Time out

I've been waffling around this decision for a few months now, which is probably pretty telling.

I think it is time to take a bit of a break.

Too many things are making writing feel unfamiliar right now. It feels like my fingers and thoughts are slower, my words emptier, my mind more blank. I feel disconnected, less confident about my words. I have little time to write, which makes what used to be a joy feel like a burden. I feel like I'm only participating in the blogging community half-heartedly due to my overflowing schedule.

It just doesn't fit right now.

It's hard to post this, though. It feels a little like giving up. Still, I hope by giving myself the needed space away, things will start flowing again. If they don't, well, I'll deal with that when the time comes.

I'm still around, though. You can always reach me by email, and I'm hoping to keep on posting on my weekly spot at Umm... Now What. However, I am looking for a few (or more) good guest posters for that site as well, so please be in touch if you are interested!

See you around :)

Quote of the day

"Let me define klutz for you. Klutz = Princess + anything with the potential to stain + an important meeting in the next three hours."

-The Duke

Confidentiality

There are many oddities associated with being an (almost) psychologist.

The responsibilities are tremendous. Not only are you expected to have an eye on the people you treat and their lives outside your one hour a week, but you also have an assumed responsibility to the people around them. There is an assumed almost psychical power to what we do, as though we are to be able to predict with utter certainty what our clients might do. The consequences for mistakes in either way, overestimation or underestimation of risk, are devastating.

Your job title also carries a lot of weight in your every day interactions. People look for the signs that you are secretly reading them. They ask you for advice, be it at a dinner party or in a bar, leaving you wondering if plumbers are approached by their drunk friends with frantic requests for advice on a rusty drain. 

You are also expected by some to have a certain infallibility to you. It is assumed that in order to be a psychologist, your personal life must be thoroughly in order. (I have many times beat myself up by believing that ridiculous stereotype.) You worry about being seen by your clients in a non-professional environments, and the effect that might have on their image of you. I once found out I was at a beer gardens, in a tank top and shorts, at the very same Canada Day celebrations as a client. I was extremely thankful for the lack of paths crossing that day.

One of the most underestimated responsibilities, though, is that of confidentiality.

I take confidentiality very seriously. I view it as fundamental to what I do, and as something I cannot compromise. Sadly, there are a few of my peers who are a little more lax in their interpretation of the term.

It is an odd quirk of the job to have to hold a lot of charged information in your own head. My own capacities in being able to handle this weight have increased a lot since I've begun training, to the point where I am reasonable proficient at being able to leave it behind when I walk in the front door of my apartment.

Still, I do work in a forensic setting, which often makes for a lot of heavy information being thrown my way, from trauma to violence to insane tragedy. In all honesty, I never believed I'd have the capacity to do this kind of work, and I sometimes sit back and reflect on the fact that I am much stronger than I gave myself credit for. 

I've worked in this particular job for over a year and a half now, and still some friends don't know about it, because I choose not to speak about it very much. People are a little greedy for details, and I don't blame them, because it is fascinating stuff, especially in this era of criminal fascination, of multiple CSIs and talk of criminal profiling. I can't give them these details, though, just a generic job description and vague generalities, no matter how many good party stories I may have floating around in my head. It's just something I have to be black and white about.

Still, some days, it is a lot to take in. Some days, the details of it all just dawn on me. And in those times, I just have to do a lot of thinking. Because (although I can always talk to others at my workplace) keeping quiet is just a part of the package deal I signed up for when I decided to take this path.

Fermented grapes and associated debauchery

This weekend, myself and 12 other lovely ladies gathered to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of one of our besties in the only way we apparently know how: with copious penis paraphernalia and mucho wine.  

Yes, a bachelorette party-- this one involving renting a villa in a lakeside city a few hours away from us, and pretending to be cultured on a winery tour.

Highlights and lessons of the weekend?

Lesson #1- If one is going to have a quickie before meeting up for a 4 hour long drive with 5 perceptive friends, it is best to remember to put your shirt back on inside-in, rather than inside-out.

Highlight #1- After much harassment, one of my more reserved female friends had been talked into flashing our other carload of friends when they pass us on the highway. Just as she was preparing to get her, um, guns out, we noticed that the black sedan beside us is, in fact, not our friends, but rather a couple in a very similar car. A close call indeed.

Lesson #2- Leaving goat cheese in your purse overnight makes your wallet smell like rancid feet.

Highlight #2- Inflatable sex doll with the groom-to-be's face taped on. Enough said.

Highlight #3- Secretly flying in the maid-of-honour, who initially couldn't make it due to financial constraints, on a Saturday morning to surprise the bride-to-be by crawling into bed with her.

Frightening moment #1- Winning this contraption in a game. Would you let this thing anywhere near your genitals?

Lesson #3- Any attempt to look cultured at a wine tasting will be quashed if someone is wearing a veil with penis confetti glued on.

Highlight #4- Having a woman come up to said veil, and then exclaim "Oh! Those aren't arrows!"

Highlight #5- When in a supposedly positive-energy imbued wine pyramid, we are told by our tour guide that we are supposed to sing a song before we leave. We then bust into a rousing chorus of "Baby got Back"

Highlight #6- When playing sexual position charades, making up terms like the backwards playtypus and the merry-go-round for other teams to act out.

Lesson #4- At midnight, everyone will be making epic plans to go skinny dipping in the lake. If you tell them you just need to have another drink or two to be into that, by the time you have those two drinks, you will be the only one shouting "Woo! Let's go skinny dipping!" while everyone else is passing out.

Lesson #5- Men and women do bachelor/ette parties very differently. While we were spoiling the bride-to-be, the groom-to-be was told he couldn't get up from the couch until he had finished a cooler full of beer. While we were up at 9am to clean up the villa, go to brunch and drive home, the men were still residually drunk at noon, with the Duke just getting into the shower when I arrived home at 5pm.

Lesson #6- Despite your best efforts, the mass media really does have an effect on you. 

Case in point- When a car follows your van full of girls for a two hour period, switching lanes whenever you do, matching your speed exactly, and passing other cars just to get behind your van again, you will start remembering "Death Proof" and start planning how the six of you can retaliate *just in case* before pulling over at a rest stop.

And you will feel ridiculous when the car instead just drives by when you finally do stop for a pee break.

Highlight #7- While stuck in traffic on our way back into the city, with our windows rolled down, Bohemian Rhapsody came on, and we gave the fellows in Wayne's World a run for their money.

(Side note- For the more perceptive of you, yes, that is a Wayne's World reference two posts in a row. Dana Carvey would be proud.)

Windy days and tea shops

I think the tea shop worker has a bit of a crush on me.

It is not just that he complemented my t-shirt when I walked past the counter. It is more than he gives me a big nervous smile when he comes by to refill my water, stammering out questions about whether the fan was interfering with my reading, and I accidentally catch his eye as I glance around the room on more than one occasion.

To be truthful, I find the whole thing a little endearing, and a little reassuring. He thinks I'm cute enough to be nervous about in the same outfit I was wearing when, earlier, happy to be freed of another day wearing my professional pants, I declared "Being a slob is highly underrated!" Even better, he thinks I'm cute enough to be awkwardly nervous about, rather than to cockily and drunkenly stammer towards-- which, no matter how much time elapses between bar trips, seemingly remains the predominant mating dance of the 20-something.

(Although, to be fair, someone did recently shout "Babe-raham Lincoln" at me whilst pedaling by on their bike, sans helmet I wasn't sure whether to be flattered, offended, or just shamelessly impressed by his Wayne's World quoting ability.)

As I was getting a little stir crazy from my first whole work-from-home-day in months, the Duke essentially commanded me to leave the house that evening, and finally enter the 200+ varieties of tea shop a ten minute walk away from us.

He is a smart boy sometimes (see: picking me). Pina colada tea (note: best idea ever) and an honest-to-God-fiction-book-that-is-in-no-way-related-to-my-dissertation make for a great way to clear one's head. What this mini-excursion really reminded me of, though, is how much I miss walking.

In my old neighbourhood, I took to wandering as a simple way to clear my head. Sometimes I took my camera, sometimes my iPod, and sometimes it was just me and my feet. My new neighbourhood, on the surface, appears too functional for such endeavours I walk to the overpriced grocery store, the coffee shop, the bus stop, my friend's apartment. I never just walk.

As I stroll down the street home, I think about all the silly details I miss by only walking to reach a destination, by keeping my sunglasses and headphone on at all times to shelter me from the world. Like how invigorating it feels to have the wind blow your hair perfectly away from your face. Or the parked bus emblazoned with the name Buttercup. Or the piles of cherry blossoms. Or the man singing to himself.

It's good to get out of your apartment and out of your head sometimes.

Shark jumping

I'm starting to wonder if Hijinks has officially jumped the shark.

Over the past couple months, comments have plummeted. I know, as someone with some semblance of a writer, I shouldn't get all in a tizzy about comments. But, still, outside of the immediate sting of a diminished number, I am wondering if I should be viewing it as a clue of some sort. For instance, if, as a singer, one of your albums sold a bundle, and the next was a relative flop in terms of numbers, wouldn't you wonder if your music had stopped speaking to people?

I have tried running reasons through my mind for this drop. It could be that my relatively busy schedule has led to less consistent commenting, and thus less reciprocal comments in turn-- which is way too systematic for the whole spirit of writing, in my books. It could be that all the cool kids are Twittering now, and I haven't the time to even think about consistent witty updates on my life. But I keep coming back to the same thing... maybe it is my writing that has taken the tumble in quality. Maybe I'm just not inspiring anyone to actually have anything to say.

I do wish this didn't matter to me. This little blog is an important part of my life, and I like having a place to leave my thoughts. At the same time, though, I don't want to be that singer who should have retired long ago, who should realize it is time to move on. And then I flip back again- who cares if I have a horrible voice, cliched lyrics, and sell no albums, if I have a passion for music?

I just don't know anymore. I'm wondering if I should take some time to figure out what exactly I want from blogging, to figure out if I need a change, if I can get some perspective, if there is something missing. 

(PS. And, please, don't take this as a plea for reassurance!)

Unwitnessed sunshine

It seems like the world has been conspiring to make me think about about Sarah lately.

It could have been that, in the midst of a seemingly unrelated conversation regarding bereavement, my case supervisor said to me "You spend your whole life holding on to the remainder of that grief. And sometimes it will only take the smallest of reminders to feel it wash all over you again." Suddenly, I remembered how, my fingers flying through a rack of used CDs a few days ago, they paused upon a collection by one of her favourites.

Then, as I blinked from the gleaming sunlight, leaving that meeting and squinting upon my phone, I noticed I had a new email. From C, one of the five of us who used to participate in our group emails, whose contacts tapered off, like the rest of ours, in the aftermath of her passing. His email was genuine, spirited, and he stated near the end that "Living is about loving". I couldn't help but think about how ferociously she loved.

The biggest reminder, of course, were the signs declaring "Welcome to Portland". Suddenly, it occurred to me that my first trip to Oregon was never intended to be for a conference. It was supposed to be to visit her.

Despite having never witnessed her interactions with this city, I could see so much of her in it. The greenery, the laid back attitude, the river. She really lived here.

I sometimes think about life expectancy statistics as almost a guarantee of sorts, as though it is somehow our fundamental right to live to that standard age. I do the math, subtracting her age from that ubiquitous number. Each time, that number seems huge, unfairly monstrous. And I wonder why she didn't deserve a much, much smaller number. How someone who loved life so much deserved so much less of it. How they never knew how cruelly short the reality of their vows of "til death do us part" would be. 

And, even more than two years later, I stare out the window at the sun, and think of how fucking unfair it is that I'm witnessing it and she's not.