tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72468389974911072942024-03-12T21:46:00.153-07:00...and hijinks ensued.Random babblings from my world.Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.comBlogger508125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-76896011848445865002012-03-19T20:04:00.003-07:002012-03-19T20:09:05.270-07:00The Ballad of the Long Distance Lover<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>328</o:Words> <o:characters>1870</o:Characters> <o:company>Simon Fraser University</o:Company> <o:lines>15</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2296</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1539</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">You would think I would be good at this by now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And in some ways, I am good at this. I know the secret corners to plug in my laptop. I know where to get Chinese food at O’Hare when I’m craving even the most greasy of vegetables and how long of a stopover I need to be able to walk there. I know which airports have the kinder customs officials, the ones who don’t balk or excessively when I explain that my fiancé does live in another country and, yes, I am still returning to Canada in two days time. I know which airports have free wireless and which travel websites have the best deals. And I’ve stopped caring who notices me crying as my rolling suitcase echoes behind me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So after seven times, you’d think I’d have figured out how to say goodbye.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I always tell myself I’m going to be more graceful, more contained. I’ll maybe let a well-intentioned tear or two trickle out, but I will not let out body shaking sobs and have mascara collecting in all the creases in my face. I will be able to walk through the revolving doors, only looking over my shoulder to wave, rather than always needing to turn around, dash back, and bury my face in his neck one more time. I will not loathe the couples sitting near me, contently holding each other’s hands, who don’t understand how effortless their relationship seems to me. I won’t always wake up the morning before he or I leave feeling as though I have been kicked in the stomach. I won’t keep on doing mental arithmetic, counting how many hours, minutes we have left until another goodbye. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I always do.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think the mind can’t handle this level of aching every day, this dullness behind the eyes. It covers it up quickly in details like what time to set the alarm, what to make for dinner, what shoes are best for the weather outside, when this report is due. The details, though tedious, are soothing, in that they take you away from the rawness of your own mind. It is as though the only way you can handle being away from the person you love is for you to forget how hard it is when they aren’t there. It is only when you see them again that you realize how barren these days full of details actually are. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's the night you can roll over and touch him that you realize how empty your bed has been.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-39432125596079483212011-12-04T21:31:00.000-08:002011-12-04T22:02:32.172-08:0014 days until 30I hate how histrionic I'm getting about turning 30. <div><br /></div><div>It's like I've turned into a parody of myself somehow. I want to just let it slide on by, just another number, but instead any time that number even nudges itself into my peripheral vision, I grab onto it. I make bad jokes about all the things I'm no longer allowed to do as of two weeks from now and about turning 20. I declare "We don't speak of the 30!" to my younger friends. I'm sure I must seem insufferable to my older friends, like those university students on the bus who bemoan their upcoming 20th birthday.</div><div><br /></div><div>For an (almost) psychologist, I have some mighty pitiful defence mechanisms.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think it is really the forced reflection that I'm reacting to more than anything. It's like whenever we ring in another decade, there are countless fluff pieces and televised countdowns about the true theme of the 90s was or what the 2000s mean to you. I feel as though this strange symbolism of 3650 days (give or take for leap years, I suppose) is trying to peg me into summing up my 20s somehow. Turning 20, though still surreal, was easier, because so much happens those ten years before, you can't help but feel kind of accomplished. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I look back to my 20s, my first flash is "Holy Christ, I spent all of my 20s in school." This is, truthfully, an amazingly one-dimensional way of looking at the past ten years. True, I did spend almost all of my 20s in school, except for that 12 month break between 21 and 22 where I worked two jobs and focused all my attention on getting back into school. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, lest I get into one of those "let me list everything that was awesome about the past ten years" kind of posts, there genuinely has been loads of other stuff going on behind the research papers, unpaid practica and numerous moves. Even just a few days ago, on an incredibly mundane Wednesday evening with the cold seeping into the crack between my sleeve and mittens, as station wagons drove by, I had one of those surreal moments of gratitude for my life, as cyclonic as it may feel lately. I'm loved and I do what I love, after all.</div><div><br /></div><div>So why the hell am I letting two little digits even try to shake me?</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-79138305252655769992010-11-09T18:15:00.000-08:002010-11-09T18:59:56.473-08:00I know the statistics<div>It takes women, on average, six to eight times to leave an abusive relationship.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's no comfort in that. Sure, it normalizes the situation a little. But normalizing doesn't get her the hell out of there.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose it's easy for me to attribute the sense of helplessness crouching at the bottom of my stomach to the more than 3000 kilometres distance. Truthfully, though, I don't know how much more in control I'd feel even if I lived next door.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm just so fucking angry. Enraged. I don't know if I can ever manage to take a single breath in his presence again. </div><div><br /></div><div>The funny thing is, I've worked with criminals before, and was often surprised by the ambiguity of the situations, the profound regret.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet I don't know if I ever can bring myself to see the shades of grey in a man who would touch her like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was weird when I thought he was just awkward, insensitive and maybe a little old fashioned in his ideas about gender.</div><div>It was awkward when they would argue in my presence.</div><div>It was difficult when I began to realize how much of his seeming nuances were actually indirect ways of having control over her.</div><div>It was worse when I caught wind of the misogynistic things he would say when the door was closed, his rants about what a good wife should be, and what she was not.</div><div>It was frightening when she called me in tears because he was senseless in his anger, and she was scared he would lose control.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before I left, she told me of how he would tower over her, inches from her face, screaming at her. Then she told me how he'd grabbed her. And shook her. We spoke about her leaving. How she could tell him, how she would manage in practical terms. She confronted him. He agreed things were bad. They negotiated the notion of a trial separation, discussing how they needed to do things differently in their relationship. Then his family came to visit, and they fell back into the husband and wife pretence.</div><div><br /></div><div>We spoke yesterday. And things went bad. Really really really bad. </div><div><br /></div><div>She left. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then she came back. </div><div><br /></div><div>It almost scares me how textbook the whole thing is. He says it was a wake-up call for him, that things will change. But two days later, he's already telling her to shut up again. I can tell by his tone of the voice in the background that nothing has changed. I'm so scared about what's going to happen next time. And I hate the fact that I'm so convinced there's going to be a next time.</div><div><br /></div><div>If there's one spark of a blessing, it is the people that are there. They got her out this weekend, and I know they'll do it again, as does she. I'm talking to them, we're trying to figure out what we can do to keep her safe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even worse, though, is that one of her friends actually told her to stay. This woman, you see, used to be physically abused by her boyfriend, but in her eyes, they worked through it. So now she's put that impetus upon my friend to "work through it". And my friend has somehow used this one woman's self-centered advice to frame it as though there is debate amongst her friends about whether she should leave. If there's any leftover capacity for anger that isn't directed at him, it is clearly directed at this woman.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I'm 3000 km away. My rage can't do a lot from here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm trying to figure out what exactly I can do from here.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-84180426393252624292010-09-26T20:08:00.001-07:002010-09-26T20:46:37.378-07:00The one where I pretend I really want to bake muffinsLiving in a new city is always a bit of a humbling experience.<div><br /></div><div>You never think of it that way, of course, when you are leaving. That is the time where every spare moment is crammed full of the people you are expecting to miss. When you're leaving, it suddenly seems rational to invite people to assist in wrapping plates in newspaper while you are wearing sweatpants, when in any other month, the same request would be a little tactless. And people, because they expect to miss you, volunteer for such ridiculous tasks as fishing cardboard boxes out of the recycling bins behind a Pottery Barn. They pepper you with hugs and goodbye gifts. You leave the city with your head foggy from a dizzying mixture of gratitude, excitement and wistfulness. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first few days in your new home are dizzying yet again, but this time from the sheer number of baking dishes and pyjamas you own, and how boxes seem to be exponentially multiplying every time you turn around. Finally, you pause.</div><div><br /></div><div>And realize how you know absolutely no one.*</div><div><br /></div><div>When you were leaving, you knew this fact. But you tell yourself things like "Yeah, it'll be kind of weird, but I'm independent, so I'll manage."</div><div><br /></div><div>And you do manage. </div><div>And you go to parties and say hi to your neighbours.</div><div>But you still have those humbling nights, the ones where you convinced yourself that you <i>really</i> did want a Friday night alone because when was the last time you baked muffins.</div><div>And you aren't sure who to call when things feel a just little empty.</div><div><br /></div><div>You also wonder when making friends got so systematic. In high school, you just somehow had friends. Suddenly, you're questioning yourself. </div><div>"Is it too soon for me to call them? Should I add them on Facebook? What does 'we should hang out sometime' mean?"**</div><div><br /></div><div>But you expected this, in a way. What you didn't expect is how lonely you are by virtue of lack of contact from home. When you were leaving, everyone was waxing on about keeping in touch. </div><div><br /></div><div>But for them, you are just one person, while for you, they are everyone. So it's easy for them to not respond to emails right away. Yet its easy for you to count the people who haven't responded to your emails, and feel that number weighing on you. As though you expected your absence would change everything for them, when really, it's only changing everything for you.***</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><i>*Okay, that line was a little over dramatic. To be fair, I do casually know a couple people here- oh, and that handsome dude I moved here with.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>** I actually discussed this experience with a handful of people who were also new in town. We all laughed about being 'friend desperate'.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>*** I feel as though this is all coming off a little more pessimistic than is genuine. This city has actually been remarkably friendly, and relationships are developing at about the speed one could really expect. However, I think what really stands out is the act of 'getting to know' a lot of people, but not really knowing anyone just yet, if that makes sense.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-38810602575194779872010-09-08T11:16:00.000-07:002010-09-08T23:18:58.400-07:00Copy catI've been wondering about how to introduce my new identity as a Wisconsinite to the internets at large. It feels as though moving to this random midwestern state is reason enough to start writing again.<div><br /></div><div>After all, who doesn't want to hear about the escapades of two Canadians in imperial measurement land!</div><div><br /></div><div>Like me trying to order turkey in grams with the deli counter worker looking quizzically at me when I declare "Two hundred, please." </div><div>Or the Duke ordering a half-gallon of beer to go from a pub not realizing how much a half-gallon really was, and thus getting wasted out of a sense of obligation to his already purchased jug of beer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, apparently Americans don't know what a garburator is. And laugh at Canadians who say it.</div><div><br /></div><div>(BTW, it's a garbage disposal.)</div><div><br /></div><div>But, amidst my contemplation about how exactly to jump back into the land of anonymous self-disclosure... someone pulled me back in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently someone still likes me enough to read me... and to plagiarize me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not even a real post, mind you. Just my "About Me" section. You know that little thing in the left hand corner babbling about neologisms and staring in people's windows? Yeah, that one.</div><div><br /></div><div>NOT this one:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/TIh51zAMSsI/AAAAAAAABJY/yty2iZceSN8/s1600/Screen+shot+2010-09-09+at+1.08.01+AM.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/TIh51zAMSsI/AAAAAAAABJY/yty2iZceSN8/s400/Screen+shot+2010-09-09+at+1.08.01+AM.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514791708846213826" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you, anonymous commenter, for pointing this one out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways, it turns out that our friend Katie (she of the surely soon to be defunct<a href="http://mommyoutnumbered.blogspot.com/"> Mommy Outnumbered</a>) is quite heavy handed at the copy and pasting. My random googling turned up at least 10+ people she'd ripped off (including the freaking <a href="http://thebloggess.com/">Bloggess</a>- come on, how's that going to go unnoticed?). By the angry comments on her website, it looks like there's a ton more.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember these mini-scandals back when I was a little more entrenched in the blogging scene. People were rightfully pretty incensed about others stealing their words, especially in blatant disregard of copyright statements. This woman took it even a step further-- she copied someone's post mourning her dead mother, and another about a woman's child who had recently passed away. You've got to wonder about the motivation to try to almost usurp someone's identity like that. That's no longer about just getting lots of complimentary emails swooning about how witty you are. That's trying to gain unwarranted sympathy from someone else's pain.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, hey, we apparently both like dogs with cones on our heads. So there's that! </div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-91743330494990948162010-05-10T19:40:00.000-07:002010-05-10T21:06:52.146-07:00A big ol' glass of HateradeThat's right, I be hatin'.<div><br /></div><div>On what, you ask?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Nachos with not enough cheese.</b> No one pays $12 for a $3 bag of tostitos with a side of never-enough sour cream. Cooks, you need to learn to layer that shit-- a handful of chips, a pile of shredded cheese, repeat, repeat, repeat.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>People in McDonald's at 1am. </b>This Saturday night, post friend's birthday party, the Duke and I hit up McD's. (Don't judge. I decided that 6 years was long enough to go without Chicken McNuggets. And it most definitely was.) And, of course, the place was full of drunk d-bags ordering cheeseburgers in a 6-pack, trying to pick up a table full of girls, and verbally abusing the staff. The best part is that they thought they were so goddamn hilarious that the kept on looking over their shoulder expectantly at us, looking confused as to why we were not laughing. Sorry, I don't find screaming "Fries fries fries!" at a 16 year old kid hysterical. I guess my sense of humour is a little more nuanced.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a side note, where is it that people got the notion that alcohol comes along with a free asshole pass? Sure, alcohol does give a free pass to several things, such as teaching your co-workers how to rap, reminding the entire dance floor why the running man should have never gone out of style, eating your weekly caloric intake in poutine, or hugging the new BFF you met in the bathroom because her shoes were too damn awesome. But, frankly, alcohol has never made me want to unleash a tirade on a random stranger or humiliate a late night cashier. So, while the "I was drunk" excuse might work to how you woke up with a half-eaten bowl of ramen noodles snuggled up in bed beside you or why you are above the age of 18 with a hickey, it ain't gonna fly to explain sheer douchebaggery. That's not because you were drunk. It is because you were-- and are-- an asshole.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>People who don't lock the restaurant bathroom door. </b>And then you look like an inconsiderate jerk and have to apologize profusely when you walk in on them mid-pee.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Putting my duvet back in its cover.</b> I'm more likely to end up tangled in there than my blanket is.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Girls who pretend to like hockey. </b>So it's playoff season, and the city is all a-twitter with hockey excitement. Just the perfect time for the pseudo-hockey fans to come out of the woodwork. They are easy to spot at the bar, in their just-purchased team t-shirt, often that awful pink girlie one, to remind you "I like hockey. But I'm still a girl. Tee-hee." They chat throughout the whole game, looking uninterested, until a goal is scored- then they cheer like their lives depended on it, and try to catch the eyes of the guys around them. I have friends like this-- a game is on during the week, and they are clueless. They call me in the middle of overtime to chat. They don't know who won what game, or who scored a hat trick the night before. Yet, on Friday night, they are insistent on finding the best spot in town to watch the game, and they are talking to guys about how much they loooooove our team, spitting out facts that I told them earlier that night. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know that the playoffs are good in getting new fans into the game, and that people are often eager to learn more about a popular sport-- and that's fine. But I just resent the pseudo-cache that people throw around, as though they are the "original" fans. There's nothing wrong with being a bandwagoner... just don't pretend to be otherwise.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>People who don't understanding that working from home means that I'm working. </b>I have one friend in particular who can't seem to understand how much self-directed work doing a PhD entails. She is constantly asking me what I'm doing now that I'm finished all my classes, as though I have nothing better to do than catch up on Seinfeld episodes. How ever many times I tell her seeing several clients, writing manuscripts, running participants, completing data analyses, having several meetings a week, non-class lectures, writing a massive dissertation, on top of my job, all she seems to take from this list that I have plenty of spare time since I do this from home a couple of days a week. So, whenever she wants to do something, she calls me at 3pm, when she gets off work. And no matter how many times I tell her that, even on the days I work from home, I am in front of the computer until *at least* 5pm, she gets annoyed that I won't meet up with her on her schedule. I've taken to lying and telling her that I'm in a meeting or a lecture until the evening, just so she takes my work seriously, because even telling her "major deadlines" doesn't seem to stop her from getting snappy when she thinks that I'm just sitting around at home when she is waiting around for me to finish working.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wow, I'm a little bitter, aren't I? Is it any wonder rants is my #1 tag? Just to be fair, I also love the new Josh Ritter album, all you can eat sushi, cheesy nachos, freshly washed sheets, sunny days, boston terriers, key lime pie, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and spending time with my friends after a hard day's work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and an update- I also hate whoever the spilt an entire box of bran flakes in my apartment building stairway without cleaning it up.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-63808183594104198962010-05-04T14:31:00.000-07:002010-05-04T14:33:51.010-07:00How tenure can help your sex blogging careerI've <a href="http://hijinksgalore.blogspot.com/2008/12/when-bloggers-attack-or-you-know-write.html">written before</a> about the hazards of blogging. It never is quite as simple as proclaiming freedom of speech. People judge and people have stake in your public persona. I'm becoming more and more aware of this as I scour the internet in advance of my exit from grad school and my entrance into the real working world-- detagging myself from unflattering photos, increasing my Facebook privacy settings, regularly Googling myself just to ensure there is not a webpage dedicated to antics from my 19th birthday party.<br /><br />Still, there's nothing like a few high profile cases-- both to remind us that anonymity can be fleeting, as well as the awesome hypocrisy involved.<br /><br />Case #1- Anonymous sex blogger, who writes about her sex life and reviews pornography, through a Twitter/Google malfunction, <a href="http://jezebel.com/5530644/anonymous-sex-blogger-fired-from-her-day-job">accidentally links her real name</a> to her blog, which is promptly found by her boss.<br /><br />Case #2- California State University professor's <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/04/22/kenneth-ng-cal-state-prof_n_547516.html">non-anonymous website</a>, in which he focuses extensively on the how-tos of being a sex tourist in Thailand (including how to pick up grieving women at a temple and getting lap dances from teenagers), also gets discovered by his superiors.<br /><br />Guess who gets fired?<br /><br />The moral of this story? Be careful what you put online. Or just try really hard to get tenure.Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-28401738176340125922010-04-29T16:24:00.000-07:002010-04-29T16:25:45.806-07:00In which Facebook ruins my teenage crushesI realized the other day that I know the current whereabouts of the majority of the guys I've ever dated or had a serious crush on. <div><br /></div><div>There's something a little underwhelming about the reality of this. <div><br /></div><div>There was that point, sometime after leaving my home town, where, in the midst of a big city where I knew such a minuscule fraction of its inhabitants, I would wonder "whatever happened to so and so" and if I would ever run into them on a random street corner again. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Of course, the only one that this ever happened with was <a href="http://hijinksgalore.blogspot.com/2009/01/worst-boyfriend-ever.html">The Worst Boyfriend Ever</a>.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Then Facebook happened, and they all stopped being mysteries.</div><div><br /></div><div>This really hit me when, one random recent Saturday morning, I received an email informing me that Russ had added me as a friend on Facebook. </div><div><br /></div><div>Russ' and I's history can be summed up quite simply. I'd met him a few times. We never had much of a conversation, but he made it clear whenever we met that he thought I was hot. I had recently broke up with a long-term boyfriend, so I called him. We made out on a handful of occasions, and maybe went out on a date or two. He got annoyed when he discovered that my "I'm-not-looking-for-a-relationship" did not mean "I'm-looking-for-no-strings-attached-sex", and we quickly faded out, relegated to obligatory nods if we ran into each other to make it clear there were no hard feelings. I honestly never knew much beyond what movies he liked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet, 10 years later, he adds me on Facebook. I'd noticed him on it before, but never saw much of a point of contacting him. What, exactly, would we have to say? Remember that time we made out during Sleepy Hollow? Or the one time we had coffee? Still, out of sheer curiosity, I accepted, wondering his motivations-- of which there seemed to be none. I said hi. He said hi. That was pretty much it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, as it it wasn't odd enough that I know what my high school boyfriends are doing with their lives, I even know what the guy I made out with in college is doing on Friday night (apparently having a BBQ, if you were wondering).</div><div><br /></div><div>Crushes who nothing ever actually happened with are even more surreal. It seems that when things never really developed the way you'd hoped with a certain person, or when your relationship with them never had a messy end point, you always wonder if they were really that special. And what Facebook has shown me is that, while they may vary on where they end up in life, they are all just so tortuously real. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember when I received notification that the guy I fiercely crushed on for the entirety of my 13th year had added me. He was the older boy who teased me mercilessly in the way that only heartbreaking 17 year old boys can, by throwing me into the lake with my clothes on and tango dancing with me in the middle of the street. He had brown hair that always flopped into his blue eyes. He was just so achingly dreamy. I eagerly clicked on his profile, to see what had become of him, more than ten years later. And while he hadn't necessarily changed... he was just so painfully average. Sure, he wasn't ugly, he seemed to be happy and he didn't communicate solely in text speak... but he just wasn't as magically special as I recalled. And he couldn't help but lose a little of that shine in my memories.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, there are advantages to all of this. I'm not gonna lie and say I didn't feel a tinge of smugness when I discovered the lying guy who crushed my heart at 16 gained about 100 pounds. I've also gotten back in touch with many a lost friend, including exes or ex-crushes who are genuinely good people I'm happy to see. Still, I can't help but wonder if there was something to be said about certain people remaining a bit of a mystery.</div></div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-26410751731189852702010-04-28T00:07:00.000-07:002010-04-28T00:10:21.128-07:00Her foot<div>Things change in instant, we know, we know. It's a platitude by now. Live every day like it was your last, because you never know what the next moment will bring. Seize the moment. Etcetera, etcetera. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, every once in a while, in a particularly somber mood, after a particularly depressing song, perhaps a little too much wine, or maybe after reading one too many headlines, we set ourselves to really considering this notion. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe after one of those rushing moments. When the dish on the stove catches on fire, and you don't notice right away. When the brakes grab just in time. When you catch yourself just before falling. In those hazy moments just after the overwhelming sensations start fading, you can't help but thing how everything could have changed right there. But it didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet sometimes it does.</div><div><br /></div><div>Valentine's Day this year was perhaps not very romantic, but was what one would call a very good day, nonetheless. It was one of those days where you walk out of the house planning to return by lunch time, but instead end up following a series of random strings, and return home at midnight to that pile of laundry you really meant to do. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, as such, our day went like: Pre-planned serious event! Lunch with Julie! Bilodeau wins gold medal! Drinks! Patriotism! More drinks! More sports! Anisa calls! Gallavanting through the countless celebrators in the streets! Drinks and dinner with Anisa and crew! More sports! Sophie calls! Go see Sophie's brother's band! More drinks! Oh shit, it's midnight and we have to work tomorrow! Go home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Except the next day, we get an email. Anisa, who at the last minute decided not to come see Sophie's brother's band, has been hit by a car. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not a car, actually, but rather a Hummer. A Hummer driven by a guy who'd had too much to drink and decided to fly through a crosswalk at high speeds without checking to see who might be walking across said crosswalk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seemingly, she was lucky. Sure she'd spent 13 hours in the ER in crippling pain, undergone massive reconstructive surgery on a heel that was nearly shattered to bits, a week in the hospital, still can't work, needs a walker to negotiate her apartment and a wheelchair to go more than a block. That's not too bad when one goes flying through the air after being hit head on by a Hummer, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>This Sunday night, we went out to watch the hockey game. Anisa, as always, was rolling with the punches, joking about how her walker would help her pick up men. We began talking about her next doctor's appointment, as the last had given her very little idea about likely prognosis. She spoke of trying to go in with as little expectations as possible, as there was still a chance that despite following all the right steps, the bones in her foot may die. Someone asked about worst case scenario. She said the doctors refuse to tell her, stating that they will "deal with that if the time comes". </div><div><br /></div><div>I assume worst case means that she will never walk without crutches again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Later, when she goes out for a cigarette, the Duke murmurs to me "You know what worst case scenario is, right?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I shake my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>He had spoken to a friend of his with a PhD in nursing. "If the bone death is really bad, they may have to amputate her foot. I don't think she has any idea it's even a possibility."</div><div><br /></div><div>So there's what a moment can do. It can seize a 26 year old woman away from an entirely average day, toss her into the air, and leave her in danger of losing her foot.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-14092898602070960952010-04-25T16:29:00.000-07:002010-04-25T16:29:35.887-07:00A list of potential ways to resurrect my blogging career<ul><li>Incite enough interest in discovering my true identity by implying that I am actually someone of vague importance, like Justin Bieber, a gigolo who is carrying on a long time clandestine affair with Sarah Palin, a star of Glee, or whoever else the kids are talking about these days. Hope that this results in several new websites speculating on my true identity. Did I ever tell you about that time I slept with Tiger Woods? </li></ul><ul><li>Start a feud with a much more popular blogger. (Hey, page views are page views, even if they are associated millions of hateful comments, yes?) Hope that said popular bloggers even acknowledges my post starting fierce rumours about them. </li></ul><ul><li>Stop being so damn paranoid about my blog being found, and have it searchable on Google so that people searching for "pornstar with PhD" and "how do I have sexy cheese hijinks" may, perchance, be taken by my quirky writing style, and decide to bookmark me.</li></ul><ul><li>Find a ridiculous niche topic, such as "Wiener Dogs who Look Like Oscar Wilde", so I can most definitely be the number one site on said topic.</li></ul><ul><li>Break up with my boyfriend in order to have salacious, awkward, drunken sex with random people that makes for snappy blog-worthy anecdotes. Be sure to include saucy nicknames, such as "Aardvark Man" and "The Spatula Guy".</li></ul><ul><li>Write more than once every 7 weeks and hope that people still find you remotely endearing. Oh, and move to Wisconsin, because that's sure to be a hot new bandwagon people are going to want to hop on.</li></ul>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-87779025332136682412010-03-23T15:55:00.000-07:002010-03-23T16:16:47.192-07:00Pros: CheeseA year ago, I would have never believed you if you told me I would be writing a list of pros and cons about moving to Wisconsin.<br /><br />And I <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> wouldn't have believed you if you told me the pros would greatly outweigh the cons.<br /><br />Then again, a year ago, I still believed a paint-by-number, careful, detailed approach would lead to an entirely predictable future.<br /><br />How naive is that?<br /><br />Things change, no matter how precisely and effortfully you take the "right" steps-- like when you nearly pull a muscle trying to stretch your short legs to fit your feet in the snowy tracks of someone else to avoid any more snow in your boots.<br /><br />You always trip and fall into the snow anyhow.<br />(At least I do. But I'm exceedingly clumsy.)<br /><br />Okay, I know I'm being cryptic. Suffice to say, things haven't turned out exactly as expected, and I've spent the last month scrambling, working on what feels like 12 potential back-up plans at once. Life has truly become an exercise in rolling with the punches.<br /><br />Oddly enough, the punches are pointing towards the Midwest, which, up until recently, is never where I foresaw this West Coast Canadian girl ending up.<br /><br />Even though there's a lot of panic and planning involved (and I must have nearly given myself carpal tunnel syndrome with all my frantic googling), there's something wonderful about how random this all is.<br /><br />I mean, why the hell not move to Wisconsin?Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-60011997038736081262010-02-18T16:10:00.000-08:002010-02-18T16:15:48.538-08:00Things I know that I didn't want to know, thanks to FacebookApparently my cousin got her, and I quote, "pussy pierced".<br /><br />Apparently it initially hurt really badly.<br /><br />Apparently it will be back and ready for action in 2 weeks.<br /><br />Apparently it looks great.<br /><br />Not only do I now know more about my cousin's genitals than I ever hoped to, but so do the rest of her Facebook friends, her aunt, her brother, and her mother.<br /><br />Oh yes, and her grandmother.<br /><br />TMI is a vast understatement at this moment in time.Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-63983287256791381312010-02-10T23:09:00.000-08:002010-02-10T23:09:27.094-08:00Viva!Less than a year ago, the Duke took his first trip to the U.S. in 13 years. As often happens for us Canadians when we haven't crossed that omnipresent line not too far South of us in a while, he expected it to be some sort of some fundamental je-ne-sais-quoi you can feel in your bones, telling him that he is somewhere different. Outside of the bottles of energy drink the size of our heads and slabs of beef jerky the side of our legs at convenience stores, the presence of Jack In the Box, much cheaper alcohol, the difficulties in finding playoff hockey on TV, the ten cents difference in the value of a dollar, and the annoyance of having to convert kilometers to miles... well, things weren't too different.<div><br /></div><div>It was rather funny watching Glenn Beck ranting about the evil of compact fluorescent lightbulbs on television (we also don't get Fox News in Canada, making it a bit of a legend we needed to see for ourselves) right in the middle of laid-back Portland. The two didn't quite fit.</div><div><br /></div><div>He remarked again, as 2009 passed, how the U.S. we visiting didn't quite seem like the U.S. we saw on TV, the one with the bling and the angry people shouting about public health care causing the downfall of the universe. While I agreed, I also reminded him that the three places we'd been that summer, Portland, Seattle and San Francisco, weren't exactly the epitome of the America that is supposed to be so diametrically opposed to Canada.</div><div><br /></div><div>As such, I eagerly anticipated our first visit to Las Vegas this January. I figured that if any place could capture the cliched "I-saw-it-on-TV" version of America, Vegas would.</div><div><br /></div><div>And, in many ways, it did.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was no such thing as the dark. It was also <i>never</i> quiet.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everything you can imagine is done up in lights. Even disturbingly eerie clowns...</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3Om98vIHLI/AAAAAAAABIU/H7FrngIxe_A/s1600-h/IMG_6807.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3Om98vIHLI/AAAAAAAABIU/H7FrngIxe_A/s320/IMG_6807.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436872758372342962" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>... and Denny's.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OnUv0IxQI/AAAAAAAABIc/ovPR-hPQWeg/s1600-h/IMG_6842.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OnUv0IxQI/AAAAAAAABIc/ovPR-hPQWeg/s320/IMG_6842.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436873150040687874" /></a><br /></div><div>The portion sizes are absurdly enormous. The Duke was only feeling slightly peckish, and thus ordered a fruit plate-- the smaller one on the menu. He instead received this, enough fruit to feed a family of four for a week. (Note: This picture does not include the accompanying loaf of banana bread.)</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OnjfENN2I/AAAAAAAABIk/0_kFmASfYiA/s1600-h/IMG_6811_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 208px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OnjfENN2I/AAAAAAAABIk/0_kFmASfYiA/s320/IMG_6811_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436873403242723170" /></a><br /></div><div>There are breasts the size and shape of genetically engineered watermelons, and skirts the size of a postage stamp.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is more Ed Hardy than should ever exist. The designer even has his own nightclub-- entrance probably incurs a dangerous risk of a Jon Gosselin encounter.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OoVmzMydI/AAAAAAAABIs/vbhy0-kluNA/s1600-h/IMG_6960.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OoVmzMydI/AAAAAAAABIs/vbhy0-kluNA/s320/IMG_6960.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436874264312334802" /></a><br /></div><div>You can get a $1 marguarita, but later on that night you will pay $10 for a vodka and soda. You can also pay $50,000 for someone to bring you some Dom to your table, or $450 for that very same bottle of vodka I have sitting in my freezer at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>You will go crazy at the sound of people flicking call girl trading cards at you, and will start to wonder if your personal bubble ever really did exist.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing is original-- every single concept, particularly in architecture, is just a plaster version of something that has been done before. Yet there is something insanely creative about all of it.</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OqKPTVfcI/AAAAAAAABI0/psnxPdudn3U/s1600-h/IMG_6956.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OqKPTVfcI/AAAAAAAABI0/psnxPdudn3U/s320/IMG_6956.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436876268049366466" /></a><br /></div><div>One of the first things that greats you off the plane is an ad offering you to try shooting a machine gun.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is the middle of the desert, yet literally millions of gallons of water are used every fifteen minutes for a free fountain show.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OrC1vE8ZI/AAAAAAAABI8/ZakTRoTrzDM/s1600-h/IMG_6947.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OrC1vE8ZI/AAAAAAAABI8/ZakTRoTrzDM/s320/IMG_6947.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436877240438944146" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>Every washed up and/or random performer can have faith they will find a home in Vegas. Carrot Top, Andrew Dice Clay, Wayne Brady-- you name it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow topless showgirls are different than stripper. I don't know how.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hot dogs are $1.99 but bottles of water are $5.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tickets for the "Eiffel Tower" exclusively forbid unauthorized weddings, as apparently these are more rampant than the average person expects.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OrbBdxwkI/AAAAAAAABJE/rqLS8xRv7QM/s1600-h/IMG_6955.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/S3OrbBdxwkI/AAAAAAAABJE/rqLS8xRv7QM/s320/IMG_6955.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436877655904469570" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>There are buffets with multiple different kind of mashed potatoes. And more mousse than any human could ever process.</div><div><br /></div><div>And people really do gamble at 7am.</div><div><br /></div><div>You can really sum Vegas up in one word: excess. Utterly and completely.</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was still unexpectedly pleasant to be overwhelmed in the midst of all those lights, not quite knowing where to look next.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-66381002323057912762010-01-24T10:20:00.000-08:002010-01-24T10:33:05.933-08:00Spinning around to reach full circle<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Call it coming full circle or something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I opened up my computer, deciding again to write. I then looked at that plane shaped icon on the monitor in front of me, to find I am once again hovering over Lake Michigan, 37,000 feet this time. And Wild World started playing in my ears once again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And my head is all muddled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps I expected these trips to help resolve all this uncertainty, this stomach tightening ambiguity that makes what used to be statements suddenly become punctuated with huge bold question marks. But there was no real epiphany. None of those movie-perfect revelations in it all becomes clear, that this is where I’m supposed to be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I briefly thought I might have found it in one city, navigating through deliciously pulsating neighbourhoods. As I tend to do when I develop a crush on a city, I began the detailed process of imagining myself living on the 5<sup>th</sup> floor of a specific building and deciding where I would shop for groceries. It didn’t hurt that the placement I was interviewing for looked absolutely dreamy on paper. But it wasn’t so swoonworthy in the pain in the ass world we call reality. It felt overly competitive, painfully bureaucratic, yet hypocritically disorganized. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then the programs that made me especially giddy are in cities without that spark. One is a city I already spent a handful of years in, which, though convenient and reasonably effortless, seems devoid of any sense of adventure. And one is just really damn cold.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, while there is clearly some indication of the right direction to go, I kind of hoped I wouldn’t have to go through that painful formalized step-by-step decision making process. I wanted to <i>just know</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Really, though, this is such a silly debate this is to be having with myself. I still could end up at any of them, and I could make my own little life there for a year. I would learn immense amounts from any of them, and it would still be a pretty epic success to end up at any of them. And, after all, it is just a year.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think I need to come to terms that major life choices don't operate like the quintessential lightbulb above the head. They are never so clear and instantaneous. Real life doesn't operate by love-at-first-sight rules.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-7845082345692084352010-01-20T18:44:00.000-08:002010-01-20T18:55:38.048-08:00Love harder<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Our plea:</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Our friend Brandy is a brilliant writer, a wonderful teacher, and a generous friend. And she is in love with a man who has just been diagnosed with multiple myeloma.<br /><br />We are raising money for the Multiple Myeloma Research Fund in his name. For the price of a cinnamon dolce latte, half-caf, hold the whip, you can be part of an effort to cure a disease that affects approximately 750,000 people worldwide.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.loveharder.org/" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(0, 101, 204); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">http://www.loveharder.org</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />Every dollar brings us a dollar closer to a cure. And every donation brings a sliver of hope to a girl who needs all the hope she can get.<br /><br />Love Harder,<br /></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Princess Pointful<br /></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /><br /></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">What You Can Do</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><p></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:85%;"><ul><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Give.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Be part of a worldwide effort to cure a disease that affects approximately 750,000 people worldwide. Every dollar </span><a href="http://www.loveharder.org/" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(0, 101, 204); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">helps</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Pass it on.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Forward this story to five people. Share this blog post. Become our </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/LoveHarderorg/296696309111" target="_blank" style="color: rgb(0, 101, 204); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">fan</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> on Facebook.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Love harder.</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Life is short, love is unbending, and no one knows what could happen next.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Tell someone you love them today.<br /></span></li></ul><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Where Your Money Goes</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><ul style="margin-left: 40px; "><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The American Institute of Philanthropy recently named The Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">one of the best organizations</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> to give to in terms of their accountability and use of resources.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">By working closely with researchers, clinicians and partners in the biotech and pharmaceutical industry, the MMRF has helped bring multiple myeloma patients four new treatments that are </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">extending lives around the globe</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The MMRF has advanced twenty Phase I and Phase II clinical trials. They need your support to advance these clinical research programs and accelerate the development of </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">better, more effective treatments</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The MMRF's Multiple Myeloma Genomics Initiative recently became </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the first to sequence the multiple myeloma whole genome</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> in its entirety.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A whopping 98% of your donation to the MMRF will be used immediately to support </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">high-priority multiple myeloma research</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.<br /><br /></span></li><li style="margin-left: 15px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With diminishing funding for early stage drug development and the next myeloma treatments not expected to be approved until 2011, the MMRF desperately </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">needs your help</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.<br /></span></li></ul><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So far, an amazing $2000 has been raised today alone by people like you! Please continue this wonderful trend!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Love to the internetz, the amazing </span><a href="http://livitluvit.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Lilu</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and <a href="http://your-illfitting-overcoat.blogspot.com/">Laurie</a> for all their hard work on this project, and the wonderful </span><a href="http://brainyjane22.wordpress.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Brandy</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (who's story you can also find </span><a href="http://hijinksgalore.blogspot.com/2009/12/late-christmas-wish.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">here</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">).</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">PS. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Brandy and your Hot Awesome Dude... this one's for you. Love, The Internet.</span></i></span></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-style: normal; white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10px;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DcR9Q_1ucc0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DcR9Q_1ucc0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></span></i></p></span>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-13192388243540267972010-01-12T20:07:00.000-08:002010-01-12T20:11:25.779-08:0032,000 feet over Lake Michigan<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s an odd thing when flying becomes so routine that the fact that you are hovering 32,000 feet over Lake Michigan isn’t the slightest bit daunting. It seems perfectly natural to be suspended in space, eating complementary Bits and Bites and watching your vessel’s progress via an airplane shapes icon in front of you on a 5 inch by 5 inch screen.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Until I graduated from high school, I had only taken a single round trip on an airplane at the age of 6. At 17, I took my second such trip, and spent the entire voyage in awe, nose pressed against the glass, marveling at the consistency of the clouds and speed at which the building became full-sized again. In the just over 10 years since high school, my number of flights have skyrocketed. I have four such round trips in this month period. I sit in my compact grey seat, not skipping a beat on my keyboard as the world flies past me at 500 mph.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">How on earth did this life ever become so normal to me?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember at 19, two weeks before I was set to leave my hometown for a big city university, my then boyfriend and I took a road trip to find an apartment. I had never been to this sprawled out on the prairies city before. We had left after work, and, as such, were driving under the big night sky. Each time we came upon a new smattering of lights, I would look at him expectantly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“No, that’s not it,” he’d say. “You’ll know when it is.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And I did. The sky exploded in scattered orange lights, covering the horizon. I couldn’t believe that one of those lights would somehow become my light.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I can’t believe that this girl who learned to rollerblade in the yellow church’s parking lot and thought that excitement was going to the nearby town with a McDonald’s is the same one negotiating trains in cities of millions and flying across the country by herself to go to interviews. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s hard to map out exactly how these changes happen. They just do. And it is often only by virtue of being able to compare yourself to your memories that you realize how much you’ve changed. The Duke recently told me I was one of the most independent people he knew. This set off a feeling of minor triumph in my head, for I never used to be independent. I used to be downright gloomy about the idea of doing things alone, maybe even clingy, certainly naïve. And now I'm not. I don't quite know how. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I just know that 32,000 feet above Lake Michigan on my way to a hotel in a city I've never been to but might move to anyhow isn't nearly as scary as my 19 year old self would have thought.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">(Oddly enough, as I type this, the playlist he made me for my travels sings into my ears, the one he forbade me to look at before hitting play. Song four is Wild World by Cat Stevens.)</p> <!--EndFragment-->Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-86004287733222267222010-01-11T10:34:00.000-08:002010-01-11T10:34:29.076-08:00Little sister<div>My little sister is getting married. True to her, it is happening in cyclone-like fashion. Move in after 2 months, engaged at a year, marrying 6 months after that. If it was anyone but her, I may be out of breath, especially in comparison to what may seem like my slow-and-steady tortoise like pace through similar choices. But, over the past year or so, I've had to come to accept that this is just who she is, how she operates, even if it seems foreign to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>The main thing is that she is happy-- which she is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sometimes think that the differences between my sister and I were somehow created by everyone else's need to dichotomize us, rather than any inherent variability. The more automatic aspects of us are eerily alike- the way we speak, our sense of humour, our mannerisms, our smile, our clumsiness. But at a young age, my tendencies to voraciously read and hers to dress up in pouffy dresses for the most minimal of occasions were somehow magnified. I became the smart one. She became the pretty one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow everyone became invested in maintaining those categories. Despite the fact that we regularly become mistaken for twins, I was always more insecure, more critical when I looked in the mirror. Despite her almost constant appearance on the honour roll, she never considered going to university. I make practical decisions, she makes spontaneous ones. She spends money, I save. Despite being three years younger than me, she had boyfriends with cars before I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>It sometimes feels like she got to make the mistakes I was always too scared to make. </div><div><br /></div><div>We're living pretty different lives these days. After five years in a big city, including a few changes in direction, and a big heartbreak, she decided that a small town is where she wants to be. And so, she's back in our hometown, getting married, living in a big beautiful home, and likely to start a family very soon. I don't know where I'm going to be living by the end this year, let alone the year after that, although I will be in the city. My life may seem a lot more jet-setting, in some ways, with me about to embark on another cross-country zigzagging trip, with a end of the month conference in Las Vegas, but it is also a lot more modest, given that I have yet to move out of one-bedroom apartment territory. I'm with my big love, too, but despite being together for much longer that her and her fiancee, a wedding is still far in the future, with other practicalities getting in the way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite the fork somewhere in our paths, though, there's still a thick rope stretching across that distance that neither of us want to, or could, shake. When she's hurting, her first instinct is still to hop a plane and fly my way. And for me, she'll always have the spirit of that 12 year old who called my 16-year old boyfriend to scold him for treating me badly. </div><div><br /></div><div>She sometimes hurts me more than she realizes, not because of malice, but rather than she occasionally forgets that she needs to slip her feet into my shoes for an instant, as they do fit a lot differently. She did so recently, and it still feels more raw than I would like to admit. But I still couldn't help but tear up as she twirled around, beaming, clutching a bouquet in what will be her wedding dress outside the dressing room. Hurt goes away, after all-- but she won't.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-51999380389000286132010-01-04T00:36:00.001-08:002010-01-04T00:40:00.009-08:00Quote of the day- New Years Eve edition"<i>Celine Dion is basically the White Canadian Puff Daddy."</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>(I leave it to all of you to brainstorm the similarities. Alcohol may help the process along. And, please, spare me the update on Puffy's latest name.)</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-49858723086257546792009-12-31T13:50:00.000-08:002009-12-31T13:50:18.654-08:00Resoluting.Perhaps it is just sitting under a ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars, harkening back to my days of compulsive diary writing, that leads me to want to write so urgently again.<div><br /></div><div>The other day, the Duke, doing a random Google Reader check, said "I didn't know you were blogging again."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't know if I am," I replied. </div><div><br /></div><div>Blogging, in its current form, doesn't seem to just be about writing anymore. It seems to have exploded into this bundle of networking, commenting, twittering. And I just can't do that right now. I used to literally dedicate hours in the evenings to this endeavour, and those are hours that simply don't exist anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the holidays, I have spent a little more time online than usual, and read a lot about the latest round of blogging drama. I don't care to place myself in the debate, but the fact that it even exists is what kind of made me flee for the hills for a little while, despite having a lot of love for writing and the people who do it. I'm 28 years old now, dammit. The idea of secret undercurrents behind the writing is ridiculous and bloody exhausting. The fact that I have let my feelings get hurt over some of this stuff in the past is even more absurd.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps, ironically, by virtue of blogging, I know myself a lot better now, and one of the things I know is that I will absolutely, without a doubt, need this outlet again. With the moving across the country, alone, to somewhere I will potentially know very few people, this space will be essential. Even now, without it, I find my head swimming a bit too much, and my text messages are getting far too long to be practical. And I know that there are still a lot of wonderful "portable" friends here that will provide that slice of home when I'm feeling lonely. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until then, though, I'm trying to get back to just writing. Simple as that. Because I sometimes find it sad that I got so caught up in comments and statistics, and lost that spark. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, my secret 2010 resolution is to blog on my terms. To write because I want to write. And read because I want to read. Not because it has been a week since my last post or because my reader is too big or my funny posts get more comments. Only because I have something to say, or I want to hear what you have to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>That can't be that hard, can it?</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-74637322604809315992009-12-29T14:56:00.000-08:002009-12-29T14:57:35.261-08:00The big city girl and the magic hammerI grew up in a small town.<div>The type of small town where everyone remarks how oppressive and smelly big cities are.</div><div>The type of small town where you don't know everyone, but you surely know everyone in town by two degrees of separation.</div><div>The type of small town where the bus driver yells at you for standing up before the bus stops because you may get hurt, instead of yelling at you for not being at the door yet.</div><div>The type of small town where locals frustrations about the state of a particular road are headline news, and people rally around the cause of saving an old oak tree.</div><div>The type of small town where a friend's father declared me to have become "big city" when, a year after leaving, I showed up for my sister's graduation ceremony wearing a skirt I'd purchased at a garage sale. (I'm convinced it was because of the size of my earrings.)</div><div><br /></div><div>And I live in a big city. </div><div>I ride the bus standing up with a coffee in my hand, go everywhere with headphones on, belong to a yoga studio, am fond of assorted martinis and am pretty good with chopsticks-- but I like to pretend I am not "big city". </div><div><br /></div><div>I ran some errands downtown the day after I arrived home for Christmas, including one for my mother. She told me that the hardware store had some sort of innovative new hammer, that had a weird angled head that was meant for small corners. She said they would know what I was looking for if I described it to them.</div><div><br /></div><div>They did not know what it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>In fact, the second worker's words were, "Sure, we have a hammer that goes around corners. It's right over there by the striped spray paint and the sky hooks."</div><div><br /></div><div>Even when it was determined what she actually meant (some out of stock multipurpose tool), I could hear them roaring, aisles away. "A hammer for around corners!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I left, my tail tucked between my legs, and promptly ran into an old family friend, who also burst into peals of laughter when I recounted my story. "Was your mom pulling your leg? Did she actually tell you to ask about a hammer for around corners?"</div><div><br /></div><div>So now I'm the big city girl who doesn't understand that you can use a hammer on both sides of a corner.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dammit.</div><div>I might as well show up at the co-op decked out in bling, Dolce & Gabbana and stilettos.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-87799701062816108012009-12-28T00:01:00.000-08:002009-12-28T00:01:00.639-08:00A late Christmas wish<div><i>Merry Christmas all. I hope to be seeing a little more of you wonderful people in the New Year. Until then, though, below is a really important post from a really wonderful person that I really hope you all take the time to read. Sometimes love and good wishes are the best thing we can do.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>***</i></div><div><br /></div>My name is brandy. And I have a <a href="http://brainyjane22.wordpress.com/">blog</a>.<br /><br />And a plea.<br /><br />I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.<br /><br />He's a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He's the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He's the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He's a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He's made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He's listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.<br /><br />The holidays have hit us hard. He's recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He's the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I'm overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.<br /><br />As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren't sure what's happening. He'll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what's going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as 'brandy's hot awesome dude'). If you don't pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.<br /><br />I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven't seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).<br /><br />I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I'm throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn't a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It's just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven't already? Please tell someone you love them today.<br /><br />I did.Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-30566934126831987962009-12-23T00:51:00.000-08:002009-12-23T00:52:33.129-08:002009 in photos.<div>So, 2009 hasn't proven to be the best to me in terms of words. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHSo0UMArI/AAAAAAAABF8/4MRMJ2zj9Uc/s320/IMG_5525.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418343425383334578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHYaO1zeCI/AAAAAAAABIM/aAgtBik5Yzw/s1600-h/IMG_5545.JPG"><br /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHS5JD3BTI/AAAAAAAABGE/BdECWl7pioI/s320/IMG_5544.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418343705829901618" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHYNREA32I/AAAAAAAABIE/qWVie355eXM/s1600-h/IMG_6519.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHYaO1zeCI/AAAAAAAABIM/aAgtBik5Yzw/s320/IMG_5545.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418349771875383330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHUgQHclPI/AAAAAAAABGs/51Ev4E4Ylgo/s320/IMG_5808.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418345477250520306" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center; "><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHUgQHclPI/AAAAAAAABGs/51Ev4E4Ylgo/s1600-h/IMG_5808.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHULCLolMI/AAAAAAAABGk/oGLV8T9QFpI/s1600-h/IMG_5741.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHULCLolMI/AAAAAAAABGk/oGLV8T9QFpI/s320/IMG_5741.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418345112732734658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHT4vhBtdI/AAAAAAAABGc/GVyGpxsoohs/s1600-h/IMG_5733.JPG"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHT4vhBtdI/AAAAAAAABGc/GVyGpxsoohs/s320/IMG_5733.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418344798484542930" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHTnKvxdSI/AAAAAAAABGU/JMB3MBJ6NHM/s1600-h/IMG_5725.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHTnKvxdSI/AAAAAAAABGU/JMB3MBJ6NHM/s320/IMG_5725.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418344496556504354" style="display: block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHVYu2a5ZI/AAAAAAAABHE/d66a3EWmL24/s320/IMG_5877.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418346447573280146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHVBcmLbPI/AAAAAAAABG8/2xpTrqd-Dl0/s1600-h/IMG_5840.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHVBcmLbPI/AAAAAAAABG8/2xpTrqd-Dl0/s320/IMG_5840.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418346047536327922" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHUvKtQUrI/AAAAAAAABG0/VZXWj4PpJrc/s1600-h/IMG_5825.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHUvKtQUrI/AAAAAAAABG0/VZXWj4PpJrc/s320/IMG_5825.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418345733496525490" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHTNxDzCmI/AAAAAAAABGM/2PjXwtFE9fw/s1600-h/IMG_5715.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHWCLE7SmI/AAAAAAAABHU/pqCRjcexu0s/s320/IMG_6219.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418347159524952674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHS5JD3BTI/AAAAAAAABGE/BdECWl7pioI/s1600-h/IMG_5544.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHW7mrO11I/AAAAAAAABHs/HmyIXPu-Xm4/s320/IMG_6294.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418348146185918290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHSo0UMArI/AAAAAAAABF8/4MRMJ2zj9Uc/s1600-h/IMG_5525.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHXVpOVKKI/AAAAAAAABH0/C4alpCkqowo/s1600-h/IMG_6305.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHXVpOVKKI/AAAAAAAABH0/C4alpCkqowo/s320/IMG_6305.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418348593546602658" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHX4caM4PI/AAAAAAAABH8/_ehFW_RjEaI/s1600-h/IMG_6448.JPG"></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHYNREA32I/AAAAAAAABIE/qWVie355eXM/s320/IMG_6519.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418349549133553506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHX4caM4PI/AAAAAAAABH8/_ehFW_RjEaI/s1600-h/IMG_6448.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZfZ9fXtaDXY/SzHX4caM4PI/AAAAAAAABH8/_ehFW_RjEaI/s320/IMG_6448.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418349191402152178" /></a>But just because I didn't write it doesn't mean it didn't happen.</div></div></div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-60330404368719048562009-12-13T23:40:00.000-08:002009-12-13T23:51:45.336-08:00FiveMy hypothetical future new life has become a little more concrete. Specifically, there are now five alternative lives floating out there in space and in my daydreams (or six, if we consider failure one of them. But let's not do that, okay?). This is a little more reassuring, I suppose, although I think it is an odd life when five choices seems somehow concrete.<div><br /></div><div>So, yes, five interviews in five cities in January. Five airports, five beds (and/or couches), five hospitals or clinics. Five imagined realities. Probably more than five sleepless nights.</div><div><br /></div><div> Remind me what I said about breathing again.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-74131761579282439402009-12-02T20:38:00.000-08:002009-12-02T20:40:04.832-08:00On keeping on breathingI always have the best of intentions.<div><br /></div><div>I really don't want to put anyone through the tedium that is complaining about being overwhelmed. Complaining about stress is so brutally cliched, like saying that you aren't good with names, procrastinate sometimes or don't always get enough sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone is stressed and nobody is actually good with names.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm fully intending to act as though I am 100% content, to practice what I preach, per se, by not letting the stress determine my actions. I'm acting happy to try to convince my body that I really am happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm drawing smiley faces on foggy windows. I'm humming made up songs. I secretly tap my toes in my shoes when riding the bus. I randomly buy butternut squashes on sale for extraordinary cooking plans. I'm overusing exclamation points in my text messages.</div><div><br /></div><div>These things help, in their own little way. Any of these beat moping around. I can't handle being lazy for that long, anyhow. Unproductivity doesn't suit me. Another cliche has proven true- yoga has been a life saver. It turns off my thoughts pretty thoroughly, which, trust me, is a miraculous feat.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not even that I'm at all depressed. It's just that my brain can't keep up with everything that is going on. A lot of it, in fact, is kick-up-your-heels good news-- internship interviews, weddings-- there's just so damn much of it. Looking at my summer, I just wanted to hyperventilate. What do you mean I'm a bridesmaid twice and I have to move myself and my boyfriend to separate locations across the continent all in the period of a month and a half? Even my mom, the queen of acceptance, in an email yesterday told me "You are such a busy girl, it is just the way of your life at this time, but I am sure you sometimes want to pull your hair out."</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div>Yes, it may be tempting to grab the roots and yank sometimes, but instead, I will drink tea and watch too much Food Network. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, and breathe.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7246838997491107294.post-31673103246016525272009-11-29T22:26:00.000-08:002009-11-29T22:27:02.523-08:00DecisionsSome decisions always have the potential to be of great consequence.<div><br /></div><div>Like where to go to school.</div><div>Whether to take that job.</div><div>Whether to kiss him.</div><div>Whether to wear a condom.</div><div>Whether to tell the truth.</div><div>Whether to break up with her.</div><div><br /></div><div>The funny thing about these decisions, is as much as we may dwell over the countless future possibilities implied in each choice, the one we make almost always transition into fact so easily. It becomes hard to even imagine having stayed in that city or having said no.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there's those other decisions. </div><div>The ones you don't even know are decisions until after the consequences become apparent. </div><div>The ones you don't even consider unless something out of the ordinary results from them. </div><div>The ones that never seemed worth contemplating until regret came into play.</div><div><br /></div><div>A month before my high school graduation, my friend Mal died in a car accident. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember feeling guilt over a decision I'd only even hypothetically made-- the morning I found out, her and I were set to meet during our spare period to discuss a project. I had considered asking her to reschedule so I could go tend to my boyfriend, who was sick at home. Of course, I never got to ask, yet I felt remorse deep in my guts about my secret thought of asking.</div><div><br /></div><div>My misplaced guilt had nothing on that of her best friend, though. Before the accident, the two of them had been hanging out, perhaps out for coffee-- the details are long lost. Mal dropped off her friend at her house, before continuing on less than ten minutes down the road, where she collided with another car. And her best friend suddenly felt as though she'd made the most horrible mistake by not inviting Mal in for tea, to use the washroom, anything to just postpone her leaving for a single minute, that minute that could have changed everything. The funny thing is that if the accident had never happened, she would have never again considered why she didn't invite Mal in.</div><div><br /></div><div>It seems that whenever there is something with unintended repercussions, one can't help but put all the decisions leading up to it, the ones you didn't even know you were making, under a microscope. I've wondered at times what if I hadn't picked up the phone, had another drink, walked in another direction, said something a little differently. I don't just do this with regrets. Today, as we lay on the couch, I surmised about all the haphazard choices that led up to that moment-- my last minute decision to go to a casually mentioned concert to get some space from obnoxious house guests, my choice to stand where I did in a sea of hundreds, to turn around at that exact moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is mind-boggling that so much significance could come from a split-second choice.</div>Princess Pointfulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10911296163218358167noreply@blogger.com10