; my mind races with how unprepared I am and how much is left to do but this morning I sat and read and the realization hit that it will come, regardless of how ready I am. Regardless of what bag I decide to take or how (un)fashionable my clothes may be. And, really? None of it matters because, in the end, what I'll have are memories of the places and people... not of what shoes I should have taken or what sweater would've looked best.

Everything's falling into place. I received all my confirmations, arranged for a transfer from the airport to my hotel and, since I'm doing tours, have nothing else to plan, other than a couple of extra days in between and after my tours. Which I should probably hurry up and do...

And in all the stress of things left to do and details to sort out this video reminds me of how quickly it will all go and how amazing it will (hopefully) be. I love this. It's similar to what my memories are like- my mind walks slowly through them as they pass quickly by, moving from one to the next, without limitations of time and space.

Two and half more weeks... so much to do that I wish it were further away.

So desperately needing to get away that it can't come quick enough.

MOVE from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

I Thweare It Wath An Accidenth

2011-08-06T19:21:00.003-06:00

I'm going to blame the bathroom reno for the fact I have the Worst. Canker Sore. Ever. Conveniently located on the end of my tongue, it hurts to talk, eat, drink and even sleep. I thought I had managed to hide it fairly well until Melanie Griffith came up in conversation one day at work (what... she doesn't come up in your day-to-day conversations?!?). I had mentioned her name a couple of times before a coworker finally ask if my lisp was supposed to be some sort of joke. Oops.

Thorry, Mel... it wath the canker thore, promith!

It's (not) Just Tile

2011-08-03T18:37:00.008-06:00

Wednesday was tile day! The beginning of the end of the bathroom reno. The first day in forever where I've not been run off my feet patching and painting walls, ripping out flooring and converting a dresser into a vanity. I stayed up late laying out exactly what I wanted for the tile mosaic, a splurge I found myself second guessing repeatedly the past few weeks, always coming back to it as being something I wanted. This morning the tile guy arrived and we discussed exactly how it was going to be. It was decided. I would have a 'bath mat' mosaic in front of the tub/vanity (the tub is to the left of the door, the vanity to the right) in a pattern like this:

And all day, I had a feeling. That it was too good to be true. That the feeling that everything was coming together was nothing more than a rouse. I left work anxious and arrived at home with a knot in my stomach. I texted one last time to a friend, in anticipation, and said:

Then I rounded the corner (no pun intended) and found this:

Let's review, shall we? Because, colour me purple but, the corners on these are NOT the same.

Not gonna lie... I had a minor (or major) freak out. I went away and came back, again and again, somehow thinking what I saw would have changed. I paced and pondered my options and then phoned Home Depot (who my contracted tile guy was booked through and, no, I don't need any "you shouldn't have gone through them" or "everyone I know has had trouble" comments because now is not the time and, really, they've done the job when others haven't wanted to and, if anything, I feel more protected having them as the middle man than if I had to deal with the tile guy alone, given the recent turn of events. A store can write off material as a loss. An independent installer? May not be as willing to do so) and explained the situation, only to be told I'd have to phone the install manager back at 9am. When explaining that the tile guy would return to finish the job at 7:30am and I just wanted to know what my options were I asked for a manager. And, when told they were busy, promptly broke into tears. Granted, I may be far too old to cry but it has gotten me out of many a situation where logic, reasoning and even anger and frustration have not. People hate to see a grown woman cry! Lo and behold, the manager to phone me back almost immediately. Speaking with him calmed me. He let me know that I would have options and that I should let the tile guy do his thing and we'd figure it out.

Now that the grout is in I can see it's not horrible. And after discussing it with the tile guy I understand why he did it (if you look closely at the photo it makes the mosaic fit perfectly between the tiles to the right and left of it, without having to have a thin strip of tile on either side and makes it so none of the black triangle tiles or long white edge tiles had to be cut) but the thing that bothers me? It's not what I had asked for. Is it livable? Sure. Would I have paid all the extra money to have done it if I had known the end result? Maybe not. And am I most upset by the fact the tile guy never even called to say he was changing things up? Absofuckinglutely!

And so, after reviewing all my options the tile will stay as-is (my second choice was to get rid of the mosaic completely and redo the whole thing with only basketweave) and I'll be refunded the cost of the mosaic.

Before the tile escapade I went on an errand with my "work mom" (don't we all have one of those? We should!). We were talking about nothing in particular when she asked what was keeping me here, in this town, in a city that seems to have nothing to offer me other than the most amazing friends a girl could ask for (although I must admit I seem to have amassed such wonderful people all over the world, for which I'm grateful- I'm looking at you right now!). I expressed how overwhelming it was that I could go anywhere, do anything.. to be in charge of picking out a place, a future. A path. She told me that our paths are already laid out, from the moment we are born and that I should just take a leap because wherever I may land (or, more likely, fall) is where I'm meant to be. I know she meant it to be comforting and freeing and maybe some day I'll see it as such but all I could think was that, if true, it isn't fair that no matter how hard I try to change my path it will be futile.

I will never have the tile I wanted.

I know it's just tile but I think part of the problem is it feels like it's more than that. This is the first time I've hired someone instead of doing it myself. This is the first time I've treated myself to "have it done right" and this is the first time I've tried to ask (and pay) for as much help from others as I could instead of going it alone. And this is the first time I was sure things would be different. Instead, I'm left trying to convince myself that it won't always be like this - that I won't always be left feeling that no matter how hard I try things won't work out. That it doesn't matter and I shouldn't bother.

This is the first project in a very, very long time where I have bothered, where I've tried not to focus on the things that seemed to go wrong and not read too much into the plaster wall that wouldn't cooperate, the plumbing that broke off in the wall, the hardwood floor that got scratched when removing the old tub or the piece of ceiling in the basement that fell down because of the way the tub was removed (overflow drain still attached, oops!). I'm staying the course and doing my best to be logical and not take things personally when they don't work out as planned.

But, man alive, it's tough!

This whole renovation project has been both exhilarating and deflating. I've found myself proud of all the things I've done (I cut a pipe using a jigsaw I didn't even know I owned!) and heartbroken at all the things I've had to do (and decide on) alone. I've been overwhelmed by the help I've gotten from friends (and the husbands and fathers of friends!) and underwhelmed by having no one to fully share this experience (and, yes, stress) with. And, time and time again, when it seems to be one thing after another (after another) and progress is slow and stress is high there's one thing I keep coming back to...

Sometimes all I really, really want is a hug.

Be Nice

2011-07-30T10:36:00.003-06:00

When was the last time you were nice? Not to a friend or coworker or someone you're related to but a complete stranger? Not courteous or civil or the way a person should normally act in public but genuinely nice? When was the last time you told a stranger with gorgeous curls that you loved their hair? When you're standing in line at the check-out behind someone who's alone and may be questioning their purchase (and fashion sense) do you tell them you really like the lamp/painting/shirt they're buying? Or do you sit idly by and admire their purchase in silence? Do you say thank you when someone holds open a door for you or moves their cart so you can get by (regardless of the fact they should never have left their cart in the middle of the aisle in the first place) and, more importantly, when you do the same for someone else and they express their gratitude do you respond with "you're welcome"?

The compliment that means the most to me is the one I deserved the least. It was the summer after the Break-That-Turned-Into-A-Break-Up and I had just run into a long-time crush of a boy I'd known for years and used to tease- and be teased by- in class who was home for the weekend from half a country away. A slim chance encounter at an outdoor country music festival (slimmer yet because, really? That is not the kind of music I listen to) we had actually attended, and made out at, a decade earlier when we were still in high school. It was just what I needed, when I felt so unlovable and alone, running into this guy who was now clearly a man. A man's man. The only man to, to this day, have ever sung to me. That night. Under the stars. His arms wrapped around me. In the rain. A rain that made my short and spiky hair fall flat and my makeup run into a non-existence. A rain that was unflattering in the way it made me cover my tank top with a neon green rain jacket. A rain that left me feeling vulnerable but refreshed.

Although it probably wasn't the rain that did that.

And it was in that moment, in the beer gardens with my hair dripping wet and my attire frumpy but functional, that it happened. I was walking to the washroom when a girl stopped to tell me that she had seen me off and on all night and just wanted to say that I was the most naturally beautiful person she had ever seen, standing in the rain with messy hair and no makeup. And that she thought I should know. I was gorgeous.

It took me aback. This girl who didn't know me and didn't have to stop to tell me that, waiting all night for the moment I would be away from the crowd, perhaps overcoming any nerves she may have had as to how I would react (although she was quick to point out that she wasn't gay, not that the thought would have crossed my mind, nor mattered), not knowing- but probably having a good idea- if I had been told that too much and she would be fanning my ego... or never at all. This girl who said things I never would have believed from my friends, assuming ulterior motives and loyalty out of love. But there she was, a stranger. A person I would never see again who had no reason to do what she did. And, yet, she made the decision that it would be a nice thing to do and that maybe, just maybe, it was something I needed to hear. And you know what? I did. I really, really did. I had spent months telling myself all the reasons I was single and being ugly (fat, manly, annoying, etc) was at the forefront of my mind. And despite being on cloud nine in the arms of my crush, I spent that night skeptical as to how one of the 'cool' guys from my past could possibly like me and was sure I'd never hear from him again after that weekend (I did hear from him. Visited him. Spent Christmases with him).

And the years since then? I've been reminding myself of that girl. That stranger. Every time I look at myself in the mirror and think "no one could possibly ever think I'm beautiful" I remind myself that someone, somewhere once thought I was the most beautiful of all.

So I ask: when was the last time you were nice? Not to a friend or coworker or someone you're related to but a complete stranger? Because you may not mean anything to them but the things you say? Might mean the world.

Slow but Steady Wins the Race?

2011-07-26T21:48:00.005-06:00

If you've been wondering what I've been up to it's probably one of 3 things. Working. Sleeping. Or working on my bathroom. Given the fact my schedule consists primarily of the bathroom reno one might think it would surely be done by now, right?

Wrong.

It seems every task takes ~~twice~~ three times as long as anticipated... and typically creates more tasks. Like today. I came home on my lunch break to fit the vessel sink into the dresser-turned-vanity while I soaked my sink plumbing in WD40 to try and loosen the parts (apparently I'm no as strong as I thought). I carefully measured the center of the dresser, traced the template included with the sink and broke out my jigsaw (I've discovered I have a lot more power tools than I was aware of). I followed protocol and drilled a hole into the center of the outline and then cut the circle out of the dresser, excited to drop the sink in. Only to find... the sink template was for the wrong model and the hole? WAY too small. Better than too big, I s'pose.

With my lunch break nearly over, and a desire to return to work having accomplished something, I headed to the bathroom. And, lo and behold, the sink pipes were loose, the WD40 worked! I was pretty impressed with myself as I pulled the pipe apart... only to find a piece of the remaining wall pipe was broken. Lovely.

And it goes on and on. Tonight was "patch the wall night", which I'm now dubbing "patch the wall week". *sigh*

Sometimes at night, just before crawling into bed, I put things back in the empty space, like the in-progress vanity (pre-hole cut) and a tile or two, just so I can remind myself why I'm doing all this and that it will, with any luck, turn out. And if I find my mind racing, as I try to go to sleep, I get out of bed and turn on the bathroom light, just to look.

But tomorrow night? I'm taking the night off from renos. Which means only one trip to the hardware store.

Hopefully.

Productive

2011-07-22T22:37:00.005-06:00

To say I've been on a roll these past couple of weeks would be an understatement. Sure, my yard is still a mess and I could stand to do some dusting but, for the most part, I've accomplished more in the past week than I have in months.

And my latest venture? I rewired a lamp. I made a stained glass lampshade and have been searching for a base for months. I have brought many home... only to return them because they were too tall or they didn't go with the lamp. I even contemplated buying the $110 dollar base from the stained glass store but when I went back to look at it a second time (because I'm the queen of indecisiveness) I decided I just couldn't drop that much coin on something I didn't 'love'.

And, so, the hunt continued.

Until I found a base at, of all places, Zellers (for my friends to the South: Zellers is a Canadian chain that was recently bought out by Target, so by 2013 we should have a Target... yay). The only problem? It was one of those lamps where the lampshade clips on to the bulb. So... a trip (or two) to my local hardware store and a bit (or lot) of Google-ing and I rewired the lamp so it could hold the shade. I even changed the socket to have a pull chain.

I may not be handsome... but at least I'm handy!

So, FINALLY, after all this time I am finally able to see my finished project in all it's glory. Somewhere along the line there's a valuable lesson to be learned in all of this: buy the base first, make the shade to match!

Point of No Return

2011-07-19T22:31:00.003-06:00

I would have to say...

...that at this point in time...

...I'm committed to this project.

Full steam ahead, there's no going back!

Words of wisdom that apply to more than just bathroom renos.

All In A Hard Day's Work

2011-07-16T21:04:00.002-06:00

I started my day like this:

And ended it like this:

All in all, not a bad day!

50 Days and Nights

2011-07-16T15:54:00.003-06:00

Fifty 'sleeps' from now (I use quotations because it's questionable as to whether or not I'll sleep the night before) I will be in Italy.

It's unfathomable, really. Fifty seems like such a big number and fifty sleeps seems like an eternity. But seven weeks? Not so much. And a month and a half? Seems like it will be here in the blink of an eye. There's still so much to do. I lie awake at night forming lists in my head of all the things I have to do and pack. And yet, perhaps in an attempt to not tempt fate and jinx myself, I have not transferred that list from my mind to paper. And so, every night I remake the list. Over and over. I figure the things that are truly important will stick and the things that aren't... won't.

This is 'only' my second big trip, across the pond. Last time someone picked the destination (Turkey) for me. So how, you might be wondering, did I choose Italy? It wasn't easy. When the world is your oyster you quickly discover the world is not nearly as small as the internet might have you believe. The options were limitless... and overwhelming. For me, picking a destination is similar to choose a career... I can't. There are just too many things (and places) I could see myself doing (and going to). It would be so much easier if there was a place (or job) I was dying to see (or do). But, alas, there isn't. Sometimes liking everything is worse than being picky.

And so I did what every rational woman, who can't even decide what pattern of Kleenex box to buy, would do: I got me a travel brochure and did a Google Image search of all the destinations that seemed interesting, in my price range. And picked the prettiest.

I must admit, I was intrigued by this:

Was taken aback by this:

And have always wanted to see this:

But it is this place, Cinque Terre, that convinced me that this is where I'm meant to go. Because for all the sites there is to see in Rome, Venice, Pisa and beyond, it is the simple act of standing in this spot and looking at that view, breathing in the air, that I am most looking forward to. And for all the worrying I may do about making friends with my tour mates and having everything go smoothly all it takes is looking at this photo to know that none of that matters. That even if I'm alone, with all my thoughts and dreams, and things have gone awry (*knock on wood* that they don't, though!) it won't matter. It's where I'm meant to be. I just know it.

Who says you can't judge a (travel) book by it's cover?!? Let's just hope it doesn't rain!

TGI(V)F - Tiny Dancer

2011-07-15T22:40:00.004-06:00

I first saw this remarkable young dancer on a Maxwell House Commercial. A bit of Google-ing later and I had watched the majority of videos on his YouTube channel. This kid is only 9 years old and not only does he know what he wants to do for the rest of his life but he is already amazingly talented, gifted and inspiring at it. And to think, when I was 9 years old I thought I was sure I'd be an Astronaut.

In the commercial Shale says he wants to teach kids to dance because "little kids are cute". Yes, Shale, they are. Also? Fyi: you're nine.

And, because I couldn't pick just one, here's another. How a person can flip ass over teakettle without a running start is beyond me, I have trouble bending over to paint my toenails.

I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Correction, I do. I just wish I had the ambition and passion to do something about it. Because this nine year old? Is kicking my 33 year old ass.

Over teakettle.

I'm Floored!

2011-07-08T23:31:00.007-06:00

It is no exageration when I say that I have, literally, seen every. single. tile. this city has to offer. I have been to every flooring store in town, excluding the one that decided to sporadically close today (but 'apologize for any inconvenience') but including one shop that is apparently only open to contractors (then mention that in your phone book ad, how 'bout?). Yes, I have seen many a tile. To finally narrow it down to the finalists below (labeled for your viewing pleasure):

And another option that I wasn't able to get a sample of but, thanks to the wonderful world of smartphones, was able to take a picture of:

It was the above sample that got me looking online at the company's website... which led to admiring their other tiles and, in a round about way, deciding that the winning tile is actually (dut-da-da-duh).... Number 4!! One of the very first tiles I had looked at (isn't that the way it goes?), I thought the tile was neat but figured it wouldn't work for my walls. After all, it was displayed on a wall so I assumed it was wall tile and never considered it for flooring... until I saw it on the flooring website and liked the way it looked in photos of finished bathrooms. But, alas, after all that it's such a relief to have finally found 'the one'.

I originally planned on doing the marble basketweave with gray, thinking the spaces were grout. But, alas, the spaces are actually wee little baby tiles and the ones sold locally are (of course) black. I thought they would be too dark for the space but upon opening a package (sorry, Home Depot) I discovered they're more of a gray-black so it'll work. And while I'm a tad unsure of the white tile with the off-white vanity I'm sure it's the right choice. And, hey, I can always paint the vanity (insert brain explosion here). I also played around with some other tile that is meant for the wall but, I've been assured, will work on the floor that I think will work nicely as a border. So... the plan is to do a 'bath mat' type effect with the tile since I don't like the look of the tiles going all the way out to the walls, like here, and love the look of the mat, like here. Because of the small size of the space, though, I'll likely do subway tile (length-wise) around the edges and for the wall tile.

Unless I do a clawfoot tub.

Which is a whole other ~~headache~~ story...

Winner Winner (Chicken Dinner)

2011-07-06T22:14:00.004-06:00

Thank you for all the comments on the bathroom reno post! I must admit... I've been overwhelmed. Everyone has great ideas! But they're all contradictory, lol. Needless to say, I'm confused (more so than usual). There are just TOO. MANY. OPTIONS. Each one having their quirks. Some options would require moving plumbing and/or electrical, other options would mean picking a different colour scheme (I was thinking grey walls, white fixtures, crisp tile and a burst of colour via the vanity/mirror). Some don't go with that flooring... some don't go with the tile and others, well... they involve covering the window.

That was at least one option that was easy to say no to.

I don't know how designers do it; start with one thing and building everything around it, somehow managing to get it all to work together to match the vision they had in their head. I can't even decide what toilet paper to put in the bathroom, let alone how the bathroom should look.

That reminds me... I should probably replace the toilet paper holder. *sigh*

And so I've been to store after store, online and off. I have looked at tile, laminate, lino and more (duraceramic, anyone?). I have stopped in at places that are not open to the general public (who knew?) and been looked at like I'm crazy.

I probably am.

I have booked appointments to get estimates... and then been glad when they didn't call because I changed my mind about what I wanted and where I wanted to get it from. Again. I've found a tub at this place, wall tile at that place and floor tile from no place at all (that part's still a work in progress). I've decided on trim and wall colours, logistics and timing.... only to have it all change again.

No wonder why I can't sleep at night and, instead, get up to measure my walls/floors/window/counter/tub.

And just when I think I have it all figured out something puts a wrench in the plan. Like, for instance, how I was going to go with that turquoise cabinet, hiring someone to custom build it for me. Until I found something else online. Which was great and exciting... until I went to Homesense (Canada's version of HomeGoods) and found this. Sure, it's a dresser. Sure, it's a tad more 'country' then it is 'craftsman'. And, sure, it throws my entire colour scheme out the window (there goes the tile I picked out today) but I think it'll work. And the idea of having something concrete, right now that I've seen in person before buying? Well at this point that's priceless.

So I bought it. Without consulting anyone (sorry) and before I could change my mind, yet again. But there you have it.

And, yes, I did go to the baking section and get the biggest bowl I could find to see what a sink would look like. And, yes, I did ask random strangers "would this work in a bathroom" as they walked by. And, yes, I just might be off my rocker.

But only just.

Did I mention I might paint it?

Ya....

Can of Worms

2011-07-03T19:02:00.009-06:00

You know how I replaced my blue toilet with a white one? Well, ya... that opened a can of worms. Because how can I replace the blue toilet and not replace the blue tub? But replacing the tub means some of the tiles will surely get wrecked so I may as well retile (because, you guessed it, those are also blue). And the since the floor is peeling (who decided stick-on tiles were a good idea?!?) that should be replaced too... but why tile around the vanity if I eventually want to replace that too? So, you guessed it... replacing the toilet = total bathroom makeover. Funny how that happens.

Although not funny-ha-ha.

And since I'm the worst at making decisions, I need your help.

First up? The shower. Picking tile is hard, yo! I'm thinking 'classic' subway tile. Probably in white so I don't have to coordinate everything:

But colored tile really 'pops':

Or do I do a mosaic tile and, if so, in white or multicolor like this:

The thing is? I have this cupboard at the end of my tub, which I think will affect the flow of the tile if I pick colored tile. I could remove the cabinet and make it flush with the tub but I'd lose a lot of storage. What do you think? Besides the fact the current tile is stylin', of course (Little Known Fact: after staring at those tiles for years I've found 5 upside down tiles). Also? How high should the tile go? I'm thinking above the curtain rod but quite a bit below the top of the window?

Next up? The vanity. This is the current one:

Pretty, yes? The problem? It's a non-standard size: it's 46", the standard is 48" and there is NO WAY I can squeeze an extra 2 inches in there (that's what she said). I could go with a 32" but that seems really small, not to mention the fact all the plumbing would have to be moved A LOT. And then, today, I found this picture:

Granted, it's from a little handmade shop in Texas and shipping would be near impossible but I want it!! It's perfect because it's 42" and I wouldn't have to worry about getting a custom made countertop which has, up until finding this vanity, deterred me from going with custom-made. So my question is... if I get this made, what color do I go with? I love the torquoise but is that too much? Or do I go with classic white or a dark stained wood... which would appeal to more people, when it comes to resale, and would make choosing flooring easier?

Speaking of tile (talk about foreshadowing!). What to do about flooring? Lino is the easy, cheap option but it's such a small space that I think I should splurge, no? I want something that is fashionable, but won't date itself too quickly. Because of the small space I'm leaning towards a thinner/longer tile and a subway-tile look again. Here's what I've got so far, numbered for your choosing pleasure. I would prefer to get everything from the same store, but I might go have a look elsewhere, just for fun. (because choosing flooring is 'fun', not painful)

And because the side view doesn't give a true representation of the tile (and because this post does *not* have too many pictures) here's another look:

And here's what they look like 'installed' (numbers 2, 4, 3, 4 respectively):

I think I'm leaning towards #2.. but that doesn't mean it will go with the shower tile/vanity, so I need your help! Is there one there that would work, regardless of the vanity? Or is the tile dependent on the vanity/shower? Or maybe I need to keep looking? Pray tell, what do you think?

Considering it usually takes me years to make my mind up about something this all seems to be moving too fast. The installer is phoning tomorrow to book an appointment and I need to have at least a rough idea of what I'm wanting.

HEEEEEELP!!!

Beauty is in The Eye of the Beholder

2011-07-03T12:40:00.008-06:00

I have this carpet in my basement. Cira 1970. It's brown, green and yellow with large 'bouquets' of flowers on it. And it's pretty much the ugliest carpet I've ever seen, which says a lot considering I grew up in a home full of orange, green, brown and purple shag.

I don't think I've ever let anyone in my basement, because of it's aesthetic 'appeal'. But, from time to time, there chances a glance when someone peers down the stairs while traversing the back porch to get into the back yard. And that is precisely what happened on Friday when my friend's little girl visited my house for the first time. We were in the park celebrating Canada Day when she had to use the washroom. We took a quick potty break and as we stood in the porch while my little friend put on her shoes she happened to look down and exclaim "YOUR CARPET!". I started with my normal defense of "I know..." but was stopped short as my little curly-haired, blonde hair, blue eyed munchkin turned to me with her eyes as big as saucers and exclaimed "It's the most beautiful carpet I've ever seen in my life!".

When I first moved into my house the first thing I did was hire someone to paint my ceilings. They were stuccoed with pieces of clear glass thrown into the mix (again, God bless the 70's) and they had to go. When the painter arrived to give me an estimate he had his 8 year old daughter with him. And while I queried to ensure adequate coverage her reaction was utter dismay as she exclaimed "you're not going to paint over the diamonds, are you?!?"

I wish we could all see the world through the eyes of a child. At what age do we start focusing on the cracks in the wall, the stains on the floor, the color of our appliances and the pattern of our flooring, deeming them out of date and unfashionable instead of unique and beautiful? When does the light bouncing off glass-covered ceilings turn from sparkling diamonds to tacky? Wouldn't it be nice to view the world with childlike wonder and see best in the world around us... instead of seeing the worst in everything?

I'll admit it, I'm prone to pointing out the worst in things, but I'm trying to change. And yesterday was a wonderful reminder how perspective and attitude is everything. I love the kids in my life and I hope they never lose their childlike wonder. As for the rest of us? I hope we can get that back. Because, honestly? I hope I never grow up.

But don't get me wrong... I'm still going to replace the carpet. Just like I replaced my 'pretty' blue toilet. Last night. All by myself. And I'm happy to say it's leak-free!

I've never been so excited to use the facilities...

M.I.A.

2011-06-29T19:46:00.004-06:00

It's been a while. My apologies. But this week? Has totally kicked my ass. It hasn't been an overly bad week. Just busy. Minus the fact I stayed in bed all day Friday and Saturday, of course. More on that later.

First of all, I've been stressed. I'm pretty sure there's a leak in my chimney. I know this because when I bought my house 6 years ago the home inspector said there was an 'obvious' hole in the chimney I should fix up with some simple caulking (ha ha, I said 'caulk'). The only problem is that I was much like Rachel on Friends (in the one with the ultrasound) wherein he would point to said 'obvious' hole and say "see?" and my reply was "no". After several attempts of him showing me this 'obvious' hole I finally said "oh... THAT hole". I figured if it was too small for me to see it it wouldn't be that big of a deal. But with the amount of rain we've had this year I'm thinking it's time for me to put a plug in the hole (that's what she said).

Next up... my yard. Also known as... the bane of my existence. The front yard is xeroscaped. And whoever said choosing plants over grass was low-maintenance... lied. It was nice the first year or two but now? I can't tell the plants from the weeds. Except for the ferns. Because they're gorgeous and you really can't miss them. There were 5 of them when I moved in and now there's about 50. You know that 'go forth and multiply' saying? Ferns need not apply.

And the back yard? Well there's one corner that smells like someone died in it. Seriously. It's as though someone took a bag of garbage (or ex-girlfriend) and through it over my fence to rot. And it's quite possible they did... because there's ferns (in abundance) back there two. So the way I see it I have two options. Wait for whatever it is to decompose or.... move. Because there is NO way I'm searching in the jungle trying to find something that smells bad. I may be a manly-looking girl but I am a girl none the less. I may play backcatcher in baseball... but I scream when the ball hits my glove. I am not Tucan Sam. I am not following my nose.

What else has been stressing me out? My cat. I've been putting her on a leash ever since the neighbourhood kids have taken to abducting her (more on that later, too). But last week she was crouched down, wiggling her butt in the air, looking in the ferns. Silly me, I thought she was eying up a bug so I let her go and encouraged her to go get it. And just to prove how jungle-ish my ferns are do you know what it was? A cat. So I basically told my cat to beat up another cat. It was horrible. They were in the ferns, fighting (not like I could see them but, boy, the leaves were sure shaking!), while I sprayed water at them and yelled and stomped. And then the one cat took off... and my cat followed. I have never seen her like that. This is the cat that doesn't go on people's lawns (she uses the sidewalk, even to get from my neighbor's step to mine, which is four feet away by the way of the crow... and 50 steps by the sidewalk). This is the cat that gets picked on by every other cat, while she cowers under the patio furniture, awaiting my rescue. But that evening? This is the cat that was hellbent on revenge, running faster than I ever knew was possible, across three lawns! But when she came back home (via the sidewalk)... she was limping. I had been soaking her paw in salt water and it didn't seem to be affecting her at all (other than the limp). On Monday she seemed way better, sneaking outside when I got home and everything. But yesterday? Yesterday her paw looked worse so I made an appointment at the vet for this afternoon and when I got home from work? It was horrible. HORRIBLE! A tiny papercut-like scratch on the bottom of her paw was now all the way through, top to bottom. And purple. So purple! So off to the vet we went. She was such a champ. Me, on the other hand? It took all my strength to make it back to the car before crying. I felt so guilty. How do you people with non-furry babies do it? How do you decide what to do and when? And when I heard the fur-baby in the back room SCREAMING as they shaved and drained her paw? My gawd! How do you people handle such things with pets of the human variety?

Needless to say, I've been riddled with guilt. At the end of the appointment, however, I asked the vet what I should do if this were to ever happen again. Should I go straight in? Her response was no, I had done everything right and going to the vet for every scrape wasn't going to help. I was so relieved (hence the tears in the car). But, still. Yowsa! Poor little thing. I can't wait for time to pass, just so we can fast-forward to the day she's better. Funny... I used to wish the same thing for myself, years ago.

And that, my friends, is your weekly recap. Minus a thing or two. But, like I said, more on that later.... I've gotta save something to keep you coming back. You know, beside my usual wit and charm.

The Sky is Falling!

2011-06-23T17:28:00.000-06:00

I live on a tree lined street. One of the city's oldest streets, in fact. Which makes me lucky in two ways: firstly, I have a really easy postal code and, secondly, I live beneath a canopy of trees. So old are the trees that they reach high above the houses... all the way across the street... and meet. This means my house stays cooler in the summer time, thanks to the shade, and warmer in the winter, thanks to the wind break (although, at those temperatures 'warm' is relative). The only downside is that, every spring (or, as it turns out this year, really delayed summer) the trees get worms.

Say it with me now... ICK!

Just call me Chicken Little but this is the least favorite part of living on my street. We try to protect the trees by banding them so the worms can't climb up but it's not 100% effective. The thing is... I don't understand why they're up there in the first place. Sure, they eat a leaf here or there but they don't stay up there. Instead, they climb all the way up the tree... only to repel back down, Mission Impossible style. And it is here my problem arises because, unlike Tom Cruise, these worms are not speedy so, at any given time, there can be worms dangling from the tree tops. Itty bitty worms which, really, are the worst because you can't see them. But you sure can feel them... when they're crawling on your neck or... IN YOUR HAIR!

Do you see why this is a problem?

I try to go all ninja, jumping out of the way of any potential worm paths. But every now and then one hits the mark. And I die. Metaphorically, of course, since they're not poisonous worms. But still. And when I make it out unscathed? I'm still scarred. Even as I write this I have the creepy crawlies. And at work today my regular worm-checker wasn't there so I had to ask someone else to do a worm inspection.

And my coworkers think I'm weird?

The point of my story (if you can call it that) is this is an actual email conversation I had with someone. And if you think I was kidding you were only half right.

I'm not saying which half.

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got a reply to this email...

I'm In(to) The Money

2011-06-21T18:47:00.004-06:00

I used to work at a bank so I have great respect for the nuances and smell (that's right, I like the smell) of money. I mean, really, who doesn't love (the smell of) money?!? And not only is Canadian currency colourful with such fun names as 'loonie' and 'twoonie'... and currently worth more than the US dollar (not that it's a competition or anything, but our neighbors to the south had a good 25 year run where their money was worth more, let us have our moment)... but it will soon be made of polymer (ie plastic) and have neat-o little high-tech windows! Much like our Australian commonwealth counterparts.

Why, yes, I would like to look through a maple leaf at a single-point light source. Thanks, Bank of Canada!

So... what do you think? Are you in(to) the money?

Monday Mundane(s)

2011-06-20T19:12:00.005-06:00

It's Monday. The beginning of the week. The day when all the thoughts that kept me up on Sunday continue to whirl around my head while I try to determine if having a nap at 6pm will lead to not being able to sleep at 11pm... all the while wondering if 6pm is, indeed, 'too early' to go to bed for the night.

Am I the only one who has an (extremely) hard time keeping all the guys straight on The Bachelorette? I can, seriously, watch a scene with two guys and, immediately following, see a one-on-one interview with one of the guys and be all "which one is that?". And the names? There's been, what, 11 seasons of the Bachelor? Surely there are enough applicants that we need not have 2 Ben's, 2 Ryan's and 2 Chris'? That doesn't help anyone, least of all me. And is it just me but where's the ethnic boys? And, no, I don't consider the butcher from New Jersey to be 'ethnic'. Stereotypical, maybe. But ethnic? No. Would it kill the producers to have a boy, or two, with some colour? Yellow, black, brown, I don't care. But some variety would be nice, I can't keep all these pale skinned, white-teethed, brown haired boys with gel in their hair straight, I just can't. I swear the only reason girls like J.P. (because, I'm sorry girls, he is not that good looking and he seems kind of boring) is because you can tell him apart from the rest, due to his shaved head. Good move on his part, though, really.

Speaking of the Bachelorette... if you're ever looking for a really good drinking game do a shot every time you hear the word "Bentley". You'll be drunk before the first commercial break, if not by the time the recap is over.

I just saw a fall preview (what's next, Christmas commercials?) for a show with Zoey Deschanel in it. There's something about that girl. Besides the fact that her and Drew Berrymore are the only people I can do reasonable impersonations of (probably due to the fact neither of them seem to have movement of their upper lip, thus making it relatively easy to pull off- no, really, try it! - giving hope to a career as a comic), I'm very intrigued that Zoey's sister is Emily Deschanel, of Bones fame. And while I'm aware not all actors have the same personality as the characters they play if you've ever seen Zoey on Weeds; in 500 Days of Summer (I haven't seen it- don't spoil it!); in one of her cute, yet rather bizarre, videos; or in the preview I just saw you'll know her persona is quite different from that of her sister. Plus, they don't even look the same (although, in their defense, I suck at the "who does the baby look like" game. I always think the baby looks like itself!). Emily is a good foot taller than Zoey. And the eyes! Both intriguing, yet so very different. If I had to play the "who does the baby look like" game (with the baby being Zoey) my answer would be: Katy Perry. Look at the following and try telling me they're not one in the same. Am I right?

For the record, Katy Perry's on the right, Zoey's on the left. Or the other way around, we'll never know.

Anywho... I'm clearly trying to kill time until it's socially acceptable for a 30(ish) year old woman to go to bed.

It's 6:30... how about now?

For All The Broken Children

2011-06-19T16:19:00.004-06:00

Unless you live under a rock, or on the other side of the world, you know today is Father's Day. It's impossible not to be aware of this fact. Trust me, I tried. I spent most of the day in bed, avoiding Twitter, Facebook and the blogosphere but,alas, I couldn't really hide from what my mind already knew.

I thought about posting my experiences. About how the last Father's Day I spent with my dad, heartbroken knowing it was my ex' first Father's day with the baby I would never have with him, he told me to go to the bar and get knocked up. Or about how when I moved, from the home I shared with the man I thought I would marry that held too many memories, his first words were "don't ask me for any help". Or how when I finally got up the courage, as a child, to admit my dream was to be an actress the response was "don't be stupid". About how that was the day I stopped dreaming. And the day, like so many others before it, I believed I was, indeed, stupid.

I thought of posting all this to ease my guilt over this day. To justify the fact I will not pick up the phone today, that there will be no card, no brunch. No 'happy Father's day'.

Instead, I figured I'd post this. Because this is what I wanted, growing up. For someone to see me. Notice me. See what I was going through.

Save me.

This is for all the broken children. It so wonderfully articulates what it is I wanted (nay... needed) from my dad, growing up. I am a broken adult, born of a broken child. I wish this had been written 30 years ago, for my parents to see. I can only imagine the difference it would have made.

And, so, instead of trying to justify my guilt for not having a relationship with my father I will let this article do it for me. Because being yelled at by a parent is the worst thing for a child's self confidence and worth. At any age.

I always thought I maybe had a romanticized image of what I wanted my dad to be. That maybe I was just too sensitive a child, with too thin a skin. But on this day of all days, when I read the tributes of fathers the likes of which I've only dreamed, and hoped, for... I know it's not true. Because not one of those tributes mentions yelling at and belittling a child, telling them they're worthless, day after day after day. Because that is what I remember, when I remember my dad. Breaking my spirit until there was no more song to sing, tale to be told or reason to take my eyes off the floor.

So today, of all days, I acknowledge- and love- all the broken children. Because, really, that's all we ever wanted. And I commend all the fathers out there, the ones of my dreams, who take their child's eyes and point them where they belong...

Away from the floor and up towards the stars.

Big Meanie

2011-06-14T18:32:00.007-06:00

I've lived in my current house for half a decade. (I say that because it sounds longer than '5 years') I love my neighborhood and while I may not be inviting my neighbors over for supper any time soon I like to think I'm good at saying hello and making idle chit chat every now and then. Heck, I even do the half-wave when passing people in the street

But someone's moved in, down the block. I had heard complaints about them from my lesbian neighbors (that's not derogatory, that's a fact: they moved here from Washington so they could be married and they're awesome... not just because they let their love move them, literally. And not because they have completely redone their house, including their newly built garage and cedar-shake home exterior. But because they laugh at my jokes and easily respond to my 'witty' one-liners) but never had any run-ins. Until, that is, I was minding my own business last week when I heard my front door open. At first I ignored it, as I often don't properly close my screen door and the wind tends to jostle it. But it was a little hard to ignore the fact that someone was walking through my living room, towards my porch.

What. The. Hell?!?

I would say the person traversing my house was 3 years old. A child far too young, in my mind, to be left outside unattended. The same snot-nosed child (seriously, it was hanging down to his chin... I offered him a Kleenex which, thankfully, he accepted) whom I had previously almost run over with my car when he not only ran into the street but proceeded to run right up to my STILL-MOVING vehicle and proceed to cup his hands in my window to look in my back seat.

What. The. Hell?!? Haven't his parents told him he shouldn't be on the street, let alone to avoid stepping into the path of moving vehicles? And where who is watching this child?!?

And, now, here he was. In MY house. Uninvited. And completely ignoring the fact I was all "um, excuse me... little boy?!?". When I finally asked what he was doing his response? "Getting your cat". Apparently he had seen MY cat sitting on MY windowsill in MY house and decided to come on in and GET my cat. Um, really? I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?

What. The. Hell?!? Haven't his parents told him taking things from others is wrong? To be wary of strangers which, I assume, would include NOT going into people's houses? What if I had a big dog that was trained to attack intruders? What if I was a creep, just waiting for a kid to walk through my door?

And so I had a polite conversation with the young lass, outlining the importance of not walking into someone's house and always telling his mom and dad's permission before going to someone's house. Then, as an alternative to barging in, I explained the concept of a doorbell. Big mistake. I say that because my doorbell has been rung (and not in a good way) approximately 2,000 times in the past week, twenty of which were, no word of a lie, within the 5 seconds prior to this evening's events. The doorbell, literally, did not have time to finish ringing before it rang again. If my brain could echo (which, of course, it clearly can't because there's not enough space in there, right? RIGHT?!?), I imagine that's what sound it would make.

I have, in the past week, told the little munchkin that I'm busy. That I'm having supper. That I have stuff to do. And that the cat does not want to come out and play (which is true since she is now TERRIFIED of going outside and being mauled). But tonight I was at a loss so, after politely telling him that I can't play today and not to come back, I started ignoring the doorbell. And the knocking on the door. And the knocking on the window. And the peaking in the window. But the one thing I, finally, could not ignore? The sound of the screen door opening and the inside door (which, sadly, I've now had to start closing and locking, even though it's a nice day out and I like to have it open so the screen door can let the sunshine and the smell of cut grass and a brief rain in) being jiggled. And jiggled some more. And then knocked on. And jiggled again.

OH. MY. GOD. What. The. Hell?!? I know he's young. I get that. But whatever happened to listening to your elders? Where did that go?!? Did I do something wrong? Was I unclear? Was I too inviting? Because I always seem to have kids landing on my doorstep and, unless the stork dropped them there, I don't recall inviting them over.

I must admit, I tried to keep it together. And while I did not entirely snap (which, believe me, is a feat after putting up with this every day for a week, minus the one day it, thank goodness, rained) I did wait for the next jiggle and quickly opened the door, telling the startled jiggler to go home and if he tried coming into my house one more time I'd tell his parents.

Except I didn't have to tell his parents because the little boy turned around and ran to the first person he could find- the neighbor across the street who surely can't relate to my plight, considering she brings her toddler over at 10pm on a work night to visit my cat- and told on me. I watched, hidden in the shadow of my living room as he pointed in my direction, sure I was going to be in trouble for making a little boy cry (note: I did not see any actual tears and, frankly, I wonder if the child is perhaps void of all reason and emotion. Just saying). But the woman across the street stayed where she was and the little boy went elsewhere to tattle. I eventually saw him with what I can only assume is his father because, in all these years, I've seen the boy and his sister multiple times a day but have never seen either parent, sure his dad would come and ream me out for doing what he is apparently incapable of- letting the child know 'no' means no. Thankfully, nobody rang my bell (pardon the pun) but I must admit, I spent the remainder of the evening with my door closed and locked, with the cat out back, on her leash.

I hate this. I hate that this even had to occur. That trying to tell the boy, again and again, wouldn't work. And why would it? He's three. He's too young to understand the inner workings of social etiquette and important life lessons most likely don't sink in when coming from a stranger. I hate that I feel uncomfortable in my own home now, like I have to avoid my front yard and my neighbors. Like I'm in trouble and I'm the bad guy when, really, if the parents had kept an eye on their child for any of the past 8 days they could have put a stop to his incessant behavior.

I know I could have handled it differently. I could have spoken to the parents but I hate confrontation (I considered leaving an anonymous note in their mailbox after the first occurrence but even the thought of that made me ill) and if they let they're child wander the streets for hours on end would they really have listened? I feel bad for giving the kid heck. I do. I don't think it's fair that I had to be the meanie. That my house is now 'that house' on the street, the one the mean woman lives in. That there's a little boy who's repertoire of childhood memories will now include being reprimanded by the bitch on the block. A little boy who will recall that memory every time he walks past my house (which, after today, will hopefully be less often), probably egging it every chance he gets when he gets older. I hate being all of this all because there's a set of parents, four doors down, who think it's perfectly reasonable to let their three year old wander the streets unattended for hours, not once noticing he's missing while he spends half an hour on my doorstep, which isn't visible from their yard.

And for those of you who are parents and are tempted to comment that I couldn't possibly understand how to raise/teach a child or that the children are our future and that they should be left on their own accord to be the free spirits mother nature intended them to be... save it. Because somewhere along the line (not all but most) kids have lost all sense of respect and responsibility and, in their place, have found a level of entitlement that baffles, concerns and disheartens me. I think there has to be a happy medium between the strict household I grew up in where I was afraid to talk (let alone dream) but grew up knowing the difference between right and wrong and the run-wild attitude some homes have today, where the kids are the center of the universe and aren't held accountable to any set of rules or standards.

I used to want kids. Lots of them. I couldn't wait to watch them grow and teach them right from wrong, all the while letting them know how special and loved they were and that they could do anything they wanted... except for walk into people's homes without warning. But now? If the world hasn't changed and I've misunderstood the parents of this child and this is just how kids are these days... then I'm beginning to think it's for the best I'll never have kids. Because I don't like being the meanie... and I know I grew up hating my dad for being one, I don't want my kids thinking the same thing of me.

Tonight was disheartening. I wish I was sunshine and kittens when I had opened the door but, hot damn, I couldn't take it any more. So why, when I'm not the one who turned and ran away, do I feel like I'm the one who's been scolded?

Raising kids is tough, yo.

Especially when they belong to your neighbors.

Newton's Third Law

2011-06-13T22:27:00.006-06:00

Dieting sucks.

How is it fair that it can takes weeks of hard work (weeks, I say!) to lose a measly pound... and only one bad day to gain to gain it back? I thought each action had an equal and opposite reaction? Now I'm no Physicist (oh wait...) but that's not exactly *equal* in my book.

Truth be known, it's going well. I've been exercising lots and sticking to eating really well (minus that one, rather large, piece of cheesecake... oops). I went shopping and easily fit into a medium with no back rolls (correction... no visible back rolls) where I'd normally be a large. And today I wore my 'skinny' dress pants to work... and didn't end up with button imprints on my abdomen at the end of the day.

But, alas, the scale. Why does it have to be such a jerk? Can't it give a girl a break every now and then?

I've set goals (most of which, thankfully, don't involve the scale). But they're so slow going it's hard not to give up. It's unfortunate that two weeks of hard work does not provide the same immediate gratification that nachos, chocolate and, ahem, cheesecake do.

I know this is the way it's supposed to be. Life is like that. All the things worth doing are hard, otherwise everyone would be skinny, rich, successful, famous and a doctor/actor/author/musician/president. Or at least a skinny, musically inclined former-actor president who played a doctor in a movie once.

That they wrote.

The Chopping Block

2011-06-10T14:53:00.006-06:00

I've been growing my hair out. Again. I've had short hair for a long time. And when I've had short hair for a long time I tend to forget what it's like to have long hair... so I grow it out. At which point I'm reminded that I suck at having long hair, so I cut it again.

It's a vicious cycle.

So today I went for a hair cut. With a new stylist. A new stylist who, I'm sure, thinks I'm weird because when I meet new people I get nervous, which causes me to say such things as "does anyone ever try to catch their hair in their mouth when you're cutting their bangs", "have you ever made anyone cry" and "that would make a great SNL skit, I should totally email Lorne Michaels". A stylist who seemed to enjoy my witty repartee only to make a joke about getting the receptionist to say "he's jam packed" if I ever phoned to rebook. And a stylist who had the uncanny ability to run his fingers through my long hair and, somehow, made it look great! Sexy! Amazing! But when he declined my offer to walk behind me at all times to fluff up my hair (that's right... he'd be my fluffer) I went ahead and told him "do whatever you want... but make it short".

It was going well until he said, with my recently removed ponytail in his hand, "you know, if you grew your hair to here [middle of my back] you would have the best hair I've ever seen".

*sigh* Of course I would.

And so the deed is done. I'm not sure about it yet but, for some reason, having short hair makes me feel skinny. I find it easier to hold my head up high. Maybe because it weighs less?

Oh... and for the record? Don't mention Ginnifer Goodwin unless you actually want to have the same hair cut as Ginnifer Goodwin. Because your stylist just might disappear a few minutes and, upon returning, say "I was just checking something on Google".

Just saying.

Food Groups

2011-06-08T22:20:00.001-06:00

Are onions a vegetable? Do they have nutritional value? I ask because I'm trying to eat vegetables with every meal and tonight I looked in the fridge and all I had on hand, vegetable-wise, was an onion and I almost considered eating it. Almost. I also had a bottle of ketchup but that would've been stupid.

Everyone knows tomatoes are fruit.

TGI(V)F: a man's final thoughts

2011-06-03T23:40:00.002-06:00

There are certain moments in life where everything seems to come into focus and the big, fast, overwhelming and complicated world around us shrinks and becomes crisp, calm and clear. Such moments are few and far between and most likely arrive in the midst of life's momentous occasions... standing at the alter of one's wedding, the birth of a child and, perhaps the most defining of all, in the moments before one's death. Rarely are they articulated and shared as well as this. And rarely do we get to hear a person's final thoughts.

What a rare gift it is, then, to hear what our final thoughts might be before we leave this Earth. And, rarer yet, what an opportunity it is for this man- and for us- to do something about those thoughts. To be able to change not only the last few seconds of our lives but every second until then.

A rare gift, indeed!

Ittsy Bittsy Spider?

2011-06-02T22:03:00.001-06:00

I need glasses. And contacts. But not both at the same time, of course. (Because that would be silly) I've always thought it was a curse but now? I know it's also a blessing.

Why's that, you ask?

Because a week ago when I went to have a shower, sans glasses, I noticed something in the tub. Thinking it was a leaf or some dirt the cat brought in (hey, at least she cleans up), I grabbed my glasses to have a look. And what did my (nearsighted) eyes behold? A spider! And not just a spider but a huge ass spider that- dude- I almost touched with my hand because I thought it was a leaf!

Needless to say, I was not impressed. I turned on the hot (hot!) water and rinsed the bugger down the drain (back off, PETA, it was a do or ~~die~~ cry situation). Still, I did not remain unscathed... because now when I meander into the washroom in the wee hours of the morning? I leave my glasses behind and blindly rinse any specs and spots away while I imagine (and bid adieu to) dust bunnies and cat toys, not beetles and arachnids, going down the drain. Because, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

And because, sometimes (no, make that all the time), a big fuzzy blob is much better than a big fuzzy spider!

Fruits and Veggies

2011-05-31T21:39:00.004-06:00

I don't like cold veggies. Is that odd? How about the fact I just microwaved my salad? In my defense, I only zapped it for 17 seconds. Just enough to mildly wilt the lettuce.

Mark my words, people... I will lose 20 pounds by the time I go to Italy in September. Never mind all the other times I've said "mark my words" and the fact I've been telling myself this for weeks. I had 20 weeks, which I figured was completely doable, based on a pound a week. But now? I only have 13 weeks and I said the same thing just as many weeks prior to my New York trip and I fell flat (or lumpy and jiggly, depending how you look at it). I lost about 15 pounds but, sadly, have gained 10 of those back despite my 'sure fire' weight loss plan of having an organ removed. Remember that one time when I wrote about how I'm always the exception to the rule when it comes to Side Effects? Ya... that still holds true. Dammit.

I'm feeling inspired. I watched Extreme Makeover: Weight Edition last night and if someone can lose 160lbs in a year surely I can lose 2 pounds a week, right? Then why is it *so* hard? I know a big (pardon the pun) part of it is the struggles I have with my emotions. In a day when I'm feeling doom and gloom nachos taste REALLY good (who am I kidding? Nachos taste really good on bright and shiny days too). When I feel like nobody will ever love me again it's easy to think it doesn't matter that I don't like the way I look naked because, let's be honest, I'm the only one who sees me that way.

I know I'm not fat. I know that. But I also know I'm not comfortable in my skin. I want to be able to wear a t-shirt without having to worry about side boob and love handles. I long for the day when I can stand with my legs shoulder-width apart and not have my thighs touch. Is that too much to ask?!?

Then why is it so hard to stay motivated? Oh right... because when I have a bad day instead of having someone to come home and talk to while going for a walk or making a healthy meal together I've found another way to pass the time... by eating. And because depression sucks and cakes, cookies and potato chips do not.

And, so, I will eat a sugar free freezie while I type and hope (and struggle) to make it through another day eating and exercising the way I should, pondering the fact that there is never any sugar-free grape candies, freezies and jello... hoping that someday there will be but, by that time, I won't need it.

Here's to tomorrow!

Did I mention tomorrow is treat day at work?!?

Ya... this is hard.

A Million (or so) Little Pieces

2011-05-29T20:15:00.005-06:00

When I first decided to make a stained glass lamp I checked Etsy to see if it was worth my while to make my own shade. Goodness, I thought, I could make a living at this!

Now that I've spent countless hours (and spilled blood) cutting, grinding and foiling a bazillion pieces of glass I've come to the conclusion that I would have to charge double, if not triple, the going rate to make such an enterprise worth my while. Because who wouldn't pay $2400 for a lamp, right?!?

Right...

Weekend Wrap-Up

2011-05-23T21:12:00.006-06:00

The highlight of my Saturday night was buying a new brand of toilet paper. Had said toilet paper lived up to it's hype perhaps things might be different but, as it stands, I'm thinking I perhaps need to spice up my weekends. You know, by purchasing Kleenex with lotion or brand name toilet cleaner or something.

Actually, my weekend was a good one. Complete with a couple walks around the lake, cards with the girls and time spent reading in my comfy new chair. And, yes, some of that reading was via osmosis, with my eyes closed. Did I mention my new chair is comfy?!?

Sure, my weekend wasn't as productive as it perhaps should have been but, all in all, it was a good mix of coffee and salad; TV and housework; exercise and napping. And nachos. There may have been nachos.

Diet, whatnow?!?

The weekends don't count, right? RIGHT?!? Ya... that's what I thought.

Oops.

O: More Than Just a Letter of the Alphabet

2011-05-22T20:40:00.003-06:00

I know I already wrote about this, perhaps a few too many times and it might sound lame or pathetic but I am really having a hard time with Oprah ending. I mean, really?!? Come on... it's just a show, right?

Except it's not.

I've been pvr'ing the last season. At first I was picky in my selections. I'd skip through a segment here, a guest there. I let episodes build up over time, telling myself I'd watch them when I could, that other things were more important. But now? I find myself clinging to the them, saving the ones that were especially poignant... that touched and inspired me. It's become like a dance, forever trying to shuffle to make room for new ones, having to prioritize the old. I flip through them and watch them according to their description and the mood I'm in. Whether I want to be inspired... or just made to laugh and be entertained. I'll save one I might think will be really good, forcing myself to watch another that I'd been putting off. And, much like the last piece of pie at a potluck that nobody will eat, I just can't seem to watch them all. I always want there to be one there, waiting for me. I, literally, don't want them to end.

Ever.

And now that my pvr list fits on one page I realize that, much too soon (we're talking one more episode, aside from the tribute that's already been taped), there will be no more for me to record, no more for me to watch. And while I know I will leave the pvr rule set to record new shows- partly out of homage and partly out of hope that maybe Oprah will change her mind- I also know that each day when I get home, as I have done so many days before, I will check the list but, this time, there won't be anything there.

And that is why I'm having a hard time with it.

I didn't think I had watched that much Oprah over the years but now that I've seen so many clips from past shows? I'm amazed at how many I remember watching and that I can not remember a time when I didn't have Oprah to come home to. So, of course, it's hard to imagine a time without her, going forward. Miss Winfrey is like that person you don't know how much means to you, how integral a part of your life they are, until they are no longer there. Much like a casual acquaintance you look forward to seeing every day; the kind smile you see on the way to work that brightens your morning; the person you make idle conversation with while in line for coffee. Someone who doesn't know where you came from or how you got there... they're just happy that you're there.

Sure, there have been episodes that I've fast forwarded through. Some of the makeovers (probably not a surprise coming from the girl who doesn't know how to apply makeup) and the a Dr. Oz show, every now and then (probably due to the fact I usually catch up on my episodes while eating supper... although I'll admit I can't take a poo without checking to see if it's s-shaped. I wonder how Oprah would feel about knowing I think about her every time I have a bowl movement?). But there have been so many others. That have left me in a puddle on the floor. That have inspired me to be something better. Do something bigger. That leave me feeling like I am the most important person in the world. That I can do anything. That Oprah was speaking just to me.

And then there's the guests. The ones that have made me feel like my struggles are small, in comparison to their own, sparking me to do better in my own fight. And others that have spoken so clearly to my own pain, letting me feel something I have struggled so long and hard to feel... understood. People I will never know or meet to whom I will forever be grateful to for being brave and sharing not only their story but their pain, their joy, their heartache and triumphs.

I will miss the a-ha moments. And while it won't be as easy as having them delivered right to my living room at 3pm every day, I'll do my best to come up with them my own, finding them where I may least expect them and, with any luck, when I need them most. I'm sure they won't be as frequent, without Oprah's help, but I hope I'll have them just the same.

I remember where I was when (I thought) M*A*S*H ended. I cried when Bette Midler sang her adieu to Johnny Carson. I mourned not having girls night when SATC ended and I felt like I lost a friend (or six) when the door closed on Friends. And I know exactly where I'll be on Wednesday afternoon. It might not be Chicago, leaving one item on my bucket list that will forever remain undone, but I'll be there in spirit.

And, I'm sure, in tears.

It's been a good run. And, with any luck, re-runs!

Because Oprah Says I Can!

2011-05-16T20:59:00.007-06:00

I’ve been watching episodes of Oprah. Back to back, since I got home from work five hours ago. Fast forwarding through the commercials, picking the episodes that seem most inspiring. Watching Oprah’s Master Class, hearing her story.

It leaves me feeling inspired. Granted, I’m bawling my eyes out... but I’m inspired, none the less. How can one person live such a life? And do so in a manner that inspires so many others? In such a way as though she’s speaking directly to me? As though I’m the most important person in the world, full of the greatest potential. That she believes in me. That if she can do what she has done then the world is my oyster too. That I can do anything.

Because Oprah says I can!

It may sound trite or trivial, to let a TV show affect me in such a way, but I grew up being told I was stupid, worthless and would never amount to anything. And, in every fiber of my being, I believed it. I let die all my hopes and dreams: of being an actress, becoming an astronaut or writing a book (although, on a really good day, I still hold on to that last one). And when I moved out of the home that was so toxic, away from the words that hurt so much, I found I couldn’t really escape. The words that were once spat at me I now spat at myself, telling myself over and over again that I wasn’t worthy of a good life. That I was a lost cause. For the past 30 (or so) years it has been a constant struggle to rise above what I feel inside, because of what I've been told on the outside. To not just give up and wait for life to pass me by, lamenting on what could have been but never was. To try and change what I’ve been told and, instead, believe what I want to be true. So imagine, then, how much it must mean to have someone tell me, on a daily basis, the things I’m so desperate to hear. To be told, when life seems so difficult and I don’t understand where I belong or what it is I’m meant to do or be, that my only purpose... that the only thing I have to worry about in life... is to be the very best me I can be. Well, that sounds easy! I can do that! I will do that!

Because Oprah says I can!

When I see a women who grew up facing odds far more insurmountable than my own... a girl who, much like myself, couldn’t find her name on a key chain or a lunch box... become something so extraordinary it makes me feel like maybe we’re not that different after all. That if she can overcome all she has overcome and do so much good and accomplish so much than maybe I can rise above the few minute things that have been holding me back. And, sure, I may not do as many remarkable things but maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to do one or two things really great. She makes it seem possible. She makes it seem easy.

Because Oprah says I can!

I know it’s just a TV show. But it’s really not. It’s a daily affirmation, from someone other than my self, of all the things I have never been able to make myself believe. That I have a purpose. That I am bound for greatness. That so many things have had to align in the universe to bring me to where I am that I, for that very reason, am amazing. That I am worthy. It’s the undoing of years (upon years) of horrible things that have been said. Setting them right. And I’ve been listening. Slowly, but true. I feel inspired. But I worry... now that the show draws to an end... who will inspire me now? I can almost hear her, this person who would call me 'stranger' whom I think of as 'friend'. Oprah would say: it's time to inspire myself. And this time around I actually feel like maybe I’ll be able to.

Because Oprah says I can!

How could I possibly thank her for something she doesn't even know she's done? I'll never be able to. For being the friend, as I've sat crying on my couch, who has seemed to understand when no one else could. For always being there, day after day, when I thought I had no one. And for reminding me, when I couldn't remember for myself, that there's a reason and purpose to all this. That while I may not have had key chains and lunchboxes that, somewhere in the world, there's a regatta with my name on it. That I'm meant to be something better than I am.

Because Oprah says I can.

Rude Awakenings

2011-05-14T15:36:00.009-06:00

My eyes pop open, in the middle of a deep sleep, as I ask myself "was I supposed to work yesterday?". My heart beats fast as I assure myself that I did, indeed, have yesterday off. That people weren't wondering where I was and that I'm not going to be in trouble, come Monday morning. It is 7:30am on Saturday morning. I'm still tired, but it will take at least another hour to get back to sleep, I'm too riled up.

I spring awake again, feeling guilty that it is now 10:30 am on a beautiful Saturday morning and I am still in bed, still tired. I tell myself that it's okay, that I need to make up for the sleep that I lost during the week and the fact that I'm going out tonight and have to work for a few hours tomorrow morning, so I may as well sleep when I can. I lie awake, thinking of all the things I should be doing: the front yard that needs to be raked; the motorcycle I should get up and running so I can sell it; all the time spent in bed that would be better spent exercising. Then I remember... I don't want to go into my front yard, because I worry the neighbors might complain about all the things about my house I have trouble maintaining on my own- the gutters that need cleaning and are too tall for my ladder; the plants in my yard that have spread across the property line; the back deck that needs repairing, for which I do not have the tools or know-how, that my neighbour can see from his own, lovely, deck and living room; and the broken window pane that lies against the side of my house because it needs to go to the dump and is too big for my car, knowing that hiring someone to take this one item for me is too high a cost to justify. I remember that I already tried getting my motorcycle up and running, when I dragged my ass out of bed last weekend, in a fit of inspiration and courage- the siphon I bought not working, trying to get the gas out myself, chocking on the fumes, wondering how my dad used to do that for me, year after year. Leaving the gas tank open, knowing full well it's wrong to let it evaporate and that I've ruined the bike, in my laziness, now that bugs are free to roam in the tank, that it will soon be filled with cobwebs and dust.

So I try to focus on the last task. Exercising. I make it 5 minutes before it's just too much. The thought of all the wasted money, the things that are ruined, all because it was just too much for me. So I crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head and fight to fall asleep. Again, it will hours... and I will wake up the same way, full of guilt for the day passing me by. Wanting to do better, finding it so hard to force myself. I get up, worried about what other people must think... that I have no reason to be so tired, given the fact I have no kids and no one but myself to answer to... that I'm lazy, useless.

And then I go back to bed again.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2011-05-09T18:01:00.001-06:00

Based on the fact I was diagnosed with PTSD after going through a breakup even the captain of The Titanic could have seen from a mile away, I think it's pretty safe to say I don't handle it very well when things end. Relationships, friendships, vacations... you name it, I don't like when it ends. Which probably explains why after an ill-advised late night cup of coffee and 2 episodes of Oprah I was still wide awake at 4am last Sunday, contemplating a world with a vacant 3pm time slot.

The same thing happened when Friends ended. And don't even get me started on what a mess I was when Sex and the City called it quits... never mind the fact I was still on season 5 at the time, what with not having HBO and having to wait for the DVD and all. I remember lamenting with a near stranger in a calendar store (I should probably provide some background to this rather odd scenario... but I will not) that the end of the show was similar to losing a friend and- oh my god- it was going to be so hard to say goodbye.

I swear I'm not a hermit who lives vicariously through her TV. Really.

It's not so much the fact that a show is ending... it's the fact that I can't imagine what it must have be like for Jennifer Aniston and, hello, Matthew Perry or Sarah Jessica Parker and Chris Noth (who am I kidding, he had Law and Order to go back to, he was fine) to have to say goodbye. To dedicate so many years of your life to something to which nothing else will probably ever compare... and know the end is in site. And, yes, I'm still talking about TV and not the breakup.

At least not consciously.

I'm not worried about Oprah. I'm sure she's sad and perhaps torn about her decision (dumb move, Oprah... dumb move) but I know she'll be fine (the woman wipes her butt with hundred dollar bills... she'll be more than fine). I'm worried about her staff. The ones who have worked 10, 15 and 20 years as part of a team. A family. I feel sad for them. What will it be like for them, the day after, to not have a place to go? To have to start all over again, knowing full well that whatever they end up doing will never be nearly as good.

That's gotta be tough.

I know the TV world's not all unicorns and rainbows (Isaiah Washington on Grey's, anyone?). But it's a world I've longed to be a part of since before I can ever remember. I tear up at Oscar speeches for categories like "Best editing in Sound" and "Best director of a Foreign Film" (when I often don't even know what they're saying) so you can just imagine me during a truly remarkable speech... standing in the middle of my living room, clutching my hands to my chest as though I were there and it was I being thanked or, better yet, giving the speech. Never blinking, lest I miss a sideways glance or a shot of the crowd. So while Hollywood may not be full of leprechauns and Care Bears to me it's at least a place where the roads are paved in chocolate (mmmm... chocolate) and double rainbows hang in the sky (what does it mean?!?). It's a place where I imagine people who appear to be Friends (pardon the pun) on screen are also friends off. So when I see something like this, knowing full well a show and it's people are losing a piece of itself, it makes me melancholy. It makes me want to stop time, let everyone change their mind and allow life to go back to what once was (again, talking about TV, not breakups) and, yes, it even causes me to loose a little sleep (although, in my defense, it really could have been the coffee) because, much like a child at Christmas, if I'm awake it feels like more time has to pass before it's all over. And even though the characters are fictional (Oprah included, it seems, because, really, how can someone have enough time to run a TV show and a magazine and a book club and a network when I have trouble working a desk job and blogging?) the people playing them aren't and, hot damn, I feel for them. Probably a little too much but that's okay... it'll be over soon.

Too soon, really.

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T21:43:00.003-06:00

My cat was extra snugly today. It's almost as though she knew it was Mother's Day.

I didn't have the heart to tell her I'm not her biological momma.

But I think she might just be figuring it out. The way she stares at me while I shower (creepy as it may be), watches me use the facilities (could it be that she's a pervert?!) and often stands on my head or digs at my hands when I'm in bed, as though she's saying "what on earth are you doing", I think she's catching on to the fact we're different. Well that, and the fact we have trouble communicating, what with the meowing and such.

To all the mothers out there to children a little less hairy then my own fur baby (although I was pretty hairy as a child so who am I to judge?), Happy Mother's Day! To those of you doing it all on your own, my hat's off to you, I can't imagine how hard, yet rewarding, that must be. You make the world go 'round. To those who have chosen not to have children and have to explain yourselves, to strangers and family alike, over and over (and over) again, my kudos to you on this (and every) day for making a decision that is harder than most people probably give you credit for and for standing firm in your choice, for whatever the reason, and having the courage to stand tall while doing the responsible thing and not bringing a child into the world for no other reason than because you can or should, depending who you ask. To those who have lost their mother and are feeling that loss today, and everyday, my heart goes out to you, I hope you know how loved you are. To those who have lost children and remember them today, as you do every moment of every day, may you feel the love of your child today more than you feel the obvious, immense loss, I wish things could be different for you, my heart aches for you. To those who, like me, are orphans, whether by choice or by circumstance, may you find peace in what once was and what may never be and be proud of who you are regardless of where (or who) you came from. And to everyone who is not a mother but wishes they were my heart goes out to you on this bittersweet day full of pain and hope, melancholy and dreams. Because, despite it's name, this day isn't just for those who have children or mothers... it's for all who have, want, or are missing the love that comes from the special relationship that can only exist between a mom and her child.

Why I love my friends

2011-05-03T17:08:00.001-06:00

Because I can say this:

And, upon announcing my safety, get this:

The Democratic Process

2011-05-02T16:25:00.002-06:00

Today I voted. I always enjoy voting. It makes me feel important (and, really, isn't that what counts?). You arrive, people smile and welcome you. You leave and everyone says thank you and smiles some more. You get to see your neighbors and everyone seems so happy and friendly. It feels like you're really doing your part. To be heard. To make a difference. At least for a few hours... until my candidate loses. Voting tends to be very similar to The Amazing Race, Survivor, The Bachelor and Big Brother... the person I chose never wins.

Oh well, it's the process that counts, right?

The cable repairman came today. I actually tried to cancel the appointment since my TV has, of course, been fine since I booked it. But the company insisted and not only did Mr. Fix-it show up early but he waited patiently in his vehicle until our set time. Good thing, too, because I was taping Oprah. Turns out he didn't even have to come inside. I live in an older neighbourhood with beautiful, overhanging trees. In which squirrels like to live. And eat cable lines. Mr. Fix-it showed me the severed line and assured me all would now be well. He seemed a tad taken back when I asked "did the squirrel at least die".

In my defense, I was half-kidding. In my other defense, I missed an episode of 16 and Pregnant and I really count on that show to feel better about the choices I've made.

Again... I'm kidding.

Kind of.

On Dating

2011-05-01T20:06:00.003-06:00

This may come as a shock but I do, indeed, go on dates. They may not be often (the term 'bi-annual' comes to mind) and they tend to be without fanfare but they do happen. For whatever reason I find them embarrassing to talk about. Perhaps I fear I'm doing it (no, not 'it') wrong or that people will think I'm too picky when I have no every right to be but it's a point of contention to me so I keep it, er them, to myself. But after this weekend? It's hard to zip my lip.

Am I the only one who thinks dating is a LOT of work?!? I mean, really? Should it be so much work?!? Don't get me wrong, I've been on some good- nay great- dates. They're comfortable, fun and time flies. Unfortunately, those tend to be the ones that don't result in a second date so perhaps I'm 'too' comfortable on them. But blind dates? Blind dates are the worst. Ever. They make me want to poke my eye out, feign an illness, put on my jammie jams and ignore texts, phone calls and the light of day in an attempt to pretend they ever happened (or avoid them in the first place).

It's too much pressure, being set up by people I respect. I know they just want the best for me and I don't want to let them down. So as stubborn and bitchy as I may appear I tend to be too much of a push over to say no. But, from hereon in, I'm putting my foot down. I feel like I'm on a crusade. Stand back, PETA and the Coalition For A Drug Free America because I'm taking a stand against the cruelty and addiction that is Blind Dating.

No means no!

Perhaps I've seen too many romantic comedies because I know, in my mind, that it most likely doesn't work this way but my heart wants to find someone I'm interested in first and go from there. I want to have butterflies in my tummy and feel the thrill that comes from the moment of finding out someone likes me the way I like them. A person I've gotten a chance to know. Not a stranger. Not the brother of someone who knows someone else.

Is that too much to ask?

I appreciate the fact that everyone wants the best for me, I really do. But why does that have to involve a man? And not the best, brightest, most charming man of the bunch, either. I mean, really?!? I understand that the best catches have been caught but let's not scrape the bottom of the barrel just yet, shall we? I've done the shy, quiet guys... they're not for me. I'm over 'boring' and 'stable'. These are not, believe it or not, endearing qualities. Give me fun, adventurous and funny. Make me laugh! Make me look forward to getting up in the morning, instead of longing to escape to my dreams at the end of the day. I'm tired of having to carry the conversation, let alone the entire relationship. Perhaps I'm lazy, perhaps I'm indifferent, perhaps I'm giving up. No, wait... cancel that last one because for the first time in my life I think if I was truly giving up I'd actually be giving in, taking the first thing that comes along and calling it a day. That's what the old me would do. I'd chalk it up to 'it's better than nothing' or 'beggars can't be choosers' and be done with it. After all, there are worse things in the world than a successful, kind man who would take care and think the world of me who just happens to be boring, right?

Wrong!

So, for the love of all that is good and holy, if you know me in real life I only have this to say: NO MORE SET UPS! I don't care if "this guy is different" or "so and so is perfect for you", I'm done. They never go well. I don't know anyone who's ever said "I met my soul mate on a blind date". I have better odds with the lottery and at least that gives me the thrill of imagining private islands and exotic homes, instead of the dread that comes with thoughts of awkward dinners and the inevitable "I'm not interested" discussion that follows. So I'm putting my foot down and saying "no more". So unless you plan on setting me up with Matthew Perry, Tina Fey or Anderson Cooper (hey, it could happen) then please keep your neighbor's sister's friend's brother from another mother to yourself. I'm not interested. Because these days? I'm alone not because I have to be but because I refuse to settle for anything less than what I want. I want something better. Something fantastic. And nothing that leaves me wondering if this is as good as it gets.

Because sometimes? Nothing is better than something.

TGI(V)F: Kittens!

2011-04-29T12:03:00.000-06:00

I must admit, I like this video, Kittens Inspired by Kittens, a little bit too much. I tend to yell out "Kittens" at random intervals throughout the day. It's my tension breaker and while most of my coworkers don't understand the context behind it and think (for various reasons) I'm just plumb crazy every once in a while I will yell out "I want pie" and, to my delight, someone will shout back "I want beef jerky".

It's pretty much awesome.

So on that note I present to you: Kittens. Inspired by... celebrities!

Please tell me I'm not the only one who tears up over that? Oh the irony... oh the satire... oh the Angelina Jolie burn. Good times, I say... good times!

Things like this make me think I need to quit my job and focus on my youtube career... because that pays well, right?

RIGHT?!?

Nonsense HomeSense

2011-04-25T17:15:00.000-06:00

You know that "I don't want to watch but I can't turn away" show on TLC, Strange Addictions? Well I should be on that show. Because I'm addicted to Homesense. No really, I think it's becoming a problem. Except I don't really want to admit it's a problem because that's the first step to getting help and, really, I'm okay with it. My bank account, on the other hand, may disagree.

For my American friends, Homesense is a discount home store. I'm not entirely sure where they get their product from (based on their prices it's likely from child laborers, as politically incorrect as that may be of me to say) because none of it ever seems to have any sort of insignia on it and they seem to have things I've never seen anywhere else. Their product changes daily. And crazy people go there on a regular basis to meander the aisles for hours, looking for things they don't need.

And by 'crazy people' I mean 'me'.

So, of course, I did not come home empty handed. I bought this thing (and, yes, I did take photos of it in the store... don't judge me):

What's that, you ask? What is it? Ya... I don't know. It has hardware on the back which makes me think it goes on the wall but the receipt said "garden item", which makes me think it's a trellis for outside (but wouldn't it rust?!?). Which wouldn't be so much of an issue if I hadn't already bought this:

See what I mean? It's an addiction! In my defense, my latest purchase actually isn't my fault, it's Monica's. She found a vintage map of New York at a flea market and after trying to find something similar on the internet I decided to stop in at Homesense after work 'just to see'. Imagine my surprise when I found a nice abstract piece of New York 'art'! (I use quotations because I have a hard time calling mass-produced printings 'art') Granted, it's not a map but the neighbours commented on it when I got it out of the car so that must be a good sign but (isn't there always a but?)... after getting it home I'm not sure it 'fits' in my house. It's not like I really need it. After all, I already had a painting above my fireplace. It fit. It seemed warm and cozy. But this new picture? I'm not sure. Maybe it's because it's smaller but it seems a tad 'cold', perhaps a bit too modern in my character home? And since I am unable to make up my own mind there's only one thing left to do... ask you: what do you think? Old or new? OLD OR NEW?!?!?

Old:

New:

I Blame the Laptop For My Absence

2011-04-24T16:24:00.000-06:00

I used to have a desktop computer. It lived in my den, a nice little nook of a sun room with a window seat full of photos and my degree on the wall. A room with windows on 3 of the walls and French doors on the 4th. A place where I could look out on the world or turn my chair back towards the screen and block it all out. It's a place I spent hours in, every day. It's arguably the best room in my house. And now? I don't set foot in it. Because now? I have a laptop. And that's exactly where it seems to stay: on my lap.

There is a permanent dent in my couch. And while I don't 'watch' a lot of TV, per say, it is almost always on. Where I once sat in a room dedicated to my craft (sure, let's all it that) now I am forever distracted and can't seem to focus my mouse, let alone my thoughts. Nowadays I don't write anything of substance. I'm rarely inspirited. And between work and everything else there's no time to think and let the mood strike me.

Now my best thoughts come to me while I lay in bed. Away from a keyboard, too tired to commit it to paper, knowing I can't afford to give my thoughts the tine they deserve, lest I be zombie-like at work the next morning. I have written a book, twenty times over, in the confines of my mind, promising myself it's okay to go to sleep because there's no way I could possibly forget the wonderful storylines and heartwarming words penned inside my mind. But I do forget. No matter how hard I try or how many times it's happened, the words that flew off the pillow and made me shed a tear as I drifted off to sleep are gone.

And now I'm so forlorn, to have them go missing from the failed hard drive of my mind, that I can't seem to get started again. I should fix the computer. Get a new one. But I spent money on the laptop and I'm committed to it, no matter the cost. Ironic, really, since it's because I'm so cheap and yet the cost is truly immeasurable, given what has been lost. My productivity. My thoughts. My time. The novel Ive always wanted to write. And 200 square feet of prime living space that remains abandoned. A place I should consider myself lucky to have. A place I should use to it's fullest while it still belongs to me.

I know I will regret the time I've lost. This is nothing new to me. The trick is finding the ambition to right the wrong and lift myself out of the hole and make up for lost time.

I just wish there wasn't so much of it to make up for...

The Powerful Scent of Gain

2011-04-10T19:40:00.004-06:00

How is it even humanly possible that 80% of my laundry is pajamas?!? Granted, I wear pajamas every day but, hello, I wear non-pajama clothes every day too, minus a day (or two) every now and then on the weekend. And, yet, every time I do laundry I am overwhelmed by how many pairs of sweats, tank tops and fleece bottoms I pull out in relation to dress pants, jeans and sweaters. Could it be that I spend more time in my pjs then out of them? Hmmm... perhaps changing directly into my jammie-jams right after work instead of slipping into a pair of jeans isn't so much efficient as it is lazy.

At least I still have my standards (however low they may be) and there isn't a pair of pajama jeans in sight.

Yet...

On Being the 'Aunt'

2011-04-04T17:31:00.000-06:00

I went to a birthday party on the weekend. I was on the invite list. Fairly impressive, considering the party was for my friend's daughter and I was the only invitee over the age of seven.

I'm always honored when kids think of me. It amazes me that my name even comes up when they're asked "who do you want at your party". And there is no greater feeling in the world than having a kid take time out from their party and all their friends to look up and make sure I'm still there and flash me a smile, give me a wave or, my favorite, run up and give me a hug for absolutely no other reason than pure love. One of the things that bothers me most being single is the fact I don't get enough hugs so the ones I do get I treasure and I'm quick to let my munchkin friends know how much I love them, how wonderful I think they are and that I hope they never become too cool or too old to hug me. Which usually results in a giggle... or an eye roll.

It's funny how life comes full circle because, growing up, I had someone like me in my life. An 'Aunt'... except we weren't related, despite the fact we attended her family reunion every year as though we were. She was the Aunt I otherwise never would never have had since my dad's behavior caused a divide between most blood relatives. My 'Aunt' was my mom's best friend and, as far as I was concerned, she was the funnest adult on the face of the planet. She lived in a mobile home which, to us kids, was pretty much like camping in the city. And while most grown-ups ignored us and our dad told us, repeatedly, how worthless and stupid we were she treated us kids like the funniest, smartest and most important people in all the world. When we were at her house it felt like we were protected. She ruled the roost and she let us kids be in charge.

In hindsight, I can only imagine how annoying we were to her- constantly vying for her attention; forever wanting the hugs, cuddles and constant validation of love we never got at home; always pulling on her shirttails, wanting to sit on her lap. Every visit was meant to be between two best friends, a chance to talk about grown up things, not toys and dolls, but she was forever patient and kind and in her presence I was the center of the world.

Or at least hers.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of my 'Aunt': old fashioned Christmas tree trimmings, stringing popcorn and cranberries on string; twirling around on bar stools in her kitchen, going round and round and round and not once being told to stop or settle down; and having nachos. My favorite (a coincidence? I think not). To this day, nobody can make them as good as she did.

I can still remember the way her home felt. Smelt. From the pictures on the wall to the magnets on the fridge and the sound the porch door made, it was an oasis. An escape. With its Johnny Pop-ups in the flower beds and the back alley that led to the park it is still one of my favorite places on Earth despite it burning to the ground years ago, an event so traumatizing that, even at 20 years of age, my first thoughts were to the memories that were gone with it, happy to discover a childhood toy had made it's way out of the rubble unscathed, save for its smokey scent and being covered in soot. I have never been to my 'Aunt's' new home and the toy (a donkey she forever teased me about, always calling him 'Jackass' when I, for whatever reason, had named him Shanty) remains in my possession, its existence too painful a reminder of the life she lost in the fire. That jackass was the one momento I had wanted of my home away from home and, despite being well into adulthood, I had drawn a 'Wanted' picture of the stuffie, ragged hair and all, in hopes that someone shifting through the ash might find him, reminiscent of another time a kind soul searched through a wreckage for a childhood momento.

And I am so very glad they did.

My 'Aunt' was the only person outside of my parents, brother and boyfriend, who attended my University graduation. She was the only 'grown up' I ever openly hugged. Really and true. Where I didn't question the motive and where it wasn't born out of guilt or remorse for words that were spoken in haste or actions that hurt to the core. She was my refuge and my relief. My constant. And while she, too, has fallen victim to the perils of my parents and ties have been severed that will most likely never be mended, I think of her often and with fondness. I wonder if she ever thinks of me, if she wishes me well and loves me still. But lately I've been thinking of her for other reasons because I now know that she is so much more than my 'Aunt'.

She is me.

Today I am the 'Aunt'. The fun grownup. My friend's kids never question my presence, they're just happy I'm there. They don't think it's odd that I'm not married and don't have children, they're glad to have me to themselves. They give hugs willingly and, these days, it's my shirttails that are forever being pulled. It's hectic and overwhelming but it's worth it. It's unconditional love and admiration. And it's wonderful. Somehow, I have become the person who comes over for the grown-up visit only to end up a kid on my lap and my evenings filled with cuddling and coloring, playing video games and Lego. The only difference is it's cakes I make, not nachos.

I couldn't be prouder to be the 'Aunt' to all these children I'm not related to. Because I know how much it once meant to me to have a grownup friend. I wonder if, one day, they'll look back on their childhood and their thoughts will turn to me the way mine do to my 'Aunt'? I wonder if their favorite memories will have me in them? And if I'll have made a difference too?

One can only hope.

I'm ashamed to say this but, when I passed the age of childhood adoration, I felt sorry for my 'Aunt'. I was so wrapped up in new love and thoughts of weddings and babies that I pitied her. I wondered what must have been wrong with her, that she had never married? How could it not bother her to be so alone? How was she not consumed with loneliness and regret? I looked down on her, deemed her life less valuable and, worse yet, found myself relieved and glad I was nothing like her. Call it karma, call it fate, but here I am: I'm exactly like her. With new found respect and admiration, knowing how much it must have hurt to put on a brave face holding us as babies, watching us grow, always being there with a smile and a hug and not once responding to our queries with an outward pang of sorrow or annoyance, never letting sadness show. Loving us regardless of what we thought, just the way I will love my 'nieces' and 'nephews' despite the questions I know they will one day ask, if only to themselves. All with the notion that maybe they, too, will one day realize what it takes to be an 'Aunt' who really isn't an Aunt at all.

My 'Aunt' is an inspiration to me, even if it's in hindsight and she will likely never know of the difference she has made. And if, at the end of the day, I'm even a little bit like her than I'm glad. Because I couldn't imagine anyone more amazing, or loved, to be like. And because being the 'Aunt' has its perks... like the fact you're never too old for goody bags. Cake. Or balloons.

Fill 'er Up

2011-03-30T19:06:00.005-06:00

I was at the coffee shop today when the woman in front of me handed her to-go mug to the woman behind the till and said "I'll get a refill". The coffee shop worker then asked, in apparent disbelief at what it was the woman was wanting,"what?", to which the woman simply stated "a refill". "A refill of what", said the worker. "Coffee", said the woman with the to-go cup. "Cream or sugar?", came the next query. "Two of each, please", replied the woman. At this point the worker opened the to go cup, looked inside and stated "there's a teabag in here". The woman simply replied "oh ya... you can rinse that out".

Now excuse me if I'm mistaken but, to me, the term 'refill' means filling something up with whatever was in there last. And unless the person who is doing the filling was the original person to fill said thing in the first place they really wouldn't know what the 're' in 'refill' would be, right? And, surely, it would come as a surprise, then, to open a cup to 'refill' it with coffee... only to find a teabag, right? And call me crazy, but I wasn't aware that when you use a to-go cup you don't actually have to clean it because the restaurant, coffee shop, your momma will do it for you. I mean, really? As a consumer that disturbs me, germ-wise. After all, when was the last time you saw someone pour a cup of coffee without resting the rim of the coffee pot on the cup being filled? The last time I saw that I'm pretty sure was in a movie and it involved a silver plated teapot and a French waiter with a fancy-assed mustache. The whole situation seemed odd to me.

And I'm referring this morning's coffee shop incident... not the French waitstaff.

On a side note, the coffee place I go to now knows my order by heart, which would be reasonable if I ordered a 'regular' or a 'double double' but, alas, I do not. But I figure it's okay... since it's not like I'm asking for a refill.

E for Effort

2011-03-28T22:49:00.005-06:00

I have a friend who says my life is more exciting than hers. And while I don't necessarily agree with that statement it definitely got me thinking. The fact of the matter is that if my life seems more exciting it's only because I make it appear that way.

I have this notion that I have something to prove. That I need to, somehow, explain my life's worth. Not through words but, rather, through events and things. I have a constant need to have something to show for my time. While everyone else has the excitement of life's milestones I find myself having to create my own. Everyone seems to be on a set path as to how life is supposed to be and all I can do is try desperately to come up with things to talk about, lest I seem boring while everyone else speaks of weddings or babies. It's a self-worth thing, to be sure. And since I don't think I'm worthy on my own accord I do things to account for the passage of time. A new house. A new job. Volunteering and learning new things. A trip here or there. All noble things, sure, but it seems like an awful lot of work just to give the illusion that my time, nay my life, has not been a waste of time. All for the sake of having something to show for myself so that, at the end of my days, people won't say "what a shame".

The true shame is that I feel this way. As though life is a competition; a game of who has more notches on their belt and photos on their Facebook page. In the end I know people will say the very thing I dread, regardless of the things I've learned and the sights I've seen. And why? Because that's not what society values. No matter what excitement I create for myself it never compares to what I'm trying to make up for. At the end of the day all I will have are memories I share with no one but myself about trips that are merely a ruse to draw attention from the blatantly obvious fact that while everyone is living life as they had intended... mine has turned out nothing like I had hoped. I fear there's not enough excitement in the world to make up for the fact I'm unloved, alone and childless. I can travel the world, that's all well and fine, but there's really nothing I can do to stop people from clicking their tongues, shaking their heads, looking past all my efforts and saying what they've already been saying for years.

What a shame.

And, so, yes... my life is exciting. I don't deny that. It's full of opportunity and possibilities, I know. And I'm grateful for that, I really and truly am. And it's not that I'm not looking forward to my upcoming trip, because I am. I'm excited to see the sights and meet new people and try new things. But I'm also very much aware of the underlying reasons behind pushing myself forward and trying new things. And as great as it I'm sure it all will be it's just that sometimes traveling halfway around the world sure seems like an awful long way to go... just to end up in the very same spot I had left.

Crazy Cat Lady

2011-03-27T20:32:00.005-06:00

Today is the cat's 13th birthday. She's officially a teenager. And while I generally try not to talk about my feline friend, in an attempt to not appear even more cliché as a singleton than I already do, today is her day so I let her rule the roost. She got cuddles whenever she pleased, which made it annoying as all hell trying to watch tv with her butt in my face, I let her have some outside time, despite the snowfall (because spring is clearly *so* overrated in the prairies) and lots of treats and pets. I even got her a new litter box (granted, that's more of a present for me than her). The only thing I didn't let her do today is bite me, despite her multiple attempts. She might be getting old but she is not getting any calmer. I guess it's true what they say... like pet, like master.

Or perhaps that's the other way around?

Regardless, neither of us are nearly as young as we used to be. She used to fit in the palm of my hand and I used to fit into a size 4 jean. She would let me wrap her in blankets and give her a bath, like a baby, and now I am very aware that she does not, in no way, shape or form, resemble anything even close to baby. And while she doesn't seem to be slowing down I definitely know I have.

Truth be known, I'm not much of a pet person. I'm of the belief that kittens, puppies and babies start out cute because it's the only reason people are convinced to have them. It's all a rouse. And when a coworker told me, all those years ago, that I just *had* to see the cute kitten at the mall I rolled my eyes... but she insisted and I'll be dammed if I didn't come back from my lunch break with a little fuzzball perched on my shoulder, where she stayed not only for the rest of the afternoon (a spot she still enjoys all these years, and pounds, later). She was just too adorable not to bring home. In the law of the jungle I believe that's called survival of the ~~fittest~~ cutest.

We barely made it through those first months, what with her climbing on things (myself included) and attacking me in the middle of the night and all. But made it we did. She moved with me from apartment to house. From one part of the country to halfway across it... and back. And from the home we shared with the man who called her 'Quacky' to a home we now share, just us two. I sometimes wonder if she misses Him or my parents, who always treated her like a furry grandchild, but not once has she made me feel as though she loves me any less for the people she's lost in her life at my hand. She even seems to have forgiven me for the couple of years we had a dog in the house, although I feel bad the dog ate the nose off her 'baby' every time I see it. But she loves him, and me, just the same.

She went missing for a few days a couple of years ago and it was then I realized how much my little furbaby truly means to me and how lonely I'd be without her. Sure, it's a pain to find a cat sitter when I go away (speaking of which, who's wants a cat this September?!?) and I don't clean the litter box or play with her nearly as often as I should (thus proving I would make an *excellent* mother) but it sure is nice to have someone to lay at my feet and guard me at night (mind you, her slamming the doors in the middle of the night is something I, and my nerves, could do without), someone to come home to and someone who rests her head in the crook of my neck and licks my tears when I cry (because, frankly, it would be weird if anyone other than a pet did that).

And so, kitten, happy birthday. You're getting older but I don't like to imagine you as old. I hope you're my munchkin, my sweat pea and my Scully-kins for years to come. And, no, you may not borrow the car.

At least not for 3 more years.

TGI(V)F: Asleep on the Job

2011-03-27T08:20:00.002-06:00

Let's pretend it's still Friday, shall we?

I've never understood people who fall asleep at work, probably because I don't fall asleep easily, but I'm pretty sure there are some jobs where you just shouldn't be caught sleeping on the job. Like air traffic controllers.

Or this guy:

Picture This, round 2

2011-03-21T22:15:00.010-06:00

It's that time again... where I clean up my iPhone photos and marvel at the things I deem photo-worthy.

I bought a knitting magazine not because I'm cool (clearly) but because it had this pattern in it. Because it's cute. And I'm apparently 8 years old:

Speaking of being 8 years old, this is my new lunch box:

Everyone knows I hate spoilers. So this book? Is pretty much awesome. Thanks, Mr. Author, for saving me the trouble of actually having to read:

I like conferences where they give you blank name tags because, really, the options are limitless. This time I went for 'subtle'. I figured I'd tone it down a bit since the last time I filled out a conference form and it asked if I had any designations and I put HRH (Her Royal Highness) they removed it from my registration material. Rude, I say!

I finally found tofu pasta, which I've been trying to find for some of the recipes in my Hungry Girl cookbook. It has 20 calories, no fat and no carbs.. per half a package! And it's actually really good. I mean, it's pasta... you smother it in enough sauce and you can't taste it anyway. Mind you, the instructions threw me off a bit. The suggest rinsing the pasta for the same reason I put on deodorant. What's that smell? Why, it's my 'authentic odor', of course:

I need one of these. Because I am *just* that fast:

I saw this on the sign of a local church, I thought it was clever. Then I saw it on the signs of 2 more churches. I'm no priest but I'm pretty sure plagiarism is a sin. Just saying...

I finally finished and hung up this stained glass piece. The thing about stained glass is there is a fine line between your house being crafty... and tacky. I fear I've crossed that line:

I made this cake for St. Patrick's Day. I like cake.

It should probably be noted (if you couldn't already tell) that I don't actually use my phone for phone calls. My cell phone bill last month had 4 seconds of calling time... and it was me phoning my cell to make sure it still worked. It does.

*sigh*

The Eve of Something Big Old

2011-03-21T20:20:00.004-06:00

I am that age: the one where I have to remind myself of how old I am. Where I can no longer keep track of how many birthdays I've had. I literally couldn't remember if I was 28, turning 29 (humor me, will you?), or 27, turning 29. Is that bad? That feels bad. Not altogether unexpected... but bad. I actually had to do the math. And, even then, I considered verifying it with a calculator.

Normally I would spend today lamenting. On the past year and the 30-something prior to it. Wondering what could have been and what is yet to come. Trying to feel if "this will be *my* year". Pretty much like I did the year before. And the year before that.

But tonight? Not so much. Tonight is anti-climactic, at best. I thought I'd tidy up the house (because, somehow, spring cleaning has made my house more of a disaster, not less) in case any one stopped by. I even contemplated taking the day off, having a 'me' day. But alas, I've done neither. I imagine tomorrow might just be another day. Minus being another year older and all.

However old that may be.

What's a Guy To Do?

2011-03-15T20:21:00.009-06:00

Let's talk about The Bachelor, shall we?

First of all... spoiler alert. If you haven't watched the finale yet, stop reading. And speaking of spoilers... people... don't do it! Seriously. I inadvertantly launched Twitter last night while watching the show and, immediately realizing the error of my ways, closed it as quickly as I could. But it was too late. All it took was one stupid Tweetdeck notification bubble of a single-word tweet that ruined everything by simply stating: "Emily!". I was so mad. I mean, really? Why be a douchebag? Not everyone is in the same timezone as you. And, as I tweeted last night, you can talk about something without ruining the fun for everyone. Case in point? Emily's new hair:

Spoilers are the worse. Like the person who ruined Harry Potter because "everyone's read the books anyway". Um, no... not everyone reads teen fiction, believe it or not. Thanks, though. Or the individuals who feel the need to tell you so-and-so dies at the end and tries to justify it by saying "it's not critical to the plot". Really? Because the last time I checked the main character dying is actually kind of an important element to the story. But what do I know, it's not like I studied English in University and understand the context of such things as plot, foreshadowing or suspense (or lack thereof), but whatever. Although I do only have a minor so I'm not sure how much 'studying' was actually involved.

But I digress... let's talk about Mr. Brad's decision, shall we? Because surely he would not have done the stereotypical male thing by choosing the most obvious person from the get-go, right? Surely not the soft spoken, blond bombshell with the smooth Southern accent would be too cliche, right? Surely he would pick the girl who was fun and down-to-earth with real curves and dark features, right? Because boys love girls who are funny and smart, right?

Wrong!

Boys are dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb! And, yes, I realize I wouldn't be saying that if I was more of an Emily than a Chantal but that's beside the point. Why is it that girls are attracted to funny men who are kind and smart but the reverse is rare? That's just silliness. Silliness, I say!

I actually had a therapist tell me once that I should dumb-down, lie about my profession/education and not talk so much. In fact her exact words were to "pretend to be a flight attendant or secretary". Um, really? And then what... wait a few months and then yell 'surprise' when I reveal my true identity (much like that of a superhero), hoping he loves me enough to accept the 'real' me (much like any movie, typically of the Disney variety, starring Anne Hathaway)? Is that *really* the best advice for a therapist to give... to tell you to try and be someone other than who you are?

Perhaps that's what both Chantal and I should've done: been less of the 'friend' part and more of the 'girl' part of the word girlfriend. Less funny, witty and intelligent and more submissive, soft spoken and subdued. I wonder if that would've made a difference? Or would we have had to loose weight and die our hair too? There's not disputing that Emily's gorgeous... but what are the rest of us less-than-gorgeous girls supposed to do? Wait for the next round of roses? Or our turn on the Bachelor Pad? Should personality not make up the difference? After all, beauty fades but my sense of humor never stops. Even when it probably should.

If I were Chantal I know one thing would be true... I probably wouldn't regret not getting the (apparently-prone-to-fits-of-anger) man but I sure as well would regret not getting that gorgeous $50,000 ring. Hot damn! I'm tempted to buy it for myself. I'm kidding, of course. Not because that would be bad taste... but I don't have that kind of money...

Busy Little Beaver

2011-03-15T18:12:00.007-06:00

I've had a productive week.

I went to stained glass class and made excellent progress on a lamp, I watched the Bachelor (more on that in another post, I'm sure) and the After The Rose show, I did some exercises (by some I mean 'very little', in the form of leg lifts while watching the After the Rose show... while brushing my teeth. Talk about multi-tasking!), I learned some new things at work, I had a laser hair removal consultation (see ya later, arm hair!), finished my book (Only my second of the year, somewhat behind my goal of reading at least a book a month... which I have now changed to '12 books a year', thus giving me the chance to procrastinate until December and spend my entire Christmas break reading children novels at an alarming rate) and... booked a trip to Italy.

I'm not doing a tour of Italy... I'm doing two. One gallivanting around the 'usual' spots- Florence, Venice, Rome, Milan, Capri, Pisa, Verona, Naples- and another of 'just' the Amalfi coast. All in all, I'll be gone for almost all of September. Hooray! Until then I can pass the time by daydreaming of pizza, pasta, gelato and Italian men.

All this... and it's only Tuesday!

The Story

2011-03-10T21:06:00.002-06:00

For whatever reason, I started reading my own blog the other day. From the beginning. I had started writing it years (and years) ago but it's only been a couple since I got up the courage to start posting the entries publicly.

It began as a story. Of how badly I had been hurt. On just how much my heart heart. Of how stupid I had been. And how wrong I was. It was a story I wanted to tell. To get the feelings out. So the thoughts would maybe leave my mind. To give my heart a chance to heal and, more than anything, in hopes of perhaps being understood the things that I couldn't, myself, understand.

So it wouldn't all have been for nothing.

But it was all too depressing, I thought. Who would want to read such a thing? So from time to time I'd toss in another post. More upbeat, more relative to my life in the moment than my life from the past. It all seemed so bipolar, I thought. Who would want to read such a thing? So I tried to find a good balance. More happy posts than sad. More reflective than reminiscent. And then something happened. Perhaps it was the passage of time. Perhaps the heart healed. Or perhaps I forgot what it was I came here to do but the story... it was never fully told.

I don't know why I did it. Tonight I sorted through my music, like I've done many times in the past. I scoured through old mixed cds, determining what was on which, importing into iTunes the songs I wanted to keep, taking stock of which cds I could now toss and which I'd come back to later. And for the first time in years, half a decade in fact, I paused on the cds I had told myself I could no longer listen to. And I put one in.

It's funny how something can strike you in such a way. Like the sound of an opening chord. How you can be taken back to a time and place and remember things you had long repressed. Bitter sweet, perhaps. Self-appointed punishment, more likely. Because of course I didn't stop there. I went through album after album of a particular artist, looking for a particular song. All of them burned cds because I lost them in the 'divorce' having, for whatever reason, had the foresight to copy a couple of them long before they were no longer mine. Ours. Searching online through a discography, sure there had only been the one album. Or two. Surprised to find it was four. Almost the entire span of a singer's career. Could it have possibly been that many years? Had the span of our relationship really gone by so fast, yet lasted so long?

I never did find the song. I listened to every sample I could. But I couldn't find the one I had listened to over and over again. When He told me He was going home and I knew I shouldn't go with Him. I sat on the steps of my school, knowing I should know better. Hoping it wasn't the beginning of the end. Listening to the same song, over and over again, with tears streaming down my face. Waiting, one last time, for Him to pick me up so we could go back to the life we had left behind. Knowing full well we couldn't ever go back. Not to the way it was, at least.

I remember, when I first sat down to tell the story, thinking I'd never forget the song. How could I? I knew it would be there in my memory, ready and waiting, when the time came to write about it. But the time never came. And the song has long been forgotten, I imagine, until I stumble across it again. Either in memory or in the grocery store. Most likely when I least expect it and it takes me aback the most.

The story has changed. I don't know if I would even be able to tell it anymore, the way I had intended to. It's been a long (long!) time since I've cried because of Him.

Tonight it's different. I cry for myself. For the sad little person I was who thought she knew so much and was hit so hard when it was proved otherwise. For all the things I know now that I wish I could have told her when she needed to know them the most. For how different things could have been. Not with Him but for me. For the time I lost in mourning that I'll never get back. The opportunities that could have been, had I been empowered instead of impaired, that are forever gone. I cry for that girl. Who had no idea of what was... and what was to come. So naive. And so incredibly stupid. I cry because of her story.

The one that will probably never be told.

When the Weather is this Cold, it Sucks to Be Under It

2011-03-06T21:16:00.006-06:00

If the question is "is it possible for an individual to go through an entire box of facial tissues in less than a week?" the answer would be "yes". The number of Kleenexes in this photo (gross as it may be) represents how many times I woke up last night to blow my nose (and, most likely, lose parts my brain because, seriously, where can all that come from?!?). So while I may have spent more than half the day (and night) in bed to say I got a good night's sleep is not entirely accurate.

On a side note... I hate having to sleep with my mouth open. In addition to the potential for drooling, morning breath and dry mouth there's something about having my mouth open while I'm in the depths of dreamland that leaves me feeling exposed and vulnderable. I mean, things could meander in there! And waking up to the cat trying to put her paw on my tongue didn't help ease that anxiety in the least, I might add.

I think it goes without saying that it's been a rather long week. Hence my absence... I'm not nearly as witty or inspired when ill (physically or mentally... which might explain a lot of my absences, really). And to top it all off my attempt at dieting was foiled by all the sugar in the copious amounts of cold medicine I've been taking (Damn you, Neocitrin and Cherry flavored Nyquil... Damn You!).

Needless to say... the week's been a write-off. Let's start anew, shall we? And with that I have only one thing left to say... 'see' you tomorrow!

Assuming nothing crawls into my mouth, chocking me while I sleep.

Corners

2011-02-27T15:44:00.003-06:00

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

2011-02-24T23:54:00.003-06:00

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!

2011-02-21T22:12:00.001-06:00

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

2011-02-18T07:35:00.001-06:00

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

2011-02-16T19:34:00.007-06:00

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

2011-02-14T04:10:00.003-06:00

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

2011-02-13T19:34:00.010-06:00

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

2011-02-11T13:01:00.000-06:00

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!

2011-02-09T20:21:00.004-06:00

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$$

2011-02-07T21:17:00.006-06:00

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

2011-02-01T22:47:00.007-06:00

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.

Continued Education

2011-01-30T22:39:00.004-06:00

I learned a new word last week: snart.

Although, really, I knew it all along. Sad, but true.

Just So You Know...

2011-01-29T10:13:00.003-06:00

...I'm very ambitious... from the comfort of my bed. Visions of housework, exercise and craft projects dance through my head. But as soon as my feet hit the floor the thought bubble pops. Which is okay, really, because isn't it the thought that counts?!? Ya... I didn't think so.

Every time I go to start I diet I actually gain more weight because I figure "well, if I'm starting a diet I better eat all my favorite things one last time". Clearly this is a problem.

I covered one of my couches in blankets, sheets and a duvet while I was sick. It was so comfortable that I'd be lying if I said I've put it away. I haven't. But my Christmas tree has been put away... it's the small victories that count.

If you set your pvr for Oprah during the week you will loose approximately 5 hours of your weekend to the queen of daytime. Four if you fast-forward through commercials. Three if you skip all the audience shots. Two if you skip all the a-ha moments or any time O's voice raises above 85 decibels which, personally, is my favorite part and I mimic on a far too regular basis. After all, it's *Oprah Winfrey*. (Imagine that in an Oprah Winfrey voice) I mean, really, you watch this and try not to do it. I dare you:

Fun, isn't it? I'm sure the people around me may not agree.

Now you know.

Clarification

2011-01-28T22:31:00.004-06:00

Ya... we need to talk. Because I think there's been some confusion. Over this post. The post I have posted... and taken down... several times (sorry about your bunged up RSS feed, by the way. My bad), each time thinking "I want to be understood" and then finding the exact opposite has occurred. Finally putting it back up, figuring the damage has been done.

Now it's time for the repairs.

Because the way I wrote that post? Seems to be different than the way everyone is reading it. I never meant to imply that people don't do things for me. That is not what the post is about. At. All. I even wrote how I get "so much in return". From spending holidays with my friends and their families, family suppers, secret Santa presents, rides to appointments and sleepovers after surgery to friends helping me with yard work, painting and moving furniture, pianos and lovely yellow cabinets, I am in awe at all that I receive in life. And I am truly grateful.

The point of my misunderstood post was that I try to be just as nice to everyone as they are to me. To give as I receive. I try to be a good person. Granted, I may, from time to time, poke fun at other peoples expense and perhaps make light of situations at inopportune times but that's more likely due to my poor self-esteem and general awkwardness than being a bitch. I even try to put some (albeit, at times, minimal) effort into my appearance and I like to think I have a generally good sense of humor and a level head on my shoulders. I'm fun, responsible and would make a seemingly good catch.

So why haven't I been caught?

When I say I'm conflicted it's because I just don't understand. I try to give what I get. I don't consider myself any less or more wonderful than the friends I love so dearly. So why, then, are our lives so very (very!) different?

And it is that question I was trying to get across, without having to out-right ask it. I hope I wasn't too horribly misunderstood and my post didn't come off as ungrateful, mad or hurtful as that wasn't my intent. The post was not me saying that I give more than I receive. It was that what I receive in return is less than what others do. I'm not talking about presents or love, help or assistance. I get all that, ten fold. I'm talking about all the other stuff. From dates to proposals, weddings to children. I just don't understand what it is I'm doing wrong.

Besides writing misleading blog posts, of course.

And, so, I hope I haven't offended. Feedback has reminded me of how much I do have... and how truly devastated I would be if I lost any of that. And, so, my misunderstood post was actually quite enlightening, as it opened my eyes not to all that I thought I was missing but to all that I'm thankful for having.

Like all of you.

And you.

And especially you.

Don't ever think I don't appreciate all the things you do for me.

Kapish?

Well alright then. Shall we move on?

Let's!

On that note I feel I should tell you that I almost brushed my teeth with acne cream tonight. Given the fact my toothpaste is in a similar container and in the same drawer I should probably move the cream. But life is more exciting this way. Maybe that's why my teeth are so white and pimple-free?!?

It's Not Just The Limes That Got Squeezed

2011-01-26T22:36:00.004-06:00

Tonight I made salsa for the third time in as many weeks. And while this may seem excessive the real point of this story is.... limes are $0.79 each. That's right. Seventy-nine cents. And while I'm more than willing to spend 80 cents (that's right, I rounded up... it makes the math easier) for limey goodness the point of my story is that when I made the first of my many recent salsa batches limes were only $0.50 each. And while it may only be a measly couple of times the fact of the matter remains... that is a SIXTY PERCENT increase!!!! Sure, it may not seem like much when it comes to limes and I bought my damn limes anyway but why is it that such a drastic change in price on little things is acceptable? I wouldn't pay 60% more for a car, house or small child over the course of 3 weeks so why is it okay for produce? And, ya, I get the whole yadda-yadda-hurricanes/frost/locusts excuses but I just thought it seemed a tad much.

Sixty percent much, in fact.

Conflicted

2011-01-24T23:03:00.003-06:00

Some days (okay, a lot of days) I am horribly bitter. Jealous. Sad. Heartbroken. And confused. I ask myself, over and over again, how this happened. How is it that I am The Last Girl Standing? How am I the only one, of all my friends, that is alone? Unloved? How did I get to this spot? Past the point of being able to raise children alongside my friends. Sharing stories. Advice. Play dates. How did I get left behind. Why?

It makes me mad. At the world. At a God I gave up on long ago. And even, sometimes, at my friends. It seems unfair. What did I do wrong? Why don't I deserve what they have? Am I truly that horrible? Unlovable?

I take wedding photos, host baby showers. Bake birthday cakes, build change tables. I spend hours thoughtfully selecting the perfect gift for bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and birthdays. I do all this knowing I will not have the favors returned. And I try to be okay with that. I play with little ones and feel honored to have a special place in their lives as their 'Aunt', knowing that nobody else gets to cuddle and watch them like I do because they all have their own kids to tend to. I know that it is a truly special thing that instead of having only a couple of kids I get to have many. To love. To watch grow.

I know I have so much. So much to give. So much in return. But sometimes? It still seems unfair that at the end of the day, after doing so much for so many, that it is they that reap the rewards and it is I that still comes home to an empty house. And that life moves forward for everyone but me.

And these feelings. Of jealousy. Of thinking it's not fair. They make me feel even worse. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Like even more horrible a human being than I had originally thought I was.

How can I love people so much for being so wonderful... and yet hate them for it?

note: clarification of this post can be found here

How to Be a Winner

2011-01-13T17:28:00.006-06:00

I don't get pinatas.

I mean, I understand the allure of anything full of candy. Really, I do. But if I were a kid (and I think we might all agree I am) I don't think I'd want to be the one to break open the pinata. Because, hello, by the time you realize what's going on, take off your blindfold and orient yourself in relation to said candy all the other kids have already grabbed most of the candy. How is that fair?!? Seems, to me, like the goal would be to NOT break the pinata. I mean look at this kid... she's not even trying to get the candy!?!?

Sometimes the best way to win is to not win at all.

I made that up myself.

I'm like Mia D'Angelo... except different.

Lying Down on the Job

2011-01-12T22:41:00.003-06:00

Today I am proof that a person can actually accomplish quite a lot while lying down (insert inappropriate, yet witty, joke here).

Today is the first day that hasn't consisted of constant napping, waking every couple of hours only to have something to drink and go back to sleep (I'm kind of like a baby in this way). So today I feel like I accomplished a lot. Granted, all I did was sign up for curbside recycling and send a couple of emails I've been meaning to send for a while but, still, I consider that progress.

I've always felt guilty staying home from work when I`m sick but this whole recovery thing is a whole different ball of wax. I rarely take 2 weeks of holidays so I`m finding it pretty tough to be off work for an extended period of time for the sake of recuperating. Who knew having an organ removed would be *such* an ordeal?!? Who knew being able to sit up for more than 30 consecutive minutes would be such a milestone? And who would've thought getting my staples out would be the highlight of my week? But, indeed, it's glorious to give my belly a good scratch (I'm kind of like a puppy in this way).

I don't know what I was thinking but I thought this time 'off' would be great. That I'd get caught up on my tv shows, get lots of writing done and catch up with friends I haven't had the time to connect with lately, due to my work schedule. Sadly, I've done none of that. It's a sad state of affairs when you feel bad for not being at work... and bad for not working at home. Perhaps it's time I learn how to relax? Which is, apparently, much different from being lazy. Lazy I can do but relax?

Well that's a bit more difficult.

What's for Dinner... Lunch.. and In Bewteen?

2011-01-11T17:06:00.002-06:00

Not being able to eat for so many days in a row made me realize that I tend to eat not because I'm hungry but, rather, because I have nothing better to do. Several times in the past few days I found myself walking to the kitchen to get something to eat only to realize that not only was I not hungry in the least but I couldn't eat even if I wanted to (believe you, me, that doesn't mean I didn't try). It's a horrible (horrible!) habit and I really (really!) want to stop. Even today, when I started to feel better, I ate far beyond my means. Why? Because of an insatiable appetite? A craving that can't be met? Or, perhaps, for lack of some other outlet to fill my time? Regardless of the reason, it's pretty bad when you eat yourself sick.

I'm sure this is only a middle of the night rant. That the laziness which prevents me from getting out of my nice warm bed to clean out my cupboards and throw out my junk food is really my subconscious preventing me from doing what I know I should. I can only hope this time is different because my body has clearly had enough. And that while I may not be motivated to get out of bed right at this moment doesn't mean I won't make changes.

The hard part is what's easy to imagine in the dark of night is often hard to do by the light of day.