...and hijinks ensued.

14 days until 30

2011-12-04T21:31:00.000-08:00

I hate how histrionic I'm getting about turning 30.

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.

For an (almost) psychologist, I have some mighty pitiful defence mechanisms.

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.

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.

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.

So why the hell am I letting two little digits even try to shake me?

I know the statistics

2010-11-09T18:15:00.000-08:00

It takes women, on average, six to eight times to leave an abusive relationship.

There's no comfort in that. Sure, it normalizes the situation a little. But normalizing doesn't get her the hell out of there.

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.

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.

The funny thing is, I've worked with criminals before, and was often surprised by the ambiguity of the situations, the profound regret.

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.

It was weird when I thought he was just awkward, insensitive and maybe a little old fashioned in his ideas about gender.

It was awkward when they would argue in my presence.

It was difficult when I began to realize how much of his seeming nuances were actually indirect ways of having control over her.

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.

It was frightening when she called me in tears because he was senseless in his anger, and she was scared he would lose control.

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.

We spoke yesterday. And things went bad. Really really really bad.

She left.

And then she came back.

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.

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.

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.

But I'm 3000 km away. My rage can't do a lot from here.

I'm trying to figure out what exactly I can do from here.

The one where I pretend I really want to bake muffins

2010-09-26T20:08:00.001-07:00

Living in a new city is always a bit of a humbling experience.

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.

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.

And realize how you know absolutely no one.*

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."

And you do manage.

And you go to parties and say hi to your neighbours.

But you still have those humbling nights, the ones where you convinced yourself that you really did want a Friday night alone because when was the last time you baked muffins.

And you aren't sure who to call when things feel a just little empty.

You also wonder when making friends got so systematic. In high school, you just somehow had friends. Suddenly, you're questioning yourself.

"Is it too soon for me to call them? Should I add them on Facebook? What does 'we should hang out sometime' mean?"**

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.

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.***

***

*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 actually discussed this experience with a handful of people who were also new in town. We all laughed about being 'friend desperate'.

*** 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.

Copy cat

2010-09-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

I'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.

After all, who doesn't want to hear about the escapades of two Canadians in imperial measurement land!

Like me trying to order turkey in grams with the deli counter worker looking quizzically at me when I declare "Two hundred, please."

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.

Also, apparently Americans don't know what a garburator is. And laugh at Canadians who say it.

(BTW, it's a garbage disposal.)

But, amidst my contemplation about how exactly to jump back into the land of anonymous self-disclosure... someone pulled me back in.

Apparently someone still likes me enough to read me... and to plagiarize me.

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.

NOT this one:

Thank you, anonymous commenter, for pointing this one out.

Anyways, it turns out that our friend Katie (she of the surely soon to be defunct Mommy Outnumbered) 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 Bloggess- come on, how's that going to go unnoticed?). By the angry comments on her website, it looks like there's a ton more.

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.

But, hey, we apparently both like dogs with cones on our heads. So there's that!

A big ol' glass of Haterade

2010-05-10T19:40:00.000-07:00

That's right, I be hatin'.

On what, you ask?

Nachos with not enough cheese. 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.

People in McDonald's at 1am. 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.

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.

People who don't lock the restaurant bathroom door. And then you look like an inconsiderate jerk and have to apologize profusely when you walk in on them mid-pee.

Putting my duvet back in its cover. I'm more likely to end up tangled in there than my blanket is.

Girls who pretend to like hockey. 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.

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.

People who don't understanding that working from home means that I'm working. 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.

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.

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.

How tenure can help your sex blogging career

2010-05-04T14:31:00.000-07:00

I've written before 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.

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.

Case #1- Anonymous sex blogger, who writes about her sex life and reviews pornography, through a Twitter/Google malfunction, accidentally links her real name to her blog, which is promptly found by her boss.

Case #2- California State University professor's non-anonymous website, 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.

Guess who gets fired?

The moral of this story? Be careful what you put online. Or just try really hard to get tenure.

In which Facebook ruins my teenage crushes

2010-04-29T16:24:00.000-07:00

I 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.

There's something a little underwhelming about the reality of this.

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.

(Of course, the only one that this ever happened with was The Worst Boyfriend Ever.)

Then Facebook happened, and they all stopped being mysteries.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

Her foot

2010-04-28T00:07:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

Yet sometimes it does.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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".

I assume worst case means that she will never walk without crutches again.

Later, when she goes out for a cigarette, the Duke murmurs to me "You know what worst case scenario is, right?"

I shake my head.

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."

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.

A list of potential ways to resurrect my blogging career

2010-04-25T16:29:00.000-07:00

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?

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

Pros: Cheese

2010-03-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

A 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.

And I really wouldn't have believed you if you told me the pros would greatly outweigh the cons.

Then again, a year ago, I still believed a paint-by-number, careful, detailed approach would lead to an entirely predictable future.

How naive is that?

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.

You always trip and fall into the snow anyhow.
(At least I do. But I'm exceedingly clumsy.)

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.

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.

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.

I mean, why the hell not move to Wisconsin?

Things I know that I didn't want to know, thanks to Facebook

2010-02-18T16:10:00.000-08:00

Apparently my cousin got her, and I quote, "pussy pierced".

Apparently it initially hurt really badly.

Apparently it will be back and ready for action in 2 weeks.

Apparently it looks great.

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.

Oh yes, and her grandmother.

TMI is a vast understatement at this moment in time.

Viva!

2010-02-10T23:09:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

And, in many ways, it did.

There was no such thing as the dark. It was also never quiet.

Everything you can imagine is done up in lights. Even disturbingly eerie clowns...

... and Denny's.

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.)

There are breasts the size and shape of genetically engineered watermelons, and skirts the size of a postage stamp.

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.

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.

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.

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.

One of the first things that greats you off the plane is an ad offering you to try shooting a machine gun.

It is the middle of the desert, yet literally millions of gallons of water are used every fifteen minutes for a free fountain show.

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.

Somehow topless showgirls are different than stripper. I don't know how.

Hot dogs are $1.99 but bottles of water are $5.

Tickets for the "Eiffel Tower" exclusively forbid unauthorized weddings, as apparently these are more rampant than the average person expects.

There are buffets with multiple different kind of mashed potatoes. And more mousse than any human could ever process.

And people really do gamble at 7am.

You can really sum Vegas up in one word: excess. Utterly and completely.

But it was still unexpectedly pleasant to be overwhelmed in the midst of all those lights, not quite knowing where to look next.

Spinning around to reach full circle

2010-01-24T10:20:00.000-08:00

Call it coming full circle or something.

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.

And my head is all muddled.

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.

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^th 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.

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.

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 just know.

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.

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.

Love harder

2010-01-20T18:44:00.000-08:00

Our plea:

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.

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.

http://www.loveharder.org

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.

Love Harder,
Princess Pointful

What You Can Do

Give. Be part of a worldwide effort to cure a disease that affects approximately 750,000 people worldwide. Every dollar helps.
Pass it on. Forward this story to five people. Share this blog post. Become our fan on Facebook.
Love harder. Life is short, love is unbending, and no one knows what could happen next. Tell someone you love them today.

Where Your Money Goes

The American Institute of Philanthropy recently named The Multiple Myeloma Research Foundationone of the best organizations to give to in terms of their accountability and use of resources.
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 extending lives around the globe.
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 better, more effective treatments.
The MMRF's Multiple Myeloma Genomics Initiative recently became the first to sequence the multiple myeloma whole genome in its entirety.
A whopping 98% of your donation to the MMRF will be used immediately to support high-priority multiple myeloma research.
With diminishing funding for early stage drug development and the next myeloma treatments not expected to be approved until 2011, the MMRF desperately needs your help.

So far, an amazing $2000 has been raised today alone by people like you! Please continue this wonderful trend!

Love to the internetz, the amazing Lilu and Laurie for all their hard work on this project, and the wonderful Brandy (who's story you can also find here).

PS. Brandy and your Hot Awesome Dude... this one's for you. Love, The Internet.

32,000 feet over Lake Michigan

2010-01-12T20:07:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

How on earth did this life ever become so normal to me?

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.

“No, that’s not it,” he’d say. “You’ll know when it is.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

(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.)

Little sister

2010-01-11T10:34:00.000-08:00

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.

The main thing is that she is happy-- which she is.

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.

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.

It sometimes feels like she got to make the mistakes I was always too scared to make.

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.

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.

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.

Quote of the day- New Years Eve edition

2010-01-04T00:36:00.001-08:00

"Celine Dion is basically the White Canadian Puff Daddy."

(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.)

Resoluting.

2009-12-31T13:50:00.000-08:00

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.

The other day, the Duke, doing a random Google Reader check, said "I didn't know you were blogging again."

"I don't know if I am," I replied.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

That can't be that hard, can it?

The big city girl and the magic hammer

2009-12-29T14:56:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a small town.

The type of small town where everyone remarks how oppressive and smelly big cities are.

The type of small town where you don't know everyone, but you surely know everyone in town by two degrees of separation.

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.

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.

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.)

And I live in a big city.

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".

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.

They did not know what it was.

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."

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!"

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?"

So now I'm the big city girl who doesn't understand that you can use a hammer on both sides of a corner.

Dammit.

I might as well show up at the co-op decked out in bling, Dolce & Gabbana and stilettos.

A late Christmas wish

2009-12-28T00:01:00.000-08:00

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.

***

My name is brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

I did.

2009 in photos.

2009-12-23T00:51:00.000-08:00

So, 2009 hasn't proven to be the best to me in terms of words.

But just because I didn't write it doesn't mean it didn't happen.

Five

2009-12-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

My 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.

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.

Remind me what I said about breathing again.

On keeping on breathing

2009-12-02T20:38:00.000-08:00

I always have the best of intentions.

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.

Everyone is stressed and nobody is actually good with names.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Yes, it may be tempting to grab the roots and yank sometimes, but instead, I will drink tea and watch too much Food Network.

Oh yeah, and breathe.

Decisions

2009-11-29T22:26:00.000-08:00

Some decisions always have the potential to be of great consequence.

Like where to go to school.

Whether to take that job.

Whether to kiss him.

Whether to wear a condom.

Whether to tell the truth.

Whether to break up with her.

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.

Then there's those other decisions.

The ones you don't even know are decisions until after the consequences become apparent.

The ones you don't even consider unless something out of the ordinary results from them.

The ones that never seemed worth contemplating until regret came into play.

A month before my high school graduation, my friend Mal died in a car accident.

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.

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.

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.

It is mind-boggling that so much significance could come from a split-second choice.

I love the smell of hypocrisy in the morning

2009-11-11T21:32:00.000-08:00

You ever get the feeling that some people just want to know they still have an effect on you?

So. The Ex.

The long and short of it- we dated for 6+ years. He was a bit of an alcoholic, and I was a bit of a pushover. We pretended that we were going to stay friends after we split up, but it mostly ended up in his new girlfriend stalking me, apologies (with seemingly ulterior motives), and awkward silences. I last saw him around a year and a half ago, and apparently we both, without saying anything, knew that despite there never being a big angry blowout, it was time for us to both stop pretending. And thus, outside of the occasional text message from him every few months, we stopped talking.

It was actually pretty comfortable to stop pretending we had very much to say.

In February, the first call in months. He asks me to be an apartment reference, for he is moving in with his new girlfriend, the one he met a month and a half earlier, who thankfully is his age and doesn't make a hobby out of sending me passive-aggressive emails. I agree out of some sort of obligation I don't even understand, given the fact that he needs me to serve as a reference because his rent cheques always bounced, leaving me to patch things up with our landlord. I never get a call.

After that, a few weird comments on Facebook, that I can only assume occurred when he was drunk, as they are nonsensical and disappear by the next morning. One is about our dead cat.

And then nothing for close to a year. Last month, I noticed that Facebook suggests that he and I should be friends, revealing that he has deleted me. Sure, I had a little righteous indignation swelling up at first, pretending as though I should have been the one with the right to delete him-- after all, he added me!-- but then, relief. For now I don't need to know anything about him, and he doesn't need to know anything about me. I can be finally be really angry, indifferent, whatever, without him popping up randomly every once in a while-- online or in real life, now that we live in different cities.

I realized several days later that for the first time in nearly 10 years, I didn't wish him happy birthday. I didn't even remember it was his birthday.

And, a week after his birthday, a mysterious text message on my phone from a number I don't know. "Hi Princess, just wanted to say a quick hello, hope you are well."

(yes, foreshadowing sucks on this one, but at the time, I was genuinely clueless)

I rack my brain for the origins of this number, and then, feeling somewhat guilty about not recognizing it, text back: "Hi! I feel like a jerk, but I lost a bunch of my numbers, so I have no clue who you are."

I text the Duke about this mystery message, and how awkward it is to have to figure out someone's identity. Without skipping a beat, he writes back: "I bet it's TheEx."

Two seconds later: "Haha, I'm hurt! It's your favourite ex."

Who, now, apparently wants to catch up.

And has tricked me into responding with his new cell phone number that of course I would have no way of knowing.

And knows that, while I may not had responded to his initial message, had I know, I'm pathologically incapable of being even a justifiable asshole, and have to respond once a conversation has been "officially started".

And, the whole time, I'm thinking that to delete me on Facebook and then to want to catch up weeks later is just the kind of hypocrite he is.

And I just play it cool, because I don't want him to know that I noticed in the first place.

Fuck.

Does anyone want to give me some lessons in justifiable assholishness?

Things I do that may or may not be really odd

2009-11-04T18:06:00.000-08:00

Yelling at my boyfriend while I'm sleeping.

So a few nights ago, I got home rather late from a concert, and the Duke was hard at work studying for the GREs. He wanted a little tutoring on some of the math concepts, so we chatted for about an hour. When I crawled into bed, I cursed in my head a little, because I realized I was going to less sleep than I had planned before my early morning and long workday. Not too big of a deal, though, as I have functioned on far less sleep.

... or maybe it was a bigger deal than I realized, as about an hour later, I started sleep-chastising my boyfriend. I apparently sternly told him that he should not keep me up when he knows I have an early morning, because now I was only going to get five hours of sleep. One especially weird things about it-- I was seriously dead asleep, yet when he looked at the clock, at that point, there was exactly five hours until I had to get up.

Being overly concerned about my massage therapist.

Recently, I decided that all the blood, sweat, tears and muscle knots created to submit my internship applications early warranted a little spoiling- a full-body massage, to be exact. As I was booked fairly early in the day, I briefly considered not having a shower, as the copious amounts of aromatherapy oils used tend to leave my hair in need of a second washing when I return home. But then I felt like I would be an asshole if I left my legs unshaven, for my massage therapist would be forced to rub my oiled-up stubble. So I had a shower anyways. It was only later that I realized that two day leg stubble was probably far less offensive than many of the bodies she rubs on a regular basis.

Making up characters when I'm playing computer solitaire.

I make the red Queens and the black Queens yell at each other in my head in different voices. They are actually quite catty. The Kings are generally pretty calm and focused throughout the game, while the Jacks act like frat boys, eager to get up on the Queens.

Talking to inanimate objects as though that is somehow more sane than talking to myself.

"Oh, no, I was just talking to the ketchup!"

Using up valuable brain power contemplating various ridiculous scenarios.

For instance, what would happen if I somehow acquired another person's sense of smell, so I was smelling what they were despite being miles away? Or if a stranger from across the world somehow hacked into my sense of vision, how long would it take them viewing the world through my eyes to figure out what city I lived in?

Cleaning while in the shower.

I keep a Magic Eraser behind my body wash, just in case the urge to clean strikes me whilst nude. I like to pretend it is because I am trying to conserve water by doing multiple tasks at once. Really, it is just because I'm neurotic, and some days I just want the soap scum to be gone.

So, what's the verdict? And what do you do that is equally odd?

The psychology of leaving

2009-11-01T14:24:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who has always dreamed of going to work in Australia. It was, of course, after she'd fallen in love that all the sudden the pieces, seemingly out of nowhere, fell together. She is leaving in a matter of months. I saw them on Friday, and although they are trying to just be together until she goes, there is this wall that has grown out of nowhere. It is like neither of them want to risk falling any harder, with the end so in sight.

I think she would stay if he asked her to. But he will never ask.

***

I sent off my first application on Wednesday. I thought it would feel cathartic, but it didn't. It felt like I had swallowed a ball of static electricity.

***

I put on a sweater this morning. The sleeves felt taut. It appeared to have shrunk in the wash.

I usually would find an excuse to keep it, telling myself I could wear it over a thin tank top, that the colour goes well with my eyes. Now I just want to get rid of it, telling myself that it is a waste of a hanger, that it would take up the space of something more useful in a moving box.

***

Things always acquire a different flavour when you know that there is a definitive conclusion coming, even if it is months away. I knew I wanted to leave my job, but it didn't seem particularly imperative. But now that I have officially given notice, everything about it seems grating. All the minute flaws are suddenly as subtle as sirens.

I'm trying my damnedest to go on living as normal as possible. After all, I always knew life here was never supposed to be permanent. But, still, with application deadlines looming, it has become a lot more difficult to not focus on the countdown. My friend starts talking about going to a haunted house next Halloween, when suddenly I realize I will not be here then.

I don't think it is just the fact that I will be somewhere else. I have always had a sense of my location as being temporary ever since what seemed like a traumatic move across the province when I was 10. I grew up knowing that ambition necessitated leaving my small home town. I knew grad school necessitated leaving the city where I did my undergrad. And I know internship requires leaving here, and that his PhD requires leaving my internship city, and then jobs will necessitate us leaving that city. As the cliche goes, the only real certainty right now is him and I and change.

But that not knowing is what tarnishes everything. It's not that I won't be here next Halloween, but that I don't know where I'll be. And as much as my mind tries to simultaneously make a plan for each of the ten places I could be, it's not the same.

It's not that I'm scared- I'm not. If I've learned anything over the past decade, it's that I am more adaptable and independent that most. I can't help but laugh at how stifling life would be if I had it planned out to the same degree as some of my friends, with their how many months they should date before marriage and then how many more months more until children. I like having faith that I can be happy without such a concrete plan.

I'm just having a hard time staying in the present these days.

And more words.

2009-10-27T14:40:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's official-- I miss writing.

Well, that’s a bit of a deceptive statement. It’s not like my fingers have exactly become unfamiliar with the keyboard. It’s more that my writing as of late has been of the “why-I-am-going-to-be-the-most-fabulous-intern-ever” genre (or, you know, the neuropsych report I am technically writing in my office as we speak… if anyone asks). So much self-promotion gets a little tiresome. Perhaps I just miss being a little more honest, verbose, jaded, sarcastic, and more flexible on my use of punctuation.

Of course, this is about the least convenient time ever to try to squeeze an additional hobby somewhere in my overflowing life. I fear a little that adding even a tablespoon more of demands or obligations may result in a full scale flood, which may explain why even thinking about opening up my Google Reader feels slightly like drowning.

The multiple tabs open on my computer right now shout at me: DEADLINES. DECISIONS. RESPONSIBILITIES. This may explain why I want to aimlessly write again. It hearkens back to times of what seem like leisure (if my life has ever really been leisurely), when I would curl up on the couch, drinking tea and barefooted, with nothing planned for the next hour except to get a little lost in ideas.

It is funny noticing the changes that not writing brings out in me.

I pay less attention a lot of the time, to conversation going on behind me, the scenes flying by my window. I almost block these all out, with headphone, sunglasses, games on my phone.

Still, some days I come home, and douse the Duke with words, sentences, anecdotes.

I haphazardly recount stories to friends, who seem a little bit perplexed by the randomness of it all.

I keep other thoughts to myself, not sure what the purpose is in expressing them.

I think a lot. Probably too much sometimes.

I miss the interactions I used to have with people who knew me exclusively through my words. Some of us do keep in touch, but things naturally tend to fade when the main source of connection disappears. I miss not needing to worry if someone “got it”, for as convoluted as my ramblings may sometimes be, someone always did. I miss 2am emails and laughing at my computer screen. I miss those lightbulb over the head moments, when a piece magically writes itself.

I miss my words.

Why me pre-coffee and noxious chemicals don't get along

2009-10-06T11:26:00.000-07:00

6:42 am.

I'm staring at myself bleary-eyed in the mirror.

I notice the remnants of yesterday's mascara smudged around my eye, so I grab a cotton pad, douse it in liquid, and press it against my right eye.

IT BURNS.

Wincing, I manage to pry open my eye, and splash some water into. I turn my good eye to the counter to see not a small blue bottle of eye make-up remover, but a large pink bottle.

I have just put nail polish remover in my eye.

I've never been so happy to not read "Please avoid contact with eyes" in my life.

Unpredictability

2009-10-05T14:12:00.000-07:00

It was a typical date for us in its lack of typicality: Afgani food and an independent zombie flick. We walked home, hand-in-hand, through our shortcut in the courtyard of a generic condo complex, the full moon's light bouncing off the patio windows. He was speaking of deja vu, and how he believed that certainly times in your life are more prone to deja vu simply because you recollect them more frequently.

"I think I will think back to this year often," he says.

I have a tendency towards not just trying to remember past events, but trying to place myself back in the same head space I was at the time. I try to pretend as though I am blind to the outcomes that came to bear, as if I can't remember how everything turned out in the end, as though I am naive when I am back in these stories. Perhaps this is why I write, because it is the closest I can ever come to being back there again, without hindsight sneaking in and tinting things just a little.

"I think the weirdest thing about reminiscing about this year is that we are never going to be able to capture this uncertainty that overlies everything," I say. "We'll instead look back knowing how it all turned out, and it will turn into a scene from a movie, with false bits of foreshadowing weaved in. You remember things differently when you know how it ends."

But right now, fingers interwoven on a Sunday night, we don't know how it ends. We just know that 365 days from now, I'm going to be somewhere far away from this courtyard, and he is going to be somewhere else. We may be a short train ride away, or instead separated by security checks and several hours in the air. I may be in the Prairies or in an Eastern metropolis. He may be in the United States or in Canada. The logistics will follow.

This uncertainty walks that tight-rope between blessing and curse. In some ways, I feel lucky for having given myself the flexibility to live somewhere else for a year, to be able to gather the stories about the nuances of another city, and then to move on yet again, to join him somewhere else new. There is something romantic about the idea of him and I in a new place, about becoming home to each other in a city where everything else is new and still lacks a those firm connections.

But then there is this year apart. People all echo the same generic statements. "It's just a year," they repeat, despite the fact that they haven't even considered moving to a different neighbourhood. A year is still 365 days, which is 365 nights not waking up beside him.

I also notice that this uncertainty is starting to carve out boundaries between me and others. My mother, who I only see once a season if I'm lucky, despite me only being 8 hours away, grows quieter when I discuss the ambiguity of my future. Some of my friends seem to be inching away, as their lives become more concrete. They speak of raising kids in proximity to one another, of buying houses nearby, and I am subtly distanced from them, my next ten years still remaining an abstract concept, with seemingly exponential possible outcomes, which become tiresome to consider after a while.

Then again, maybe the one concrete thing I have right now is that uncertainty, that excitement, that unpredictability, those multiple possibilities. Maybe I shouldn't be in such a rush to nail my life down. Maybe I, too, will frequently look back on this year of unwritten possibilities. After all, we all have decades of predictability to come if we want it.

My hypothetical life on a hill

2009-08-16T23:36:00.000-07:00

San Francisco makes my heart hurt a little.

There's something about a city determined by geography that appeals to me. I don't understand the connection people have to those metropolises that have just been dumped randomly onto an empty plain. Sure, I recognize the practicality of such spaces, but I find them utterly lacking in character. Perhaps it just appears that because of their lack of need to consider the environment around them, these cities aren't quite as conscious of their surrounding. When you are built in a valley or on the shore, the features of the outdoors suddenly become such a necessary part of day-to-day life, whether it be your daily bridge crossing or the hike up the hill to the grocery store.

Sure, more often than not, these realities of the environment are actually a hassle. I have cursed the fact that the mountains and ocean shores in make for a series of awkward bridges, curvy roads and traffic jams in the city I live in, as compared to the convenient bold highways dumped in the middle of prairie cities. And the hills of San Francisco, while picturesque, certainly make for gasps for air, squealing brakes, and aching toes, even without an armload of groceries.

But these hills are just so damn beautiful. I adore how you turn a corner and are suddenly greeted by an unexpected and dramatic view, how the bottom floors of houses are cut into a diagonal by the sidewalk, how the old houses loom above the people walking their dogs below. Perhaps it is from growing up on the sides of a mountain, but hills just feel like home to me somehow.

As I wander about the streets, I am a little insatiable in searching out the details. I feel compelled to peer down every corner and sneak a glimpse into any open backyard, just to make sure I'm not missing something. I feel like I'm playing dress-up, adult-style; instead of wearing a tiara and pretending I am a princess, I masquerade as a local. I ride public transit and decide which coffee shop would be my coffee shop. I start imagining all the things I would do in my new San Francisco life. These include taking naps with my cat in my bay window, growing herbs on my roof, and having serious phone conversations on my front stoop. I even briefly consider taking up smoking in my hypothetical life just for the satisfaction of having a formal reason for climbing out my window onto the fire escape late at night.

And then he told her he loved her in Lord of The Rings

2009-08-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

The scene: At a pub with the Duke and a single male friend of his, who we will hereby refer to as Alex. We have just exchanged a few words with two women at the table to the right, one of whom Alex finds rather fetching.

Alex: That girl kind of reminds me of the guy from The Matrix.

The Duke: Who, Keanu Reeves?

Alex: No, the other guy.

Me: Lawrence Fishburne?

Alex: No, you know, the Agent Smith guy.

Me: She reminds you of Hugo Weaving?!?!

Alex: Yeah!

The Duke: Dude, I hope this is something you already know, but seriously, don't ever, ever tell a girl that she looks like Hugo Weaving.

Partying like it's 1999

2009-08-03T22:42:00.000-07:00

As mentioned, oh, about two posts below, this weekend involved the latest attempt to convince me I am an adult: my 10 year high school reunion.

Truth be told, it was really quite a low-key affair, nowhere near deserving the significance it has accrued in pop culture and people's nightmares. Only about a third of my small town grad class made it out to any of the events, due to a silly bout of high school drama about the lack of planning of a formal event, along with those "real life" responsibilities that keep us from venturing back home at a moment's notice. Sunday afternoon was the "formal" reunion, really just a picnic in the park with little ones running about in all their resplendent cuteness. Saturday night, however, I declared "pretend you are 18 again night", and hosted a party at my parents' house, much like I was known to do when I was actually 18.

Of course, one can't have a grad reunion party without at least a few random observations, highlights, and not-so-highlights, can they?

Us late 20-ers can't drink nearly as prolifically as we used to. My mom actually made fun of the number of full cans of beer and half drunk bottle of vodka remaining. I personally had to call it quits post-Jager shots, despite the calls to bust out the tequila.
The guy who used to be skinny and wear thick glasses who has now had laser eye surgery and has buffened up will find an excuse to take off his shirt after a few drinks, no matter how ridiculous.
The guy who dumped me in Grade 11 and the next month made out with my friend while we were all sleeping on the same mattress felt the need to announce very loudly, on numerous occasions, that we had slept together. So much for my discretion over a decade ago. He also told me approximately six times that he was sooooo proud of me while tightly hugging me.
When mentioning that my boyfriend could not make it out due to having to finish off his Masters thesis, several people declared him to be but a fiction, and referred to his name in air quotes for the rest of the night.
In a perhaps less than sober attempt to prove his existence, I then called the Duke at 1am and passed around the phone to random people to talk to him.
I will admit to being more flattered than I should after overheard a guy, in his rankings of the hotness of the girls of the party, declare me the winner. Even though I disagree with the idea of ranking hotness in principle. It just takes a little flattery to make a hypocrite out of me.
It is a little funny to hear that the meanest of all the mean girls, who was known to threaten to beat up smaller girls at random, yours truly included (and very out of the blue, I may add), had declared that she would never come to our high school reunion, stating "Why would I want to see those assholes again?" Wait, we're the assholes?
Someone actually pulled out my parents' copy of my Masters thesis at 4am, and started drunkenly reading it aloud, while inserting random words like "butterflies" and "sex" into it.
Only one person asked me when I was getting married.
Sublime makes me happy. However, a lot of the other music on the kitschy 90s hits station I put on to reminisce was a little weaker-- hello, C&C Music Factory.
It is funny to realize you missed someone more than expected. It is also funny how seamlessly some interactions can flow, despite all the time and space in between.

Words on my mind

2009-07-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

Lately, when my mind needs a break from report-writing or stats or whatever task is keeping me on a computer and away from the sunshine, I've found myself meandering back to this site and flipping through my archives. As the words take me back in time, I'm experiencing a weird kind of ambivalence.

Part of me can't help but think "Damn, I was good"- but I'm not sure whether this is inspirational or intimidating. Maybe it is because I'm out of practice at this whole blogging thing, but the words don't come out as seamlessly as they used to. Even though my mind is still as busy as ever, the idea of translating it all into relatable paragraph form is overwhelming and a little scary.

I guess I'm just uncomfortable with this in between state my blog has fell into. I've never been good with ambivalence. I need things to be explicit. As such, I keep on pressuring myself to make a decision about this blog. Do I formally call it quits? Do I start writing again?

When I read back, I know I don't want these words to disappear. I want to have the freedom of having a place to file them when they start spilling over. But, at least in this moment, I also don't know if I can handle the formality of actual starting to write regularly again. Right now, I don't know if the creativity juices are flowing enough to do this frequently. I don't know if I have the time- even writing this, I'm taking away from much needed work time.

And I don't know why on earth I feel the need to pressure myself into making such a formal decision. After all, what's wrong with having a half-assed blog?

The space of ten years

2009-07-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia is a little more prescriptive at some times than others.

It is a downright predictable feeling over the past week, what with the emails zipping about regarding the ten year high school reunion occurring in a mere two and a half weeks. It certainly doesn't help that a few of the more adolescent traits have returned with this reminder, with the with-children arguing with the without-children about venues and alcohol consumption, sprinkled with a good sized dose of sarcasm and small seeds of resentment that have somehow remained over the past decade.

My flight is booked. I've decided to avoid asserting the seemingly ubiquitous distaste for everything associated with high school, and rather uncooly admit that I actually didn't mind high school so much. I've also firmly decided to avoid the social comparison pre-requisite that is seemingly petrifying others. Why should the fact that I am unmarried and still renting matter any more to me on this particular day?

But, yes, emails from names you have not seen in print for a long while certainly do get you thinking. It was under this reminiscence that I pulled out an overstuffed photo album from the back of my closet, planning to flip through as I made dinner, thinking "I can't believe it's already been ten years."

This is the photo album, really, containing the most detailed picture of my late adolescence except for perhaps the handscrawled diaries hiding in a box in my parents' attic. It spans from my surprise 16th birthday party all the wall to just past my going away party, at 19, when I left my small hometown to move to the big city.

I flip through the pages, and there I am.

There's me with blonde hair, orange hair, red hair, brown hair.

There's me smiling, back against the heater in my high school.

There's me, arm in the air, proudly brandishing a giant bottle of Baby Duck sparking wine.

There's me, my arms around my best friends on my parent's reclining couch.

There's me, sitting on a boy's lap.

There's me, rushing into the icy water for a New Years Polar Bear swim.

There's me, dancing.

The thing that can't help but notice is just how young I truly am. My eyes look so much bigger, my posture more awkward, my arms slight, my clothing just that little bit askew. Occasionally, there is a photo of me stretching, unaware as my flat torso peaks out, so much less conscious of my body. I am so much littler than I remember. I can't believe this young girl thought she was so very grown up, was having sex, was behind the wheel of a car.

It's a little shocking, to feel like those memories were just yesterday, then to see the physical realities of how long ago they really were. It is certainly provided a quick jolt reminding me that I am, in fact, really an adult.

I can't believe it's only been ten years.

Cheese covered girly bits

2009-06-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

Okay.
I really do swear that, contrary to recent posting trends, I am seriously on a hiatus.

However, sometimes I do something so ridiculous that it needs to be shared.

So, today, I'm at lunch at the campus pub, celebrating a friend's successful thesis defense. I've ordered a veggie burger with cheese, and when it arrives, the server points at some napkin-wrapped cutlery across the table. I reach for it.

Just as I am going to put my burger together, a guy across the table says, "So, you like cheese, hey?"

I pause. "Yeah, why?"

He laughs.

"No, seriously, " I reply. "I feel like I'm missing something here."

He tells me to look at my shirt.

I have somehow managed to dunk my left breast in the melting cheese on my burger. It appears as though I have an engorged flaky cheddar areola.

Did I mention that I defend my PhD proposal this afternoon?

Yeah.

The past month

2009-06-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

Things I've learned over a month without blogging...

Not writing down every spare thought really does make for a lot more free time.

I'm most tempted to break my self-imposed no blogging rule when I've been drinking.

I get a lot fewer emails.

I worry about my first *real* post back, and that I will forget how to write.

I also worry that if I don't write a little update every now and then, I may disappear into a deep dark internet wasteland, along with chat rooms, my old MySpace account and other things that used to be semi-cool.

I miss random people at random times. Out of the blue, I will wonder what one of you is up to.

I need to use the thesaurus a lot more when I do write something. It's like my brain has already stopped remembering the more poetic synonyms.

***

I'm still away. I just felt the need to cheat and say hello.

Time out

2009-05-19T11:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-05-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-10T22:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-04T17:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-03T18:29:00.000-07:00

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.

The burden of reality

2009-04-29T13:17:00.000-07:00

Reality can be a mighty bitch somedays, what with her regulations, to do lists, and the like.

Her latest trick? Crushing my intentions to scurry over the border to Portland for a year to do my internship. Despite the fact that our internship programs are supposed to be a North American wide system, apparently all the VA hospitals in the U.S. are closed to Canadian students.

*Princess pouts and stomps her feet*

Granted, there are a few other internships available in the area, but they aren't good fits for me, and I promised myself I would make this experience more about the program than using it as a crutch to live a glamourous life in my city of choice.

Next thing, they are going to tell me that my pet unicorn has been delayed at customs. Daydream crushing bastards.

What cruel thing has reality thrown at you lately?

Cities

2009-04-27T23:46:00.000-07:00

Some people, while kind and polite and every other generic positive characteristic, just aren't terribly memorable. They are pleasant to sit beside at a dinner party, but you may never have another thought about them once you walk out the door.

I find cities can be the same way. While it is rare that I actively dislike a city, I find it entirely disconcerting how apathetic I can feel about them. They all have their cliched tourist attractions, be it their random museum, their ubiquitous waterfront pathways, their concrete shopping meccas. And while these may capture my attention for a series of moments, I always find myself looking for something about the city to speak more directly to me. I can't just let my only snapshot of it be the billboards around the highway to and from the airport, the tacky wall art in a hotel, the abstract patterned carpets in the conference centres, the glass walled skyscrapers. If this is all I see, I can't help but resent the five hour plane ride and taxi rides. I think that I could find this very same experience in my backyard. I wonder what drives people to live there, versus anywhere else in the world, and wish I had the time to figure that out.

Other cities just have an immediate spark. These aren't always the ones I would predict. While I loved the warm beaches and the people watching in Los Angeles, or I found the life amidst the crumbling buildings in Havana fascinating, they remained with me more as stories than a continued connection. I become a little insatiable in wanting to know these cities that I sense this spark in, to breathe them in, wander down random streets, to know all the banal details, like where people get their groceries and walk their dogs.

Montreal, for instance, has an instant charm. It could be that there is something both comfortable and exotic about feeling French flowing off my tongue again, hearing the rolling r's echoing out of my mouth. It could also be that it is such a stark contrast to the modernity of other Canadian metropolises, with its dramatic stone buildings, its cafes spilling into the streets, its steep staircases up the sides of homes. Even the most dilapidated neighbourhoods have this layer of character that other cities lack, making me wish to take photos of the chattering Greek men lined up outside a ramshackle cafe or the bold neon signs shouting "Club Supersexe!"

I was able to predict that I would like Chicago as soon as I started planning my trip there. Granted, when I emerged from an underground train into the looming buildings of the financial district, rolling bag in tow, the details of the city were a little overwhelming. However, in my week there, I relished the detailed architecture and the public art. I found myself picturing my life in a brick apartment building, drinking at the local pub. More than anything, I loved the unique flavour of the different neighbourhoods, how they felt like real communities in a sea of millions.

I just returned from a week in Portland. Often, when I travel, I feel a little vigilant and hyperaware the first few days as I grow accustomed to my surroundings. Portland put me at ease near immediately. People are kind, it is clean, easy to navigate, relaxed, without feeling small or quaint or boring. Although I could list off the features I adored, like the green parks and the eclectic market, it was more just a sense that walking the streets felt comfortable.

I suppose this is one of the best things about travel-- the idea of finding these connections in random locales. So, tell me, what cities have you felt an immediate connection to?

Roadtripping notes

2009-04-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

So I think Hope might be right when she says that I am craving a little impulsivity, for I have decided, upon seeing approximately a ten block radius of Portland, Oregon (oh, and their section of the I-5) that I should probably live here. Let's see if this impression holds up when I venture out during the daylight!

The Duke and I rented some wee little car and jetted down to Portland yesterday. The official reason? I am speaking at a conference that begins on Thursday. The unofficial reason? Roadtrips rule.

Also, the Duke hasn't been to the US since a childhood trip to Yellowstone Park at around 10 years old, despite the fact that we live about less than an hour away from the border. This means I get to pretend to be all worldly. "Oh, darling, you know they have different currency here, right? And beer in convenience stores?"

(Side note- My impression of a car rental company: "Oh hi. Look at our super cheap and flashy website. We are a million times easier than taking a bus! *go to pick up rental car* Oh, whoops, our website had no mention of the complete and utter lack of any insurance in that cute little price... which is actually more than the actual cost of renting the car!")

So what did yesterday's adventures entail?

The Duke making us stop at Jack in the Box because we don't have it in Canada. All we know about Jack in the Box is that it once killed somebody and the commercials are really damn annoying.

Now having actually dined there? I'm not entirely sure there is a reason for it to exist. Especially at every single highway exit.

Also, I'm not a big fan of the big bolded calories right next to the prices, especially since I noticed them after ordering. I'm not happy about being at Jack in the Box in the first place. I certainly don't need to know that my chicken strips have approximately half my daily recommended calories in them.

Though curly fries are always a good thing, and lead one to wondering about the rad assembly line that makes said curly fries.

Me trying desperately not to belt out the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs too loudly. The Duke may have been with me for years now, but I'm still not sure he can entirely handle that.

Getting lost in Olympia trying to find Dairy Queen.

Getting a crash course (not literally!) in converting miles to kilometres.

Rushing to check into the hotel in time for a playoff hockey game, only to discover that out of four ESPNs, not a single one was playing hockey. A re-run of a football game, but not playoff hockey.

We had to resort to a livestream a few inches wide on a laptop.

I am way too excited about HBO, Forever 21, mashed potatoes with cheese in them, and free robes that are so big on me it looks like I am being devoured by a terrycloth monster. The Duke is excited about the proliferation of microbreweries.

We watched Fox News before bed, simply because it is a bit of an urban legend up in Canada (we only get CNN on regular cable). It was everything I could have dreamed. And I had nightmares about Glenn Beck.

Today? If I can get the Duke unwrapped from the sheets in our king sized bed, we're jaunting off to the Oregon Coast. And I should probably, you know, practice my talk, as not to contradict my "official" reason for being here.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

2009-04-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

Envy is my deadly sin, if we're to be specific.

Now, before I launch into my tale, I want to make a few things clear. First, I know this entire reaction is silly and irrational. I am aware than I have a damn good life, and to imagine something different would be to picture something entirely disingenuous to who I am. I know that given the choice, I would remain wearing the same shoes I am now, as despite them being less shiny than others, they fit me a hell of a lot better.

That being said, what is the purpose of having an anonymous blog if not to write longwinded posts complaining about petty things?

So... I took an impulsive surprise trip to HomeTown for the Easter long weekend. As part of the process of surprising my mom, upon arriving, I went directly to my little sister's house.

By sister's house, I mean the house recently purchased by her new boyfriend. By new boyfriend, I mean her boss, who is 12 years her senior, and who she moved in with after dating for two months.

By house, I mean something a lot more glamourous than anything we lived in growing up. I mean three bathrooms, jacuzzi tub, amazing view, so many extra bedrooms that they can spare a "studio" for their brand new hobby of painting on top of the usual spare bedrooms and office-- plus shiny new non-Ikea real furniture. On top of this, they have jumped full speed into responsible homeowner's mode, speaking of replacing hardwood floors, knocking down walls, landscaping, putting in a hot tub. My sister speaks in confident tones, making statements such as "Well, I certainly don't want to sell anytime in the near future" and "I'm not sure if I like his idea of building a suite in the garage, although it would help with the mortgage."

In other words, my sister jumped from broke and moving back in with the parents to a half million dollar home (in a town where that actually buys a lot)-- all in one fell swoop.

And me? Well, since graduating high school, I suppose you could describe my trajectory as consistent... upwards and mediocre paced. I've done all the practical things... multiple degrees, paying off my credit card balance, putting off buying a car, working while going to school, keeping separate bank accounts, waiting the appropriate amount of time to take the next relationship step. And, well, to show for it... I'm living in the nicest one-bedroom I've ever lived in. And while it does have a dishwasher, a substantial lack of spiders, and actually room to move, it certainly doesn't have a backyard, and guests get to sleep on the (admittedly comfy) couch.

So, yes, although I will only admit this in whispers through gritted teeth or with several beverages in me-- I'm a little jealous. I'm almost too much of the poster child for making sound decisions, and my sister is anything but-- and she is the one living the high life as we speak.

I know what comes out of everyone else's mouth when I do admit this. "But you'll be better off in the long term".

I might snap if I hear the words "long term" one more time. I have been thinking in terms of the future since I started university nearly ten years ago. Almost everything in my life is decided for with the "long term" in mind. Anytime I describe plans for the future, it has twelve steps in between.
"Well, first I will finish my dissertation, then I have to move for my year internship, then we go to the city where the Duke is finishing his PhD and I will get registered and hopefully find a job, then we probably move once he's finished to a place with a good university for him to work at... and then we can relax! That or it is time for me to take my maternity leave."

More than anything, I am probably envious of how simple it all seems to be for her right now. In the middle of a never ending to do list, I yearn for that simplicity. Even though I know this is probably just a clear case of grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side syndrome, of wanting what you can't have. As the Duke points out to me, I would be horrible at living a quiet life. I need to bust my butt to get what I want. It's in my basic chemistry.

The truth is, she's happy. I see it in her eyes when she's with him. And so am I. In my life, and for her. Just because I'm envious doesn't mean she doesn't deserve this happiness. So I probably owe a few hail marys for this one.

The statistic down the hall

2009-04-15T22:35:00.000-07:00

A friend of his gave my boyfriend cocaine for his birthday.

Nevermind that he has never done cocaine and doesn't intend to do cocaine. It is a little reminiscent of adolescent peer pressure, like when I was convinced that it was a really good idea to serve as the requisite "egg" in a rambunctious trampoline game of crack the egg or to try a dip of chewing tobacco. (Note- These weren't good ideas. At all.) This is the same friend who encouraged us to try to hunt down some Cuban cocaine while traveling- yes, the same country with the shady communist regime and that tried to kill us with something as banal as a hamburger.

So, despite the Duke telling him how absurd this suggestion was, he has decided to try another strategy- the classic selfish birthday gift, kind of like when Homer gave Marge the bowling ball. He apparently wants another stimulant buddy.

It's on occasions like this when it occurs to me how naive I can be. It's not as though I'm blind to drugs. I grew up in a town where pot smoking was practically a formalized afterschool program. I came of age in the rave era, where, as I danced under strobe lights with outstretched arms, friends were frantically hugging all those around them on an ecstasy buzz or tripping out on a bushel of pillows in a corner. But I guess I just assumed that people just got over it.

Sure, we all hear of the academic-type distinction between functional and dysfunctional drug addicts. We're told that there are just as many uber-successful briefcased types snorting cocaine off bathroom sinks on the weekend as there are junkies passed out with needles on their arms in a back alley. Still, though I agreed with this on principle, I never quite expected the reality of it.

I didn't occur to me that academics in their early 30s were really wiping the white stuff off their noses between teaching classes and writing manuscripts. I was shocked that with the revelation of one friend, the tumbling domino effect that followed, in which I suddenly realized that a number of the people I'd had beers with had also become semi-regular cocaine users. I was also amazed at the lack of discretion, the expectation that this was a casual enough of a hobby to just drop in conversation, like the movie he saw last weekend.

And, suddenly, I was reminded of the time this happened before, of the fellow down the hall in a former apartment building. I used to borrow sugar from him and watch the Sopranos at his place on quiet weeknights. Only when he was evicted was he revealed to have a fierce cocaine habit while being smart enough to wait until we were back in our apartment to pull out his baggie.

It's always an odd revelation that the statistics are the same people you are having lunch with.

Taste of salt

2009-04-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

Written after my first full day in Cuba.

8pm in Varadero. I'm barefoot on our deck. The sky is the consistency of muddled blackberries and a breeze rustles the palm leaves. It is eerily quiet, with only the melody of cicadas and the resonance of the shower seeping through the silence. Everyone here seems to prefer the company of the noise and crowds in the lobby bar to the still humidity elsewhere.

My skin is sticky with the residue of sweat, sunscreen and sea water. My lips taste faintly of salt. He finds such textures unnerving, and frequently dashes to the shower to rinse them off. I find it almost a little sensual, a reminder that I am in the tropics, the land of thick air.

Perhaps there is part tropic in me, for my skin absorbs the tint of the sun almost like a sponge. He tells me I look somehow more appropriate with this hue in my cheeks, as though it makes my features, my dark eyes and olive tinged complexion, look more at home. I also love the freedom my limbs have in the heat. Instead of being restrained by the puddles or frost, they are free to loll around in the softness of a loose sundress, my toes sinking in the sand.

It feels more comfortable here when there are fewer people around. While I had my face pressed to the bus window as we drove through town, I find the people watching in resorts almost infuriatingly stagnant. Sunburned flesh, speedos, fanny packs, drunken self righteousness. We are not entirely cut out for the land of all-inclusive. Today I saw a fat man ash his cigar in the middle of a swimming pool and I wanted to scream.

The employees are deceptive in trying to keep us in the confines of this odd compound. They overact being shocked when we ask for information on the actual city of Varadero, or, worse yet, the "regular" bus to Havana. They feign ignorance, encourage us to go on a tour instead.

On the bright side, there are pina coladas for free, $2 mickeys of rum, all you can eat ice cream, and towels shaped like swans. There is also sand soft like cotton sheets, and water the lightest and sheerest shade of turquoise I've ever seen. And there is the taste of salt on his lips after he laughs at me when I fail to avoid the breaking of a wave in my face, and I chase him in slow motion through the pulse of the tide. I suppose that makes it worth all the drunk fanny-pack wearers in the world.

The Mechanics of Falling

2009-04-12T18:24:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer and other such babbling: Since I made the decision to post my email address on this page, I've received a number of marketing appeals. It seems the blog is the way of the future in terms of advertising, be it a used car website or a new form of cell phone mediated dating. I even received an email offering me free tampons... in return for a review of my experiences with them on this site. (I can feel the massive sighs of disappointment that I declined this gracious offer).

However, recently, I received an offer that appeared legitimate-- to review a book (and not a self-help book... as recently discussed, I simply don't do those). The premise was simple- I get a free copy of the book in exchange for a review of it. An honest review, even- believe it or not, I will not sell my soul for $30 or so. Even better, it seems like Trish of TLC Book Tours had actually given my blog a read before sending me the offer- unlike the clandestine singles meeting via cell phone fellow- as it was a book that looked to genuinely appeal to me. Hence why I am harkening back a few years in what I hope doesn't sound too much like a book report...

***

I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with short stories. On the one hand, they can remind me too much of high school, in their attempts to pour gallons of symbolism into a few pages. On the other hand, it can be a little delicious to consume an entire take in one sitting, with no pauses or bathroom breaks.

Still, though, if a short story is well-written, with engaging characters, it can be a disarming process to consume a whole tale at once. I am the type of person who feels there is a ceremony in reading. I can't merely close a book and pick up the next one. I wait at least a day to let it simmer. If there is nothing leftover to simmer, it is likely they had very little substance to begin with.

The stories in Catherine Brady's The Mechanics of Falling need time to simmer. It isn't that they are overly convoluted and need deciphering, but rather that you can't simply turn the page at their conclusion and move onto the next one. You feel as though you owe the characters more than that. In fact, one of my only complaints about this set of stories is that they end too abruptly sometimes. Then again, in a book about falling, it would be a little deceptive to not have these tales conclude a little like hitting the ground. As a reader, though, it takes a few minutes to reflect on that sudden tumble, to imagine how the character then picks themselves off the ground.

This is a collection of eleven stories, of an amazingly diverse set of characters, from a man who abandons his family to dedicate his life to Christ and a homeless shelter, to a family overcome by the realities of a house that seems dedicated to drowning and overwhelming them, to a college drop-out caught up in a tangled sort of romance with a horse trainer. In some ways, they are linked by the depth of the seemingly most ordinary of events. These are not stories of epic romances, or disasters, or confrontations, but rather the nuances of real life, and the fact that these little idiosyncrasies may have greater effects than the massive crises we see in the news or depicted in blockbuster films. They are also tales linked by, as quoted in the book jacket, "moments when the seemingly fixed coordinates of our existence abruptly give way." They are on the verge of a very real fall, prepared or not.

One of my favourite stories is "Slender Little Things", the tale of Cerise, a single mother, and her precocious daughter. The essence of the story is woven masterfully through the very first paragraph, with each sentence later linking to another segment of the story. Cerise struggles in her relationship with her 16 year old daughter, Sophie, as shown in the segment below:

Sophie was not closing her first over some last small thing, not relinquishing but multiplying her needs. No longer was she satisfied for Cerise to simply crush a spider's body with a balled up tissue. Sophie was sure it had been a female spider, its body full of microscopic eggs, and Cerise must wash the wall with disinfectant, or hundreds of baby spiders would hatch and come after Sophie. How could Sophie allow that man to touch her? Cerise knew from experience what a man his age wanted from a sixteen-year old girl. A stock boy at the drugstore where Sophie worked after school, a high-school dropout, and the one time Cerise had met him, too lazy to fit his belt through all the belt loops on his baggy jeans. Sophie, who sat up late at night finishing papers and already kept a file for college applications, did not even bother to defend him to Cerise.

The funny thing about these tales is that you forget they are but snippets. Often, I find that I spent the first few pages of a short story trying to place the characters, the setting, get it all lined up in my head. With Brady's stories, within a few pages I'd forgotten it was a short tale I was reading. It was more like a novel, with characters I'd gotten to know over a multitude of chapters. It is a talent to be able to say so much with fewer words.

(You can read an excerpt of another story here, and an interview with Catherine Brady that gives a little more insight onto this collection here. And, of course, you can purchase the book here.)

Translation FAIL

2009-04-10T01:12:00.000-07:00

Reasons not to eat a one dollar burger from a bus stop cafe in Havana

2009-04-09T02:20:00.000-07:00

... alternatively titled "Sometimes I miss McDonald's for its predictability. And the fact that it doesn't try to kill me."

Havana

2009-04-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

A dog lies dead on the sidewalk in Parque Central.

For a moment, I believe it to be sleeping, an odd moment of peace in contrast to the pulse of the rest of Havana. Then I realize that I am perhaps the only one who has paused to notice.

It is not so much that it is chaos here, like that you expect in a Moroccan market or a New York subway. It is more that Havanans are just so busy living. The line between the public and private is hardly even a line, but more a series of vague fuzzy dashes.

People are living everywhere- in the tops of formal looking ornate buildings, amidst crumbling walls. Their lives leak out into the streets. In fact, the streets are their front yards, sidewalks serving as baseball fields. They hold conversations from their narrow balconies with the people below, as though they are merely across a table from one another. The sidewalks are skinny, and as you squueze along, you can often see into open doors into their front rooms, people having dinner two feet from the curb. Women stand in their doorways, expectantly, less than arms length from all who pace by. Couples kiss each other frantically beneath dropping roofs, mere steps from their friends. Even this home we stay in, up two precarious flights of stairs, is separated from the open hallway by but a wrought iron fence. The walls of the home aren't entirely sealed in from the overlapping roofs, like a bungee corded tarp.

Yet, despite these missing walls, they just live. Unlike us, they don't lock two doors behind them before they face the world. The world is always just there.

The great divide (between grad students and non-grad students.)

2009-04-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

The last guest post in this wonderful series is from one of my favourites, in blogging and real life, Distracted Spunk. This post hits a little close to home...

***

Non-grad students say, "It's just school. Why can't you come out on Friday night?"

Grad students respond, "It's Friday? Shit. I thought it was Tuesday. Wait, which week is this?"

Non-grad students gasp and say, "Oh my god, you wrote 82 pages?"

Grad students exclaim, "Is 82 pages enough? I knew it wasn't enough. I have to go write some more."

Non-grad students are secretly thinking, "She used to be so much more interesting before she went to grad school."

Grad students are secretly thinking, "I wonder if that paragraph works in the context of the larger argument. Is my argument clear enough?"

Non-grad students point out, "You used to blog frequently."

Grad students say, "I have a blog? Oh crap, I have a blog!"

Non-grad students talk about all the sex and relationships and adventures they're having.

Grad students talk about their latest conversation with their advisor and whether or not they might be able to publish an article based on their work.

Non-grad students roll their eyes when they come across a faction of grad students.

Grad students nod and shake their heads in shared understanding when they come across a faction of grad students.

If only we mere grad students had a secret handshake. Then our lives would be infinitely more interesting. Or lame.

The Audacity of Hope

2009-04-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

Hi there, I'm Hope. I can usually be found writing navel grazing posts about love (or you know, the lack thereof), relationships and singledom over at Hope Dies Last. When I asked Princess to suggest topics for my guest post she sent me a whole bunch. And I loved them all but as the day approached for me to send her my post, all the subjects I chose felt wrong. This was too depressing, that one was too boring, that one required a complete back story to understand.

Instead, I decided to write about a subject that is close to Princess’ heart.

Psychology.

That was far too broad. It needed to be narrowed. As I drummed my fingers on my desk, I remembered a very brave confession Princess had made recently.

“I have not read any of the following: The Rules, He's Just not That Into You, anything by Dr. Phil, aka. the Devil, or, in fact, any self-help book ever. It is against my psychologist's pride”

This post is in support of that one sentiment.

My background is in psychology; I have a Bachelor of Arts in Social Psychology and a Master of Science in Applied Psychology. I would have pursued a PhD was it not for the fact that I could not make up my mind about an area of research. That, plus you need to have cajones to continue studying for that length of time.

And I really don’t.

But I am also perpetually single. And like most perpetually single women in their 20s, my book shelf contains a number of books.

Why Men Love Bitches and the follow up to that Why Men Marry Bitches

He’s Just Not That Into You

Quirkyalone

I keep them as far away as my serious books as possible. Books like:

The Psychology of Criminal Conduct

Social Cognition

Abnormal Psychology

I keep them as far away as possible because my mind, trained to dissect every piece of research in order to find its weaknesses, wants to laugh at them. But my heart, my heart longs for simple answers, for tried and tested ways to find a man.

The thing is, though, that they haven’t been tried. And they haven’t been tested. Not in the psychological sense anyway. They haven’t been put through rigorous experiments. They don’t have control groups. They don’t account for individual differences. So how can they be generalized to the rest of the population?

Simple answer? They can’t.

These self-help books simply fill in a gap. They are almost like religions. There is no proof of God’s or Allah’s existence. Yet, millions and millions and millions of people believe. They believe because they need a simple answer that will comfort them.

And this is the same gap that titles of books like, “He’s Just Not That Into” fill.

Now they’re not all bad. In fact, overall, the message that they hold in their pages is something I can get on board with. In a nutshell, they all seem to be saying “Be who you are. Enjoy your life to its fullest. Be complete in yourself. Then? Love? It will come.”

It’s the details that I have a problem with. If he does not call within 4 days? He’s just not that into you. If he’s got a girlfriend? He’s just not that into you. Except we ALL know cases where he didn’t call within the allotted time and HE WAS INTO HER. We all know cases he did have a girlfriend. HE WAS INTO HER and it did work out.

It’s the comments that I get on my blog sometimes that irritate me. “Hope, you really need to read He’s Just Not That Into You. Because The Man Friend? HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.”

I never reply to those comments. I don’t reply because I refuse to accept an argument that is based on an OVERHYPED book that has generalized human behavior into about 11 neat categories. Let’s not forget that the authors—Greg Berhendt and Liz Tuccillo—are American. I am not American. The men that I come into contact with are NOT American. There is such a thing as cultural differences, you know?

My point is that all those books should be taken with a very large grain (think mountain-size) of salt. People are different. Every situation is different. Sure, they have similarities and it’s probably NOT a good idea to expect a man with a girlfriend to be your soul mate, but what if he is?

Moreover, it’s like I once wrote on my own blog:

“Perhaps, I do not pick up on those apparently obvious ‘he’s just not that into you’ signals. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because of hope. Perhaps, I choose to ignore them because I am stubborn and proud. Because, why the hell should he not be into me?”

So, my fellow Hijinkers, what do you think? Have you read these books? Do you like them? Dislike them? Have they helped you at all? Have I misunderstood them? Been too harsh? Lets talk about it.

Popcorn FAIL

2009-04-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Hi folks! This guest post comes from one of the sweetest bloggers I've had the fortune to get to know, Gemma of Closets are for Clothes (aka. the blogger formerly known as Libby).

***

Great. One month in to my new job and already I’ve got an incident under my belt that I’m not going to live down anytime soon.

I burnt the popcorn. As in smoked it. As in smoke literally ballooning up in greyish clouds when I opened the microwave door and wafting out the kitchenette doors. As is my eyes were watering and I was coughing.

NOT. COOL. I wanted to melt into the ground, I was so embarrassed.

I mean, it’s not like it’s never been done before, right?! It happens all the time! I mean, it’s practically a fact of life I tell you. But it never fails that no matter how common a boo-boo it is…everyone and their mother will comment about it (my internal retorts to each comment in parentheses):

“WHAT is that SMELL?” (Do I really have to tell you?)

“WHO burned popcorn?” (It was meee ok? IT WAS ME!)

“GAWD can someone open a DOOR or something?” (I don’t even KNOW, I’ve been here a month, if there is one please, do the honours and open it)

“You KNOW that smell is gonna stick to everything in here for, like, a WEEK” (Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in)

“Stop bringing popcorn here, ok?” (UMMM, pretty sure the dozen other times I’ve brought it and popped it perfectly, you were ALL salivating and more than happy to take some.)

_____________________________________________

So yeah, I get it. I’m sure I would have reacted in a similar way if someone else had burned their afternoon snack. I’m extremely embarrassed, but, as I relive it in writing this post, I’m a little indignant as well. Seriously, it was no worse than a “I was just sitting around the campfire” smell. But I apologized. I cleaned the microwave. And now, all we need to do is give time some time and the smell will be gone on its own. I’m crossing my fingers such a trivial incident won’t void the headway I’ve made in terms of working to earn the respect of these people I have to work with. Maybe it’s silly of me, but the worry is really there. So as not to dwell on that, here are some of the ‘positives’ of my popcorn FAIL:

I have the day off tomorrow so I don’t have to deal with people still harping about it until they’ve hopefully cooled off and the smell has hopefully dissipated by Monday.
I’m super grateful to the guys who (in my mind, anyway) seemed to get that I was already embarrassed beyond measure and who played the incident off with jokes of their own (i.e. when asked “how can you stand to go IN [the smoky kitchen]?”, responding “because I’m a MAN.”; or when people were exclaiming WHAT IS THAT SMELL, saying “Oh that? It was me,” rather than singling me out)
My boss had already left when in the incident happened, and may still be absent tomorrow. This is the best case scenario so that he doesn’t smell the strong odour tomorrow. If he IS in…well, at least I’m not, HOWEVER, this also means I won’t be there to be on rumour patrol about me ‘intentionally’ setting the timer to 21:00 minutes…(bugger.)
At least the popcorn didn’t catch fire/blow up/set off any alarms with the smoke. THAT would have been disastrous.

All in all, I’ve learned my lesson.

Notes to self:

TRIPLE-CHECK that the timer on the microwave says 2:10 and not 21:00 minutes before you turn your back on it. Better yet, don’t turn your back on it.
When a tiny voice at the back of your head wonders “Shouldn’t the timer have gone off by now?”, LISTEN TO IT. Do not (I repeat, do NOT) wait until the acrid smell starts to permeate the air. It will be too late.

This truly is the first time this has ever happened to me to this extreme extent when popping popcorn. I think I’m going to stop bringing it to work, or get my own microwave or something. I’ve still got half a giant Costco box to go…

Why Princess of the Universe Is More Qualified for the Spa than Graduate School

2009-03-30T00:03:00.000-07:00

So my darling Princess Pointful asked me to do a post for her while she was away. Of course I view this as more of a favour to me than to her, since all her readers are le fab.

Of course there’s always the dilemma of what to write about on someone else’s space. In my little world? Which is not nearly as well-written as this blog? Well, it ranges from the spa, to chocolate, to my dreams of marrying Jensen Ackles. However! My redemption here today lies in the fact that I can actually write something that borderline relates to this blog.

School. More specifically? My honours Psych thesis.

Ahh my thesis. Until very recently, it was my proudest accomplishment. And since I work in a university now, you’d better believe I talked it up in my interview last summer. That thing caused me so much pain, it better pay me back by getting me a job with a decent salary and awesome benefits. I mean I gave birth to that thing. And labour? Was a bitch.
With all that build-up, I know you’re all DYING to know what my thesis was about. So the oh-so-inspiring title: (uh hold on a sec- as if I remember something that I wrote 11 years ago) Crap. I can’t find it. It was something along the lines of: “Religiosity and Neuroticism’s Effects on Death Anxiety.”
Cool huh? I did a thesis on death. Cause I’m all deep and stuff. Yeah. Until you have every Psychologist in the place asking you very worriedly why you want to write about death, and is there anything you’d like to talk about? It was almost as great as the time that I casually mentioned how stressed I was and it was making me want to slit my wrists.
You know what you don’t say to a Psychologist? That.

I didn’t say I was a brilliant 22 year old.

Anyhow. After several well-meaning and concerned conversations, I was well on my way to studying the D-word.
But to do so? I would have to pass the dreaded 4100. Honours stats. In my defence, I did in fact pass it the first time. But only because I was curved up. And since I was an honours student and all, getting a C or D or whatever I got just wasn’t good enough.

Less in my defense? The fact that I spent the first time around composing stories in class about how I was a princess cursed by the wicked stats fairy at birth, and that was why I just didn’t get it. The second time around I did marginally better, but I suspect that it’s only because I re-copied my assignments from the previous year, and not because I learned so much more.
So after two years of that torture it was time to put it all to good use. I had finally reached the show. So I questioned poor innocent first-years all about how freaked out they were at the concept of death, and how neuroticism was the cause, and how they turned to religion for comfort. And after all that data was collected? Then I had to put that 4100 class to good use. Surely they had tutors to assist right? Oh wait. I had already tried that, to no avail. Oh well, it’s only data analysis – how hard can it really be, right?

As it turns out, not hard at all. Cause all that dos-based programming that they had been training me to do in the SPSS from the dinosaur-age the past two years? Apparently no one actually uses that. Everyone actually uses SPSS for windows. All you have to do is click “analyze” (or some other statistic-y word that I don’t remember at all anymore) and it does it for you.

??!!!??
Ahem. So anyways, after I got over that painful revelation – I carried on with the analyzing. And found that my hypothesis? Wrong. Dead wrong.

Now I know that this is still valuable information, and at least I’ve learned that the opposite of what I conjectured is true. Blah blah blah… But it’s kinda hard not to feel like a failure you know?

It didn’t matter so much by then anyhow. By that point I’d decided that the thought of getting my PhD and listening to people whine about their problems all day was more pain than it was worth. So I accepted my mediocre B+, convocated under duress (University Graduations? Le dull.) and carried on with my life.

And given the chance to do it over? I’d totally do it the same. Well…except I’d maybe pay some nerd to do my Stats homework for me. Cause taking it twice? Phenomenal waste of my valuable undergrad partying time.

Sunshine on my mind

2009-03-27T00:04:00.000-07:00

The thing about graduate school in clinical psychology is that it feels a little never ending. There is no school's out for summer, or look, it's the weekend, so I don't need to work, or woo-hoo, classes are done, that means there is nothing left to do but watch Iron Chef reruns. It is both all encompassing and totally scattered, in that you have to switch gears between the bazillion different specializations you are supposed to master. When class is out, you are running participants. When you're done running participants, you have to analyze data. Don't forget to go to your practicum, and squeeze your regular clients in there, as well as commute to the suburbs for meetings with your case supervisors. Oh yeah, and here's a pile of essays to mark when you have that break between the workshop on clinical challenges, the lab meeting, and the training you are running for the programming software. And what do you mean you haven't published anything yet this year?

It is a go-go-go kind of life, the one where you keep spare journal articles in your purse just in case you have a moment to read them. (Seriously. I do that. People make fun of me when I go to fish out a pen and pull out a jumble of stapled together papers instead.)

Sometimes, in the middle of this rushing about, I find myself wondering why I decided that it was really so important to get my PhD as quickly as possible. Would anyone really begrudge me not being Dr. Pointful until the ripe age of 30? Was it really necessary to spend the bulk of my 20s on a university campus? And why didn't I take the time to do that generic coming of age post-college backpacking trip across Europe or Southeast Asia?

So, finally, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet.

Visit Cuba??

Don't mind if I do!

After what seemed like years of paying lip service to the fact that we needed a real holiday, not an extra day tacked onto a conference excursion, and debating journeys across Chile and Ecuador that we both knew our temperamental theses would never allow, we decided to bite the proverbial bullet and escape for a week in Cuba.

(It is our duty as Canadians, after all.)

So, yes, from Monday through Monday, you can find me drinking at absurdly inappropriate times, splayed out on the beach. To cope with our odd sense of guilt over staying at a resort far classier than the likes of us, we are also taking a non-tour bus related expedition to Havana, where we are staying at a casa particular with a Cuban family and wandering the streets with delicious aimlessness. I am only bringing books with no practical bearing on my future profession, and am staying far, far away from the Internet. My purse will be full of sunscreen and pesos, not annotated journal articles.

Hijinks will not be utterly abandoned, though. I have lined up a number of wonderful guest posters during my absence, so be sure to stop by and show them plenty of love.

Who knows? Maybe I will learn to write again while I'm gone, as it feels like stress is sapping the ease right out of my words lately. At the very least, I should be a little more tanned with some rum breath and knowing a few more words of Spanish.

Compliment of the day

2009-03-25T15:49:00.000-07:00

Received today in an email:

"Your neuroses are of endless benefit to those of us who lack that kind of focus."

Score one for neurotics!

Putting down the pen

2009-03-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

One of the oddest things about blogging is that it lends itself to the belief that your thoughts are especially important and need to be communicated. Before, I was happy to let the random ideas or clever scenarios merely simmer in my head before vanishing (unlike the lyrics to old TV show theme songs, which seem to be wedged in some random brain crevasses for ever more-- I bet almost every single one of you can rap the Fresh Prince of Belair theme song in your sleep). Yet now, it feels like I am cheating myself to let them escape. They somehow need to be written down, to be witnessed.

This may explain why, on the bus today, I was struggling to find a theme to connect the dots between my opinions on the pigeons living the alley by my apartment, my implicit theories about the guy who sat across me on the bus in the beat up leather jacket (I decided he shopped at used book stores and vaguely wanted to marry him), and my annoyance at my co-worker who has suddenly become a fierce vacation doppelganger and is copying every step of the holiday the Duke and I are about to depart on.

Of course, none of these thoughts matter much at all. It isn't going to alter the course of my or your life whether I decide to tell you about how I nearly trip over pigeons in the morning.

This is likely why I have not joined the Twitter masses (or is it the Twitterati?). If there's one thing I have been told on multiple occasions (other than "Wow, you really are that clumsy" or "Maybe that's enough cheese for today"), it is that I think too much. I know that if I purposely enrolled myself in a program where people presumably wanted to hear the most random of my thoughts, like how it just feels better to know my socks have polka dots on them even though no one can see them, I would probably whip myself up into a frenzy. It certainly seems that the simple act of blogging has done enough to make me more aware of the minutia of my brain... Twittering really could only make it worse. I spend enough of my brain power reacting to "Oh God, I need to remember to blog this."

It kind of reminds me of those people who get so wrapped up in taking pictures of an event or a place that they are entirely separate from the experience. They have no real memories of it, only the plastic versions of memories in their photographs. I have the tendency to start narrating the story of my day in my head before the day is even finished, rather than just being in that day.

The other night, the Duke and I were having a profound late night conversation about of topics such as mental illness and astronomy. As I slid beneath the comforter, knowing the similarities between his memory and a piece of swiss cheese, I said to him "You are getting some pretty intense ideas there. You should try to write them down." He told me that he sometimes appreciates being able to have these thoughts without feeling they need to be preserved, that he can sit with the idea in the moment and be okay with the fact that it may never come to mind again.

Perhaps I can learn a little from him about living in the moment.

I'm hopping on the TMI train...

2009-03-24T07:25:00.000-07:00

You can find me discussing sexual mishaps here. Come visit and tell me your own embarrassing tales, so I'm not left as Umm Now What's resident pervert!

Because I was feeling self-centred today...

2009-03-22T16:00:00.000-07:00

... I present to you some random facts about me.

I have an issue with turning down free food. I feel as though I am obliged to eat it by virtue of its lack of cost to me. I also try to pretend that this lack of cost overrides its caloric value, hence the reason I would never chow down on mini-pepperonis in my regular life, but will eat an entire bag when placed on a plate in front of me with toothpicks. This also that while I only drink one cup of coffee a day when I have to buy it, I always have a cup on the go in my workplace with its free coffee.

When I was in high school, I was known for my ever-changing hair colour- bleached blonde, jet black, orange, fire engine red. People often don't recognize me anymore when I return home with my real hair colour-- boring old dark brown. Even though I haven't coloured my hair in years, I still feel an urge whenever I walk by the cheap hair dye in the drug store. I liked being a fake red head.

I may one day murder a person for the most banal of offences. I am the type to forgive tremendous interpersonal slights, but remain irritated about the smallest rude acts. I blame it on growing up in a small town, where someone would chase you for five blocks to return the dollar that you dropped. I am affected at way too deep a level by the incourtesies of the city-- people slamming the door in your face, almost hitting you in their car, not giving up their seats for elderly women, walking in to you. A few days ago, a man in the train station ran head on into me, full tilt (and I'm a pretty small lady), then dashed off without even stopping to check on me or apologize. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived home, and the Duke asked me how I was doing. I said "I'm going to start killing bitches." Oddly enough, I can still be at the same party as people who have betrayed me in far more substantial manner, like the girl who told my boyfriend how much sex they would have had had they ever dated... I need to start getting my temper's priorities straight.

I can usually tell when something I write is going to get little response within the first hour after I post it. I then have to sit on my hands for the next several hours after that to make sure I do not impulsively delete it, deeming it no good because it isn't eliciting a response. This is the danger of having a brief stint of comment popularity. When no one read me, I judged my writing on its own merits. I'm working on getting back to that.

I sleep talk like a mofo. Usually, it is indiscriminant mumbles. However, there have been occasions when my unconscious has betrayed me. For instance, after a party, I was sharing a bed with a friend. Unknown to that friend, I had a mad crush on her ex-boyfriend. Well... at least it was unknown to her until I called out his name in my sleep.

I have seen 49 of the artists on my iPod in concert, the majority of them in the past three years. I am a bit of a concert whore. As cliched as it may be, Radiohead still stands out as the ultimate-- even though I was in the midst of a torrential downfall as I sang along to Karma Police.

My arachniphobia is totally illogical. I know it is not out of the ordinary to be afraid of spiders, but I have no problem at all with most bugs. In fact, once I was checking out this weird bug with a friend, and it was only when my face was inches away that I noticed its extra pair of legs and started to panic.

I know all the lyrics to Ain't No Fun by Snoop Dogg and co, aka. the foulest song on the planet. I'm not even comfortable quoting it here. If you are lucky enough to get me drunk, I will most likely rap it to you. It is one hell of a show.

When I was 12, all my friend were drooling over Eddie Furlong and Jonathan Brandis, while I had a crush on Charlie Sheen. Even at that age, I knew this was wrong, so I told no one. Now he creeps the hell out of me.

For a brief time this year, I was the #5 ranked contestant, and one point away from 1st place, in the CBC Hockey Pool, which has over 50 thousand contesants. I figure this scores me bragging rights for life.

I make the Duke feel my abs almost every day after I work out. I pretend he is impressed each time, but, really, I think it bores him.

I could survive off dill pickles, salt water taffy, whipped cream and cheese if I had the choice. I would probably not want to make the Duke feel my abs if I ever actually did this, though.

I get really uncomfortable when people fall asleep on public transit beside me. I also feel strangely vulnerable falling asleep in public places, like on airplanes. The idea of strangers watching me sleep is really bothersome.

I was a vegetarian from around the age of 10 through 20. I drove meat eaters crazy when they tried to feed me, as I was a vegetarian who despised multiple vegetable, including onions, peppers, mushrooms, olives, broccoli and cauliflower. I even went through a brief period where I disliked lettuce. I know that makes no sense.

I don't have a birthmark. My mom claims that my dimple, located near the top of my left cheek, is my birthmark. This dimple also guarantees that for the entirety of my life the primary adjective to describe me is "cute".

These are the aggravations in my neighbourhood

2009-03-19T09:58:00.000-07:00

When the Duke and I moved in together last spring, we wanted to live in an area with a little action in it. It could be that three years spent in the suburbs when I first moved to BigCity had spoiled my appetite for pastel houses and strip malls. It could also be that I adored the apartment I was leaving, a little basement suite too small for two just off a main strip where I could wander a block or two for Thai take-out, blackberries, crepes, or a latte. As such, when we finally found a secret hardwood floored roomy top story apartment hidden out in an inconspicuous stucco building just a few blocks away from one of the busiest intersections in the city, we grabbed onto it and didn't let go. It may have helped that it wasn't owned by a racist, had a kitchen bigger than one square foot, and didn't have three colours of mold in the bathroom, like some of our other rental possibilities.

For the most past, I love it here. The apartment itself is wonderful. It is central, with buses to nearly every corner of the city a block or two away. My hair salon is half a block away, and I can browse for shoes in my pyjamas if I wanted to (not saying that I have, of course). I am only a bridge away from downtown, but with the luxury of less noise. Entertaining people hang out in my back alley, like the guy who sings reggae, or the latest wanderer, a woman with a love for showtunes. (Believe me, it is a vast improvement on Angry Guy at my old place!)

However, sometimes this neighbourhood utterly infuriates me.

For one, some of the people are insufferably snobby. I've never lived in an apartment building where people are so disinterested in knowing their neighbours. When you pass them on their stairs, they will do anything to avoid eye contact, including pretended fixation with the patterns on the art deco style purple rug. I recall one time flinging open the back door at the same time as a fellow was trying to enter, and gasping with surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry! You scared me!" I proclaimed. He merely stared at me with disdain, and slipped on by me with nary a word.

The Duke has even overheard our next door neighbour, the one who we used to only hear when she was yelling at her boyfriend, declare pointedly during one of these blowouts that she was too smart for the people in this building. This amused me for two reasons. One, who even thinks to make those comparisons? I don't think I've ever one thought about the traits of the people one floor down in the northwest apartment and how they relate to my own. Two, we've never even met this woman. Is she aware that she is arguing this point next to what may be the world's nerdiest grad school couple?

But, really, the qualities of my neighbours don't matter that much. I have other friends residing nearby. Not to mention, the last time I made friends with someone in my apartment building, he ended up having a secret cocaine habit, and asked me if he could offer up his mind for me to "practice" my therapeutic psychology skills on. I declined this gracious offer.

What bothers me even more is that, perhaps because so many people come to browse and have dinner here on a sunny day, someone has forgotten the practicalities of actual living in this neighbourhood. The bulk of the nearby streets are filled with low-rise apartments with little to no parking, suggesting that this is an area for those of us with no cars (also, note the fact that it is a major transit centre). When we first moved it, though we were a little disappointed at the lack of fresh fruit and veggie markets, more than one overrated pub or a major grocery store, a half block away from us was a bakery, a butcher shop, and a mini grocery store with all of your staples.

All three of which they promptly closed down two months after we moved in, despite the businesses being there for 20+ years. And have yet to fill with anything, though the other vacancies in the neighbourhood have been filled not with anything practical, but rather a Calvin Klein underwear store (just underwear. And there are already three lingerie stores on this ten block strip.) and a Pottery Barn Kids (I could go on an entire rant about why this store is even allowed to exist. Kids don't care about design and/or pottery).

And now, despite the fact that I can get my nails done in ten different places, go see a play, have foie gras and find a prom dress, I can't get any damn groceries. This means that I have to go on an epic voyage to the nearest grocery store, and either break my back hauling food home on the bus, or take a taxi. Did I mention that almost every other neighbour in this city has an overabundance of grocery stores?

Okay, okay. I lied a little. There is a grocery store four blocks up the street-- though I use the term loosely. It is one of those dreaded "gourmet" grocery stores, with an entire aisle dedicated to balsamic vinegars, but no ground chicken and never any green beans. Caviar at the deli counter, but no roast beef. If you are lucky enough to find a standard product, like Miracle Whip or Sunrype juice, you are probably paying two dollars more for the luxury of purchasing it amidst the organic local ginseng infused juices adorning the shelves. I once dashed there to grab a jar of pesto, and found that they all ranged in price from $8 to $30. Thirty dollars for basil and olive oil. I bought the $8 one and it tasted like air. My $4 generic grocery store brand kicked its ass. I can't get a loaf of bread for less than $5 and it always goes moldy in two days. There is something to be said for preservatives.

The aisles are narrow and precariously stacked with exotic teas and grains, and it is always full of oblivious people blocking the aisles with their carts as they make sure that their cous cous is truly lead-free. The customers seem like they come straight from my building, harassing the deli workers that their ahi tuna should be cut just so, and where exactly did that pork loin come from? And did I mention they have paintbrushes beside the cash register? Not gum and chocolate bars, like normal grocery stores, but truffles and special exotic animal paintbrushes?

I never knew I would find shopping for cheese at 7-Eleven so appealing.

The story of Yoda and how you can help

2009-03-17T13:37:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't morphed into a Star Wars fanatic.
(Though I did once date one. When the films came back into the theatres, he sat in the front row of the cinema, with his wookie action figure in tow. True story.)

Instead, I am referring to one of my oldest bloggie buddies-- Yoda, who writes at And Nothing Else Matters.

Yoda, who, in addition to being delightfully funny and smarmy, is also ridiculously intelligent. This is why you could more accurately refer to him as Dr. Yoda, as he received his computer science and engineering PhD in 2007 from an American university. After becoming Dr. Yoda, he moved to New York, where he started working for a prestigious company. He also met a lovely lady while he was there, who he moved in with last year.

Sounds like he may have the dream life, right? Unfortunately, there's been a hitch.

Yoda is from India, and since going to visit his family there in December, he has been unable to return to the U.S. Not because he is being deported or doesn't have the paperwork-- but, rather, because he works in a high tech field, and is therefore a potential security risk. On top of that, he was told that it would only be a matter of week-- yet has now been stuck waiting for 3 months to go home, with not a single update on his status. No monetary compensation, no information, nothing. And it turns out he is one of countless people who is going through this ordeal.

When Yoda came to do his PhD work in 2002, there were few problems getting his student Visa. After he was hired at his post-PhD workplace, he was approved for a H1B petition issued by US Customs and Immigrations, which allows him to remain in the US for three years, and is extendable to six years. The plan is, for most people in his place, to complete the paperwork for a Green Card during this period, and he was able to work and pay taxes in the US with this approval.

However, once someone with an H1B leaves the U.S., they require an actual Visa stamp to re-enter, which is administered by the Department of State. When he went to his interview in order to obtain this stamp, Yoda was informed by the security officer that everything checked out, and his visa has been approved. However, the Department of State is asking those employed in "high tech" backgrounds to undergo an extra background check, which involved sending in his CV and a questionnaire about the nature of his research. He was told it will only take a couple of weeks (interestingly enough, which is also what the Department of State representative for Visa services told Congress last year).

Three months later, it is evident that this isn't the case. He has not received a single update on the status of his security check. In fact, the rules explicitly state that updates are not to be given. Rather, those undergoing the check just have to wait until it has officially been passed, without any indication as how they are supposed to plan their lives back in the U.S., where they are officially taxpayers and workers in some of the most important high tech fields. The one thing he does find out, though, is that he is hardly the exception-- he has encountered numerous people sitting in the same bureaucratic limbo as himself.

These are people who the U.S. government is happy to take taxes and tuition fees from. They are also more than okay with having them do some of incredibly important work on behalf of this nation that is supposedly opening its doors to them. These are people who have followed the rules to a tee. And, now, here they are, stranded, with no word as to when their lives as normal are allowed to resume. Many of them have families back in the U.S. who are anxiously awaiting their return. They have jobs that they have to hope will wait an indeterminate amount of time for their return, which is questionable at best given the current economic crisis. They have mortgages, bills, loans, and no money coming in. If they are lucky, they have family to stay with while they are waiting.

Yoda has been doing his best to do his work remotely, from India, and narrowly survived a round of layoffs-- lucky, considering he is not there to fight his case. He, like many of these people in limbo, would lose his right to be in the U.S., period, would his employer been tired of waiting, and laid him off. His own research is at a standstill, which puts him far behind in a rapidly progressing field. His girlfriend, who was expecting to merely spend the holidays apart, has been faced with nearly four months away from him. Thankfully, she has been able to come to India for a visit now, since it has become clear that Yoda may not be returning anytime soon.

And so he waits.

When talking to Yoda about this piece, he said there was three things that him and those working to draw attention to this issue wanted to emphasize:

#1- These people have already lived in the U.S. for 6 or more years, and have been approved by the U.S. to stay for another six years. When exactly did they become an urgent security risk?

#2- If these folks were such a security risk, why was no check completed on them when they were applying for their work permits? Why could this check have not been completed, at least in part, while they were going about their regular lives in the U.S.?

#3- How are any scientists or high tech professionals supposed to want to come to the U.S. if leaving the country is so treacherous for them? How are they supposed to plan their lives without any transparency in this process?

Want more info?

Obama Should Ease Security on Science, Panel Says- January 8, 2009(Reuters)

US Visa Problems Hitting Science Post-Docs and Students- March 4, 2009 (Science Careers Blog)

Scientists Fear Visa Trouble Will Drive Foreign Students Away- March 3, 2009 (New York Times)

And, more importantly, what can you do?

For one, to show your support, you can join the Facebook group dedicated to publicizing this issue, entitled 21g/ Visa Mantis/ Technology Alert List or TAL check

You can also send a copy of this petition to anyone who could plausibly be of help-- local politicians, news media, etc.

But, most crucially, you can write to the people who have a role in making these decisions-- both the House Committee on Science and Technology and your congressperson.

Thanks!!

And then the nurse said "That's why I'm a vegetarian".

2009-03-15T16:15:00.000-07:00

Saturday night.

The Duke, his brother and I are crammed around a two person table at the new English pub that has opened about 15 blocks away from us.

The Duke has just received his steak and chips for the second time. They were cold the first time, so he reluctantly sent them back. His brother and I set to eating our fish and chips with more fervour, now that we all have been fed.

The Duke takes a bite of his steak, and then pauses.

"Damn, that thing is happening again, where when I have my first bite of steak, it feels like it is wedged in my throat."

A moment later, "It is really stuck. I think I have to go to the washroom and try to cough it out."

He is in the washroom for five minutes, at which point he emerges out, saying that the staff have been knocking on the door of the single stalled washroom, perceiving him to be intoxicated and vomiting. To avoid being kicked out, he tells us he is going to go outside to try to rid himself of this errant piece of meat.

Another five minutes pass. He calls, says he isn't doing well, and asks if we can get his food to go. I run out to the parking lot where he is frantically and unsuccessfully coughing. He says we'd better skip the party we'd planned to go to. I agree, and hand him the car keys, while I rush back to pay the bill.

The waiter is unnecessarily inquisitive. The Duke's brother tells me that he was asking where the Duke had disappeared off to a second time, seeming a little perturbed that he had only eaten a single bite of his re-ordered meal. Rather than explaining that there is meat stuck in his esophagus, Brother tells him that he got an important call from his boss. Waiter asks him what the Duke does. Brother says he is a very important researcher at the nearby university (which, granted, isn't entirely a lie).

When I go to pay the bill, Waiter asks me more about the Duke's whereabouts. I amaze myself at my ability to lie on my feet, telling him that March is the end of the fiscal year at the university, so there had been some major grant deadlines lately. I further elaborate, saying that his boss had called about a mistake on a very major grant proposal. Waiter seems satisfied. I leave him a big tip out of guilt for my dishonesty.

We meet the Duke in the parking lot. As we drive home, his breathing is laboured, and he intermittently mutters "Oh fuck".

We get home. He tries to drink a glass of water. It comes up in a matter of seconds. He retreats to the washroom as I consult the mighty Google for advice. I become convinced that we should go to the ER. He is reluctant, asking for an extra twenty minutes to try his best to dislodge it. It is only after we consult with his parents, who have worked as nurses, that he agrees to go.

We walk the six blocks to the local hospital, as he says that sitting hurts too much for us to take a cab. We enter the emergency room, which looks reasonably quiet and free of blood and screams. We wait in line at admissions, rolling our eyes at the people before and after us, who clearly don't understand the notion of the term emergency, complaining of diarrhea and sore ribs.

After we check in, we are sent to the waiting room, where the Duke takes a turn for the worse. He is feeling faint, saying he can't feel his arms, and is grasping my hand with a cool, squeezing grip. It is now that I am slipping out of automatic mode, and begin to feel my heart throbbing away. I ask him if he is okay, and he squeaks out a "no".

We go back to the admissions desk. The attendant nurse acts as though the Duke is merely hysterical and working himself up, and tells him to "calm down", take '"slow deep breaths", and, of course, that his turn will be soon. Thankfully, our turn is actually soon, and almost immediately after the Duke informs them he is on the verge of passing out and has numb extremities, he is placed on a bed and rolled on through.

It is hectic. Nurses dashing in and out. IVs, xrays, blood tests, EKGs. His shirt and shoes are removed. His monitor beeps. He swears when the needles pierce his skin. He looks around, confusedly, searching for me amidst this chaos. "I'm right here with you," I proclaim over the series of questions about the amount of alcohol he has consumed and medical history.

The IV helps, as does the stability of the bed. Although still in pain, and coughing up the saliva that can't flow through, he seems more grounded. One of the various medical professionals who enters the curtained cubicle looks at me familiarly. It turns out he is one of my clients from my first therapy practicum. This is the first time I've had such an unexpected reunion, and I am momentarily tickled pink that I was important enough for him to remember me years later.

Time passes. I phone the Duke's parents, who are rife with questions, and tell me to relay their love back to him. I move the chair to beside his bed so I can hold his hand. The flimsy pastel curtains provide little muffling to the sounds around us, so we are treated to the soundtrack of the ER.

The man to our left has had a stroke. He doesn't speak English, so the translator is attempting to pull out a description of his symptoms and medical history.

To our right is a man who has drunkenly fallen down some stairs. He is in unbearable pain. I cringe every time he screams "My back fucking hurts!", as well as when the nurses tell him to watch his profanities. It feels voyeuristic, as he shrieks as they turn him over, and as the doctor informs him that he will be "putting a finger up your bum, which you have to squeeze for us to determine whether you have spinal damage." He cannot do so, and yells in frustration. He is moved to trauma, and replaced by a peculiar man with a laceration on his chin. This man speaks in a slow, determined fashion, and precedes a his requests with "I know I am acting crazy, but..." He quizzes each of the nurses and doctors on their qualifications, asks to speak to his mother, and mutters to whoever will listen about some sort of conspiracy and mistrust of the hospital.

The white-coated doctor arrives. He suggests that the Duke drink some soda, as carbonation often helps to displace stuck food. The nurses laugh at the banality of this suggestion. I am sent to the waiting room with handful of change, and return with a Pepsi. The Duke takes a sip, then another, then cough desperately, the Pepsi spewing out in nearly projectile fashion. "That really hurts!" he proclaims. The doctor dashes out, as though ashamed. He returns with Gravol and morphine, stating that they should help him relax enough for the steak to become unwedged. I ask the Duke how he is feeling a few minutes later, and he says "Heavy", later describing himself as feeling "morphiney".

Though he is certainly more relaxed, the painful lump stuck in his chest remains, and around half an hour later, a new machine arrives. This one is apparently meant to deliver a smooth muscle relaxant over the period of an hour. We are told that this should make his esophagus relax, so the meat will merely drop down into his stomach. If this doesn't work, though, it appears that some sort of manual extraction may be the next step.

Another half an hour, and he starts coughing. Heavy, thick coughs. The conspiracy man shouts "The man beside me needs help!" A few bits of red come up. I am unsure if they are blood or meat. Suddenly, a piece of steak falls from his mouth. It is huge, easily two inches around. I may have pumped my fist in the air in triumph, shouting "It's out!" in celebration.

Before we are allowed to leave, at least three people lecture him on the virtue of chewing adequately.

1:30am Sunday morning, we leave, pondering how odd it is to be merely strolling away from the ER. We stop at a 24 hour coffee shop for him to have some soup, and I begin laughing uncontrollably the absurdity of the entire night.

He still has suction cup marks on his chest today. And I am going to throw out the steak and chips leftovers.

Sticky pages

2009-03-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

Whenever I go to pick up a package or buy some stamps at the closest post office to my apartment, located in a magazine store, I am always awed by the sheer number of issues dedicated to the most obscure of topics. Belgian photography magazines, Spanish architecture, Chihuahuas Monthly...
However, what always entertains me the most is the sheer volume of pornographic magazines.

Am I the only one who is surprised that the porno mag is still thriving?

I guess growing up in a small town, with the bulk of our magazine selection taking up a half shelf at 7-Eleven (as a side note, my town's 7-Eleven was not open 24 hours, which is exceedingly lame. It is a sad day when one can't get a burrito at 3am). The only exception was the small selection of plastic covered magazines behind the clerk-- Playboy, Hustler, and perhaps one more specialty magazine-- allowing for very little discretion for the dirty magazine connoisseur.
This also allowed for very little underaged consumption of such magazines, meaning that my teenaged males friends would hang on to their acquired issues with utter fervour. I would then discover these very crinkled and bent magazines stuffed in the corners of my guy friend's rooms, that I might flip through when they weren't looking out of curiosity. Perhaps due to the lack of such readily available material-- and the overtness of the "back room" in the one video store in town with dirty movies-- I busted more than one guy friend staring with consummate focus at the blurry and jumbled screen of the Playboy channel we didn't subscribe to in my basement, hoping perhaps to see a boob somewhere amidst the gray haze.

Of course, then there was the internet, and everything changed. Boobs were no longer the mysterious creatures to be glimpsed on late night television, but were available in full force via the magic of Google. Not only that, but there was selection-- if you had a think for Portuguese women in bear costumes, they were only a click away! And I guess I just kind of imagined that, outside of the few cultural staples, like Playboy, the dirty magazine was soon to be obsolete.

But the magazine store has proven me wrong. There are, in fact, more dirty magazines than I ever dreamed existed. I don't know if this was always the case, and I just led a sheltered small town life, or if they have upped their variety to compete with the internet. There are quite literally more than a hundred of these glossy issues, with glaring slogans, like "Hot Housewives" and (my personal favourite) "A Bear's Life". I feel the need to peruse through the aisle out of morbid curiosity, just to discover what titles have been able to keep a market over the years.

Perhaps also because of the clandestine nature of purchasing these magazines in a small town, I also feel the urge to watch the people browsing the aisles as I wait in line for my parcel. Some walk in with a purpose, grab their glossy of choice, and stride out. Others browse like they are at a museum, slowly pacing, stopping occasionally to fish a magazine from the back, and then contemplate its cover. I giggled like a school girl when a man dressed like a sea captain, in a giant yellow rain slicker with matching hat, held up his potential purchase to the light, and I could see what must have been triple Gs proudly displayed on the back cover from metres away.

Then comes marriage...

2009-03-08T22:07:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to wonder how my friends became so cliched.

It certainly couldn't be by simple virtue of the diamond rings displayed on their ring fingers. It is not as though they are the first of my friends to get married, many of whom who have managed the transition from girlfriend to wife with relative ease.

This week, six of us sat at my kitchen table, empty plates before us from our weekly meet-up. As I began collecting the plates, the regular dose of matrimonial talk began. You see, three of the six are getting married, one this spring, one this summer, one next summer. While I don't mind talk of the larger themes, such as bachelorette plans, dresses, caterers, or of their general excitement about an admittedly huge day in their lives, lately it has progressed to the downright banal. This time, they began chattering about their three's trip to the mall to pick out wedding bands, which began with an anecdote of how the jewelry store worker made a joking remark about the big rings on each of their fingers, and ended with a detailed dissection of which shape of wedding band best complemented their fingers.

I counted floorboards.

I also wondered when they had all gotten so oblivious. Not just oblivious to the fact that I was counting floorboards, but also to the fact that J is single and not necessarily thrilled about it, or that M has been with her boyfriend for longer than some of them have been with their fiances, and is still barely able to get him to utter the word "commitment". Oblivious to the fact that their constant talk might not just bore some people, but may actually be a tinge hurtful.

While they may be unaware of how their words may sting, they also are also painfully incognizant of the fact that not everyone is necessarily wanting their lives right now. As it has now become obvious that M and her boyfriend are not getting engaged anytime soon, attention has turned to me as the next on the list. My non-committal or general responses to "do you think he's going to propose soon?" or "do you know what kind of ring you want?" fall over deaf ears. It seems that "I'm sure it will happen, but not anytime soon" is not satisfying enough, so they keep on pressing.

That same night, as I excitedly tell them that the Duke and I are finally booking our sunshine holiday, S coos "Oh, I bet he has something in store for you there", and winks condescendingly. And even though I know it is only because she wants for me what she thinks I want for myself, I can't help but get annoyed. Why isn't it good enough that we are having our first big holiday together? Why does it need to be that I am providing him with a cliched scenario to ask for my hand in marriage? Why does everyone act like I am just suppressing my frantic need for a wedding, rather than accepting that him and I are just happy in the moments we're in now?

I guess it is just starting to depress me that these women I know are genuinely ambitious, driven, feisty, independent present themselves like something out of a bad sitcom, when all we talk about are calories and relationships. As I walked home today, I realized that I knew reams more about their theme colours, the necklines of their bridesmaid's dresses and their fiances' idiosyncracies than they did about my dissertation or my job. And it made me feel a little lonely.

Apologetic stream of consciousness

2009-03-05T10:20:00.000-08:00

I know the better choice would be to stop apologizing.

But to stop apologizing means to stop feeling guilty, and I don't know if that is really in my constitution.

I recently joked on my Facebook status update that I was on the verge of developing rickets (my favourite vitamin deficiency) by virtue of the increasing amount of my life spent in windowless offices. Granted, there may be little sunlight out there this time of year, but what little there is has to be better than all the staring at concrete walls (and, of course, computer screens) I've been doing lately.

The other day, the Duke joked that it felt like we had a long distance relationship due to my penchant for getting up at the crack of dawn for a day full of assorted attempts at productivity, combined with my ill-timed and scattered efforts to maintain a social life and keep physically active.

I am happy to report I took this Tuesday night off, and we napped together, which is very possibly my new favourite thing in life.

So, yes, same old story as always. I'm busy. It is a tedious thing to repeat, yet I feel I have to do so anyways.

I don't relish feeling so cut off from this side of my life. I was thinking the other day of how important writing has become in my life, as a way of sorting through my thoughts, of reflecting, of engaged in catharsis without the real life consequences. I feel a little scattered when I don't get my moment to excise these words from my busy little brain. I also feel like I sometimes lose my touch a little in these period of non-writing limbo.

On top of that, I can't help feeling like a bit of a jerk for ignoring everyone else here. In truth, I'm sure I am totally overemphasizing my importance to all of you. I know I understand when someone else stops writing and interacting for a period of time, as we can all empathize with life getting in the way. But I still don't like it when I discover that, marinating in my reader, is a tale of someone I care about going through a hard time or a tragedy or even a tremendous success. I wish I had the time so I wouldn't miss that. Silly enough, the words of all of you have come to mean something to me, and I feel like a bit of a bad friend when I can't even find the time in a month to read them and say hello.

So, that is the story of my life right now. No comments today, for the first time, because I just want you all to read at face value without the need to reassure or challenge my ridiculous sense of guilt or say any of those wonderful things you tend to say.

And the world continues to shrink

2009-03-02T12:42:00.000-08:00

Saturday afternoon, I am standing at the corner of a busy intersection with the Duke and two friends, debating where to go for lunch. My eyes flit over to the flow of people crossing the pavement, and I make eye contact with a tall man. He is evidently walking towards me, with sure, direct steps, and I am perplexed. Was my eye contact somehow unintentionally inviting?

He strides up, and reaches out his hand. "Hi, I'm *insert name here*." I reached out to take his hand, bemused, when suddenly the light bulb beams on.

I've had my first random blogger encounter, for this is S'Mat, who I have emailed and Facebooked on occasion, but never encountered through anything but the glow of a computer screen. And, again supporting my conjecture that the world is a bit of a tangled interwoven spiderweb, with random lines connecting you in ways you never predicted, he has ended up not only in my city over the weekend, but dining across the street from where I stood and chattered. And he was able to generalize that profile picture snapshot to the in living colour version of me in my winter jacket on a weekend afternoon.

Feeling as though I have been standing, agape, for several minutes, I let him know that I have figured out the connection, then shout out "I haven't seen you in so long!" for the benefit of my perplexed friends. He nods wittingly at my charade. I turn to introduce him to my boyfriend, and S'mat knowingly states "This must be the Duke." The Duke is understandably bewildered to hear his former blogging moniker tossed about, but I murmur to him softly that he is another blogger. S'mat puts his finger up to his lips in recognition of our shared secret.

We talk for another few quick moments, before we both veer off to our respective groups. With the increasing overlap between my "real" life and my blogging life, I am getting eerily apt at lying on the spot, and I tell my other friends that S'Mat was an old friend from my undergraduate days. They smile and nod, then turn to the menu, as I contemplate what a very small world it is after all.

Accidental hypocrisy

2009-02-27T18:40:00.000-08:00

So, Wednesday, as you may know, was Pink Shirt Anti-Bullying Day, so I wore a pink t-shirt.

On Wednesday, I also donated blood for the first time.

As the nurse pierced my skin with the needle, a burst of my blood spurted out all over my shirt.

Yes, there were blood stains on my anti-bullying pink t-shirt. In other words, I looked the biggest hypocrite in the world.

What money can't buy

2009-02-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

It never occurred to me until recently that my parents didn't have a lot of money.

It wasn't that we were ever poor, per se. We always had food on the table and clothes on our back. My dad always worked full-time, and my mom almost always was working most days of the week. In fact, my parents, in what I come to realize more and more each year is amazing kindness, often were offering support to those friends of our even worse off than us-- like how they bought my best friend her prom dress after her father handed her a $20 bill.

This holiday, the Duke and his brother drove me back to my home town on their way back to see their family, stopping to spend the night at my family home. It is not that I wasn't aware that we grew up differently on the surface, they in a residential suburb of a big city, in a home with a big garage and soft carpets, me in a small town and smaller home filled with random antiques and curiosities. But, still, we'd grown up with the same morals, and the same sense of needing to work for your accomplishments, so the contrast never really stood out to me.

On their continued drive, the Duke's brother remarked to him that he had a newfound respect for me, seeing that I had accomplished so much coming from such a different environment. At first, this seemed a little absurd to me. My parents were always wonderfully supportive of me, always believed in me. How was I at all disadvantaged? But, with a little thought, I realized that, unlike a good chunk of my peers in graduate school, I came from a family in which no one went to graduate school. In fact, no one in my family went to college.

This same revelation hit me again while flipping through the program of the conference I recently attended. In the first section, there were several pages dedicated to the winners of the prestigious diversity awards, an award I had never considered applying to, since, as a Caucasian heterosexual woman of European background, I had never considered myself as fitting into the category of "population typically underrepresented in graduate school". I then noticed that "first generation college student" was also lumped into this category. I think I actually commented to my friend about how I found this odd and incongruent for me, as despite technically fitting into this category, I didn't feel as though I matcged the label of "underrepresented population". She told me that I should give myself more credit.

The thing is, I never thought of myself as having to bear a burden to go to university (well, except for financially, as I have paid for all nine years of university without help from anyone except scholarships, grants, and some student loans). It was just something I always wanted to do, and I did it. Nothing about my parents' lack of university diplomas felt like it slowed me down at all.

The other day, I was reminiscing with the Duke about how, at around the age of 9, I had desperately wanted to go to an autograph session with one of my favourite hockey players in a city an hour away on the weekend. I had been heartbroken when my parents had flat-out refused. The Duke asked me why they had declined, and I told them that this question had perplexed me greatly for years to come, as it seemed so out of character, and I was never really given a point blank answer.

Suddenly, I had a bit of an epiphany-- they didn't have the money to take me there. Then, all the pieces started to fall into place. The truck that was always breaking down when I was little. My mom's telling me that if I wanted Calvin Klein jeans, she couldn't buy me any back to school apparel. The girl who asked if I was poor because of my clothing. My sadness at not being able to participate in the summer theatre programs due to the triple-figured fees required, and the fact that, at the age of 12, I knew better than to ask. My paying rent for living at home in my first two years of college. Having to leave our rental house behind, in part because it was being torn down for subdivisions. My mom coming home, distraught, saying she'd been laid off.

The fact that I only realized this at 27, to me, testifies to me the important aspect of all this, though-- that it didn't matter at all. My parents loved me unconditionally, supported even my most ridiculous phases, and made for a beautifully memorable childhood and adolescence. On top of that, they took in troubled foster kids, and let friends live in our basement or even in a tent in our backyard in tough times. They taught my about morality, kindness, empathy and self-sufficiency. All of these are infinitely more valuable than a college fund or those designer jeans.

Confessions of a desperate approval seeker

2009-02-23T19:51:00.000-08:00

I've never quite understood those people who make such broad claims as "I am who I am, and anyone who doesn't like it can screw off."

I am more of the type to say "... and anyone who doesn't like it, I will desperately try to win over all the same."

You see, I am really bad about the idea of not being liked.
I don't care if I actually can't stand the thought of being around you. I still want you to find me a kind and worthwhile person.

I remember once having a conversation with my mother. She was chastising me for something along the veins of doing something I didn't want to do because I had promised a friend. It came down to a fundamental disagreement, in which she asserted boldly that it didn't matter what people think of you.

I replied to her that this notion was bullshit. It's just a cliche we all say to our kids in some half-hearted attempt at building self-esteem. The truth is, to a good proportion of us, it does matter what others think of us. To say otherwise seems like a touch self-deluding to me, despite how nice it would be to not need this approval.

This weekend, I met someone new, a friend of my boyfriend's. There was a bit of nervous anticipation, as we had both heard a lot about one another. Although I didn't get much of a chance in the midst of a busy party to connect with her, I did like her, and I thought we managed a good conversation-- despite my girlfriends chattering and hovering about me, asking me "Who's that girl? Why is she talking to your boyfriend so much?".

Then, yesterday, when chatting with her, the Duke says "So my girlfriend really liked you!", to which she replies "Oh yeah."
Then nothing.

Stupidly, this hurts my feelings... the fact that she couldn't even muster up an "Oh yeah, she seemed sweet" or even a "It was nice to finally meet her."

Even, perhaps even more moronically, I begin to feel some sort of moral outrage. "She's not allowed not to like me!" my indignant mind shouts. "I was nice to her! I offered her drinks and snacks! I asked her about her research and sat by her when she didn't know anyone else at the party!"

And, perhaps most telling, my mind then declares, "I liked her-- she has to like me!"

Of course, she doesn't. She has the right to dislike me or be completely apathetic about me or just have nothing to say about me, no matter whether I deem it irrational or unfair.

But, damn it, it doesn't mean I need to like it.

Like good Canadians do

2009-02-22T12:13:00.000-08:00

As good Canadians do, the Duke and I decided to show our wholehearted dedication to all things hockey by hosting a Hockey Day in Canada party.

For those of you not familiar with said tradition, one Saturday a year, all six Canadian teams play each other at times staggered throughout the day. It is an epic opportunity to revive old rivalries, drink before 5pm and engage in some serious trash talk.

A few things observed on this occasion:

Even when you give people a six hour window to show up, and trying for an open house format, the hosts will be sitting around for the first three hours surrounded by untouched serving plates full of appetizers. Then, as if by magic, your apartment buzzer will nearly short circuit itself by everyone showing up at the exact same time (1st intermission of the second game).

Everyone will bring chips to such a party. Everyone.

Now my fridge has been emptied of veggies, dip, pitas, and other such foods, but my cupboard is full of twist-tied bags of chips.

A lot of people do not come to a hockey party to watch hockey. It is a dangerous thing when the hockey and anti-hockey people collide during overtime.

Flavoured vodka makes me happy.

I look cute in my hockey jersey.

It is awesome when your team wins. It is more awesome when there are opposing team fans trash talking you when their team was winning. It is infinitely more awesome when, due to his team's defeat, your six foot tall guy friend squeezes into your 5 foot 3 self's hockey jersey for punishment and ridicule.

It is awkward when one of your good friend's and her boyfriend finally have that knock-down argument about his lack of a Valentine's Day gift for her two years in a row in your entrance. It is more awkward when it moves to the only apartment bathroom for 45 minutes. It is infinitely more awkward when, after he leaves the bathroom, you try to go comfort your friend who is still in there, and a guy yells across the entire party "Princess, why are you harassing the poor person trying to pee?"

It is also awkward when a drunk lesbian tells my boyfriend she is going to go kiss me, and then just ends up getting a mouthful of my hair as I unknowingly am chatting away with someone else. (I didn't have any idea what her intentions were until later... I was just like "Uh, why did you just bite my hair?") It wasn't exactly the girl-on-girl scene anyone was looking for.

Cleaning up after "adult" parties is infinitely better than cleaning up after teenage and college parties. You just collect the bottles, which most people have kindly gathered in one or two locations, rinse of the plates, put the leftovers away, and you are off to bed. The messiest thing was a pile of damp cloths from when people cleaned up their spill themselves. It is a far cry from the cleaning up of mysteriously sticky liquids and garbage of the parties of my youth.

My unsolicited and hypocritical dating advice

2009-02-18T14:38:00.000-08:00

I have a bit of a secret-- I've never really dated.

As I've remarked before, my adult dating history has been marked primarily by either being in a relationship, or out of one, with not a lot of time spent in the space in between. Of course, being with the same man from 18 to 24, and then, however ridiculous it may be, finding the man of my dreams soon after that relationship ended sort of takes away much of the possible time in the gray zone.

My first year in college was the only time I tossed around the idea of *just* dating. When a friend I'd known since elementary school and I impulsively kissed one night, I insisted on keeping our label as "seeing each other" for the first month, fearing the effects of too much romantic pressure on our friendship. (Ironically, we did the "exclusive" thing for a month after that, then broke up due to contradictory summer plans, and pretty much never spoke again. Perhaps I should have stuck with "dating" thing a little while longer.)

I also had the one month of "real" dating, aka. seeing more than one person at the same time with no semblance of commitment. Though it was fun, it failed miserably, as college aged guys couldn't seem to comprehend what I meant when I said "I'm not looking for a relationship". One assumed this meant I was an easy lay, and seemed shaken up when I told him "not in a relationship" was not equivalent to booty call. The other couldn't fathom that I wasn't trying to secretly trap him into a relationship, when, truthfully, I wanted nothing of the sort.

So, yes, I may hardly be a dating expert, so you may take my attempts at expertise with a grain of salt.

However, I do have something I would like to say to a number of my female friends:
Dating:You're doing it wrong!!

I can only speak of the members of my own gender, but I can't help but be surprised when I see the same seemingly evident errors being made repeatedly.

So, please ladies, take a lesson from this wholly unqualified lady.
(Ed. note: I have not read any of the following: The Rules, He's Just not That Into You, anything by Dr. Phil, aka. the Devil, or, in fact, any self-help book ever. It is against my psychologist's pride. As such, any similarities or contradictions are completely accidental.)

If you are looking for a relationship, do not sleep with the guy before you have seen him in the light of day.
I am not anti-booty call or friends-with-benefits. If that is what you are looking for, this may be a good first step. I'm also not one of those people who thinks sleeping together on the first date is necessarily a make or break thing.

However, if you meet him at a party/the bar, and have yet to meet him sometime during daylight hours, banging him that first night is not the best of steps if you are thinking/hoping it could turn into something resembling an exclusive relationship. At least wait until breakfast, and the fact that you know he is at least willing to have a real date with you, and then jump him.

I am not saying it can't happen-- one of my best friends is marrying a guy she met at a club. However, she jokes as much as anyone that she fully expected it to be a one-night stand. She didn't go home with him assuming a second encounter, let alone to spend the rest of her life with him.

I am just shocked by the fact that I see friends actually get hurt by the fact that this guy does not call them back. How's he to know you want something more than a one night stand? How do you know he wants something more than that?

If you have a FWB/ booty call situations, you can't expect it to transition into a relationship simply because you want it to.
You started with an exclusive no strings attached stipulation. This doesn't mean that you may not fall madly in love and discover you want to be formally together. However, by entering into such a NSA agreement, you have kind of expressed that you are okay with doing the naughty sans relationship.

If your feelings are getting in the way, by all means, express them-- but don't call him a real jerk if he doesn't reciprocate. And, for heaven's sake, if that is the case, get out before your feelings get too raw and the whole situation explodes.

(If he sleeps with you while pretending to want to be in a relationship with you, and then says he isn't in a relationship mindset, however, then he is a deceitful douchebag.)

If you meet a guy on the weekend, and you get along really well, don't delete your online dating profile and cut loose all the boys you have within the next week.
That is wayyy too much pressure to put on one person, and on yourself, to make it work. At least give it a few weeks to make sure you are both going in remotely the same direction!

If you are already unhappy in the first month of dating, end it.
There are lots of issues you can work through once you have a solid foundation. But, in the first month, you should all be on your best, shiniest behavior. If the problems are coming up before you've grazed the honeymoon stage, you are missing out on the whole fun of being besotted in the first place.

Don't rush "the talk", but don't avoid it completely, either.
I've seen bitter extremes on this one. Some women want to know within the first week if "this is going somewhere", which is a surefire way to bring overanalysis to every stage of the getting-to- know-you process.

On the flip side, if you've been seeing each other regularly for months and you still are afraid of freaking him out by using the word "boyfriend", plus you don't know if he's sleeping with others-- I think it might be time for a chat.

This is the one I know has been rehashed in dating guide after dating guide, but, seriously, a little hard to get doesn't hurt.
I'm not saying you need to be systematic about it, like never calling him, ending the calls first, counting days, and so forth. In fact, I hate any quantitative rule like that.

However, don't throw your all into a budding relationship. Keep on making plans like you would if he wasn't around. Even if you would rather spend Saturday night with him, it doesn't do you any good to hold it free "just in case" if you haven't heard from him and there is a great party going on. It will do him some good to see that you still have an active social life and he isn't the only thing on your priority list. Well-rounded is an attractive trait, after all.

I hope these all seem reasonably self-evident, but then again, over the past few weeks I've witnessed several occasions in which these needed to be reiterated.

Are there any ones I've missed? Any you can think of for the men? Guys, what do you think?

Quote of the day (or the one in which I realize I am nearing spinsterhood)

2009-02-17T22:54:00.000-08:00

"You should stop this nonsense and get yourself married."

- Comment with regards to my professional life heard today

Polygamy

2009-02-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

My father had six wives and I have forty-seven brothers and sisters. My oldest daughter is my aunt and I am her grandmother. When I was assigned to marry my first husband, I became my own step-grandmother since my father was already married to two daughters of my new husband. According to the eternal laws of the polygamous group I grew up with, I will be a step-grandmother to many of my siblings for ‘all time and eternity'.

- Debbie Palmer, in her book "Keep Sweet: Children of Polygamy"

Despite growing up not terribly far away from Bountiful, people never spoke about about it much. I remember being surprised to find that, unlike the infamous colonies in Utah that people joked about with ease, I had unknowingly driven by the turn-off to a small village of around 1000 people that is also known as the polygamy capital of Canada.

I started paying attention, then, to people's whispered tales of the teenaged girls dressed out of the 19th century married to men old enough to be their fathers, grandfathers, to rumours of adolescents being smuggled across the border to serve as dutiful plural wives. It seemed altogether too surreal that this was occurring, ignored, just down the road from the highway to Alberta, where thousands of motorists flew by a day.

Bountiful has been in the news a lot more lately. Warren Jeffs, the president of the Fundementalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (hugely separated from the standard Mormon Church, despite many jokes to the contrary), was rumoured to have fled there to avoid prosecution on Utah State charges of being an accomplice to rape. It also has close ties to the YFZ ranch in Texas, raided in 2008 by child protective services. In 2004, Debbie Palmer published Keep Sweet: Children of Polygamy, an autobiography of her experiences in Bountiful as a teenager, including, at 15, becoming the 6th wife of Bountiful's then 55-year old leader. Most recently, after years of speculation, the town's current bishop, Winston Blackmore, rumoured to have 19 wives and 120 children, and another Bountiful resident, have been formally charged with polygamy, a charge which, up until now, has never actually been used due to fears of infringing on people's religious freedoms.

I find the case of Bountiful to present a huge moral quandary. In and off itself, involving consenting adults, I have no problem with polygamy in principle. However, the problem is that it often does not involve multiple consenting adults. Instead, at least as described by Debbie Palmer in her book, there is manipulation, violence, sexual abuse, statutory rape, and blurring of family boundaries. While many focus on the exploitation of the girls in the community, there has also been a recent focus on the plight of the young men, as multiple women for one man means that many males get left out in the cold, and are often exiled from the community for perceived slights with few skills and education for the world outside of Bountiful. I don't know necessarily that this is inherent in polygamy per se, but it certainly appears, from an observer's point of view, that they are inherent in its manifestation in Bountiful.

With all these allegations of abuse and neglect, I find it odd that the prosecutors have chosen to go after these men on charges of polygamy, rather than more straightforward charges, like done with Warren Jeffs, such as statutory rape. This leaves open a debate on the nature of religious freedoms. In fact, Blackmore's lawyer plans to argue that the legality of gay marriage in Canada provides a precedent for the allowing of polygamy. Perhaps it is the simple fact that polygamy is technically against the law, and the citizens of Bountiful have been flouting this for decades.

Still, I find it more disconcerting that we are concerned with the will of consenting adults, rather than following up on the more upsetting claims that underaged girls are unwillingly being smuggled over the border to serve as the tenth wives of a man 40 years their senior, or that teenaged boys are being abandoned and neglected. Or are these charges of polygamy supposed to be an indirect way of stopping these abuses of power?

From the worst blogger Valentine of all time

2009-02-14T13:35:00.000-08:00

Yes, I know, I'm a bad, bad bloggie Princess.

Will a ridiculously costumed doggie Cupid help in the forgiveness process?

Perhaps, if you are looking for a little karma for my lack of love pointed your way, it may help you feel better to know that I am very far from the world's sexiest Valentine right now. Unless cough drop breath and red crusty noses are your thing. You could woe me with Neocitron and noodle soup, if you were so inclined.

Yes, the world, in all her mighty cruelty, again decided that after already taking a week off for a conference, I deserve to be cursed with a blasted cold. Unfortunately, this means that my guilt is far outweighing my sense of self-preservation, and I have been suffering through work with a very raspy voice.

My boyfriend also thought it was comical to give me a hickey, as though the constant honking of my nose isn't already detracting from my professionalism.

Anyways, I just wanted to take the time to spread a little love and a few half-hearted promises your way, before I curl up on the couch for a day of passionate hockey watching and take-out. Swoon!

(And if you want to read something slightly more profound about my thoughts on this day in particular, you can find them here and here.)

My secret internet bubble

2009-02-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to worry a little bit about when this bubble is going to burst.

I have been blogging anonymously for over two years now. When I initially began, I protected my namelessness with utter intensity. There was no email contact in sight on my page. It took me about a month of humming and hawing about giving my email address to a fellow blogger with whom I'd been having a dialogue for months. I was afraid that a single person being able to identify me might lead to a fatal crashing down of my facade.

Gradually, though, I began to realize that blogging might not solely be about the writing aspect, and may have a social element, as I started emailing and chatting with a few more people. I then met a blogger, then a few more. I started adding bloggers to my Facebook. An element of paranoia still remained, though, as I found myself de-tagging pictures on me on Facebook in albums entitled "Blogger Meet-Up", and I had to monitor the comments left on my wall lest they be too bloggy in nature.

Now, the secrecy is almost automatic. I don't check my gmail around certain people for fear of blog comments catching their eye. I turn off my Google Notifier when anyone is over. I have my back-up stories about the nature of my now real-life relationships with blog friends. I took my blog off Google search so I wouldn't have to scour my SiteMeter stats just in case.

But, still, I wonder, am I bound for an epic reveal??

Certainly, when I started, I never imagined that I would become a slightly (and I cringe to say this word) popular blogger. I kind of expected my comments would trickle in, crossing my fingers they could actually end up in the double digits on occasion. Yeah, I'm no Dooce, or even a Brandy or SO@24, but my writing has become more, well, public than I expected, with a few 20something blogger award nominations, and now two (TWO!) features in the Printed Blog (find #2 here). I actually got approached to do an interview with PBS about the Printed Blog, (though that seems to have disappeared).

As I was contemplating the interview, I started wondering about the possibility of someone recognized my voice. Okay, the reality is that the number of readers I have is exceedingly miniscule when you consider all the people in the whole wide world. Then again, six degrees of separation isn't very far. In fact, upon a fellow blogger adding me on Facebook, it was discovered we had a real life friend in common-- despite the fact that we live on separate coasts in different countries. I know others have quirky tales of discovering real life connecting lines between themselves and other bloggers. It makes me think of how easy it would be for an errant click to lead someone to my recognizable style of writing. And I have been assured that someday someone will accidentally discover this little corner of the internet.

What does this mean, then? Is this the time that I start preparing for a possible blog invasion? Would it really be the big deal I am expecting it to be? Most of my writing is not anything that needs to be hidden, in particular. I sometimes wonder if I am more secretive about the entire idea of having this anonymous online life for two years than I am than about any set of expressed thoughts in particular. I wonder if I should proactively take down those few posts that may offend someone... but then I waffle, because some of these are my most authentic words. A little bit of me even wonders if it would be a relief to finally claim these words as my own.

But then I wonder if it is just easier to carry on as always, with a healthy dose of paranoia and denial.

And I reach out and knock on wood.

Tampa, anecdotally

2009-02-09T23:26:00.000-08:00

Although I'm sure palm trees in Florida are like pine trees in Canada in their commonality, there is still something about them that screams glamour to me. You could put me in a back alley or some rat ridden ghetto, and if there were palm trees, I would put on my sunglasses and pose for photos.

However, even I wasn't quite prepared for palm trees paired with icicles. Is that even allowed?

So, yes, as of late last night, I am home from my Tampa adventures. Home to countless unanswered emails, a Google Reader of 1000+, a pile of laundry, and a whole lot of jetlag. Such is this glamourous palm-tree filled life.

***

I think I have too high of expectations for new cities. I always expect a certain level of inherent character through the details, like the billboards, the street names, the architecture. I feel disappointed when the taxi takes me through the exact same stretch of highway on the way to my hotel, no matter what city I am in. I need to remind myself that the business areas of most big cities, as well as hotel rooms, are often ridiculously generic, which doesn't necessarily say anything about the core experience of living in that city. I almost feel as though I owe it to that city to take a cab to some random residential locale so I can really see it, outside the skyscrapers and the Starbucks. Unfortunately, conference trips often mean that my only moment to spare is used checking my email or changing clothes, not gallivanting about trying to find Florida's beaches and neighbourhoods.

However, my favourite billboard, seen on the ride from the airport?

Express Lube: Wednesday Night is Ladies Night

***

Academic conferences are such an odd little slice of life. It is hard to explain to the outsider the constant barrage of aggressive schmoozing, of name-dropping, of professorial rivalries, of learning copious amounts with a hangover. I simultaneously adore them and find them exhausting. The dork in me seriously holds back a squeal when finding out about some novel research findings, while the skeptic in me wants to slap my friend if she starts bragging again about which big names in the field she met last night.

Take poster sessions, for instance. Two hundred graduate students and professors, lined up in alphabetical order, standing by their assorted shiny coloured posters tacked onto bulletin boards. It is like a beauty pageant of sorts, only you are being judged by virtue of the title of your poster, rather than your ability to wear a poster. People avoid eye contact as they walk by you, or even worse, fleetingly pause at your abstract, only to walk away moments later. When I was an Honours student, I wanted no one to notice my poster, due to performance anxiety. Now I want to be the one surrounded by people asking questions, pointing at my graph, theorizing about follow-up studies. Even though I know that I am convinced at the value of the research I am doing, and I always have a number of interesting conversations at these poster sessions, I still want that blue sash declaring me Miss Psychology.

***

Quote of the trip, spoken by a friend doing her post-doc in England:

"Princess, the English take the food we deem fatty in Canada, and somehow force more fat into it."

***

The conference planners somehow had the brilliant notion of planning the conference for the very same weekend as Tampa's Gasparilla Pirate festival. Not to mention the fact that the crux of the event, the docking of the pirate ship and the invasion, take place literally right in front of the convention centre.

Despite the best intentions of security, this made for random drunken revelers looking confused as they stumbled amidst loads of psychologists in semi-professional gear in the centre's hallways. It also made for a lot of public drinking as I made my way to the conference at 9am, for eye patches and wench costumes, for mechanical parrots, and lots of beads. It was a very odd environment to be sober in, especially when, standing outside of a hotel room door, a man asked me if I was waiting for the elevator doors to open.

So, of course we had to skip out of at least one session to witness this debauchery first hand. As a friend and I were standing there, a man with a camera comes up, and asks us if we could pose for a photo with a nearby pirate. We happily obliged. He then asks for another favour, specifically whether we will pose for a picture with his son. Assuming his son is around 7 years old, we agree.

We walk over, and a tall boy of about 16 starts blushing, as it become clear we have been brought over by his father as trophies as such. As he puts his arms around us to take the photo, he mutters under his breath "I am so sorry. My dad is such a loser."

The oddest thing about this is the fact that we were literally surrounded by women in wench costumes, or various states of undress, and he chose us, in our conference gear.

***

I sometimes think that, as a Canadian, particularly one from a smaller town, I don't really understand sleaziness. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for the trashyness of the Tampa nightlife.

After a dinner of Cuban food and a flamenco show, a group of us decided to hit some bars in Ybor City. At first, we were looking for a salsa bar, but as we passed a string of barely dressed people on a threadbare red carpet, my companions suddenly got excited.

"Let's go there!"

I protested, stating that it was clearly horrendously shady. They maintained that this was the perfect reason to go there, as it was an experience we would never get since we wouldn't set foot in such a place in our "real" lives.

And, so we ended up busting a move in a club surrounded by more lycra and exposed skin than I've ever seen.

The bathrooms had no toilet paper, and were covered in garbage.

Instead of grinding with each other, girls were essentially straight up fucking, some of them simulating blow jobs on seated guys as the other girl pretend to hump her from behind.

And, yes, there was a girl fight on the dance floor.

As we exited the club, a bunch of shirtless guys with a pitbull on a rope were hanging out on the corner called us over. Soon after, a man started yelling "Japan!" at my Asian friend.

It makes waiting for the bus late at night at home seem a bit tamer...

Yo-ho-ho and some weekendly lessons

2009-02-02T12:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes running around with little time to pause and reflect can actually be a positive thing.

After a week of somehow managing both to be run ragged, but still to think too much, one would think I needed a little R&R. That wasn't in the cards, however, with two birthday parties, a Superbowl Party and a Chinese New Year brunch all in the mix. Though I expected myself to resent the lack of breathing time, the hopping about seemed to be just what the doctor ordered, strangely enough (except for the dietary choices involved... no doctor would be impressed by that much salt in one weekend).

So, blatantly ripping off a page from Bayjb of Everyday Adventures in the City wonderful Key Learning series, here are the lessons I learned from this weekend:

If there is a bacon sandwich on the menu, The Duke will order it. Even after the server tells him "You know there is only bacon in it, right?"
All sandwiches should, by default, have their crusts cut off.
It is not a good idea to eat jalapeño poppers when you don't like jalapeños, simply because the cheese filling is so good.
I can't trust men who tell me "monogamy is an unnatural state" when only metres away from his miles-out-of-his-league-in-hotness fiancee- especially when I ask him if that means she can sleep with other men, and he frantically shakes his head no.
Football is more enjoyable than expected when accompanied by nachos and drunken shit talking.
Lion dances done by children are just about the cutest thing ever.
The second cutest thing ever? Children pouting because they have to march in a parade on a rainy day. (which is easy for me to say when I have an umbrella)
It is always appreciated when a room full of people erupts in protests when my boyfriend jokingly calls me high maintenance.
I am destined to live my life in pants than are several inches too long.
Even nearly 30-year old successful businesswomen have crushes on teenage vampires.
Halter bras can often double as torture devices.
The guy who, on your first meeting, drunkenly, blatantly and unsuccessfully hit on you will pretend he doesn't know you on your second meeting.

***

My exciting jetsetting grad student life is continuing, this time with a trip to attend a conference in Tampa, Florida!

(It becomes much less glamourous when you realize it is taking me over a day to travel there, due to our budgets-- and Air Canada's ridiculous fees-- making us fly out of the nearest American airport, and the fact that I am sharing a room -- and a bathroom-- with three other women.)

As you can imagine, all the learning, schmoozing and traveling will leave for very little covert blogging, so my little hiatus from your comment section and my own page will have to be prolonged a little while longer.

There is also a pirate festival in town, so I can't completely reassure you that I won't abandon the grad student lifestyle to further my pirate wench goals...

If you see a petite girl with an eyepatch and a clipboard doing a jig in the convention centre, you'll know it's me.

The mask of anonymity

2009-01-30T10:07:00.000-08:00

Anonymity does funny things to people.

This is the blessing and the curse of the internet, I suppose. There is a lot of good that has been done by allowing people to explore areas of themselves, with no identifying information or bread crumbs following them. I think of online support groups for individuals with eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, suffering from trauma. I think of gay teens in small towns trying to figure out their sexuality while keeping it undercover.

And then I read the comments on YouTube videos, news sites, Craigslist-- and I swear, I almost lose faith in humanity.

Give someone a screen name and no link to their actual identity, and the stuff they spew out is foul. Misogynistic, racist, homophobic, insulting, and just plain cruel. It is almost as though they are bursting at the seams with this hatred, after having to conceal it in their day-to-day life, such that they are willing to fling it at the first target as soon as they've put their masks on. It is as though the id runs rampant the second they are hidden from view.

The reality is, of course, that the average person doesn't even bother creating this moniker. They check out the video clip or skim through the article without the need to comment. It is all too easy to ignore the thought provoking comments, or even just the plain neutral ones, when there are bolded racial slurs surrounding them.

My main research interest is ethnic discrimination, and you have no idea how many cliched comments I receive about how racism is no longer a problem. While racism is certainly generally regarded as socially unacceptable, these leakages of such hatred online show that these sentiments are still residing in people. Perhaps they know better than to say such things out loud in public locations, but one can hardly argue that having these attitudes simmering below the surface doesn't affect how they interact with minority group members.

(FYI-- Research does say that even the most implicit forms of discrimination, much more implicit than these anonymous comments, do have negative impacts on interpersonal interactions).

In some ways, I am surprised how far these fierce comments extend. This post was brought about by my accidental scrolling through reader's opinions on a local news site's article, in which they berated a woman who had nearly died due to the mislabeling of a Starbucks product (it said there were no nuts in the product when there in fact were)-- the insults were flying about the woman's morality and status as a single mother, as though her anaphylactic shock was a motivated move by a shameless woman.

Then, in other ways, I am surprised where they don't extend to. While I know that a number of my fellow bloggers have received rude and aggressive comments, in my two years of writing, I have never received a comment that I found personally insulting (knock on wood...). Sure, there have been a few that disagreed with my take on things, and one or two that may have stung a little, but nothing ever directly meant to jab at my feelings. In some ways, I think that speaks to bloggers as a whole, that we take our online presence relatively seriously, and try to be genuine in our expressions of it.

Fitting with this, I think of the fact that despite my own cloak of anonymity, it has never occurred to me to abuse it. Sure, now my life is more intertwined with those of you with whom I have started real personal relationships with, but at the beginning, I could have very well been more nefarious. It surprises me sometimes that it has never occurred to me to lie on this blog-- even when to do so would have made for more exciting posts, or a more flattering depiction of me. For some reason, though, presenting myself as genuinely as I can is important. That is why I still appreciate the fact that upon meeting me, I have been told that I match my words well-- despite the fact that I hide these words from those in my day-to-day life. I guess that, despite the opportunity to communicate in a more consequence-free manner (and you know very well that we have all read a post or two that we just want to call people out on), I still find it important to hold the online me to the same ethical standards as the real me. Or maybe it is just that I don't have nearly as much unbridled hatred below the surface...

And they wonder why 12-year olds are on diets

2009-01-28T12:44:00.000-08:00

I, just like 98.6% or so of the women I know, have body image issues.

It is nothing profound, really. I don't have a plastic surgery fund. I don't cry when I look in the mirror. I've never been on a formal diet.

It is more along the genre of an occasional cursing out of my jeans, a grabbing at my stomach critically in the mirror when I get out of the stomach, a groaning at the occasional photo, a wishing that I had more time to spend at the gym.

But, really, I eat healthy, I don't get winded going up stairs, my boyfriend thinks I'm sexy and I fit into my Size 6 jeans, so I'm not doing too bad, right?

Apparently not, as again I was reminded today.

Here's a recent photo of Jessica Simpson:

Okay, so maybe not as toned as she has been in the past, but morbidly obese and unhealthy? Hardly.

Explain to me, then, how this is justified? In the New York Post??

Ugh. I have a hard time not just going on some tirade right now. You all know what I would say, anyways, about how she is still skinnier than the average woman, about how this has nothing to do with health despite the claims that our fat aversion is about that, about how we have just made countless other women who may have been proud to be the same size as Jessica Simpson feel worthless and ugly. It's all been said before. We've all heard the arguments about how we need to be media-literate, how we need to base our self-esteem in other areas, how we need to stop taking things so seriously and learn to take a joke-- but, still, I'm not sure how it is possible not to have comparisons like this feel like a slap in the face.

You can find me...

2009-01-27T12:36:00.000-08:00

... in da club, bottle full of bub.
(Or not.)
(Yeah, I'm lame.)

... at Umm... Now What, writing about a certain guilty pleasure.

... in Chicago or San Fran, in the premiere issue of the Printed Blog!!
(or you could click here and print it out for yourself and pretend you got it from a news box-- I'm on page 4)

... lugging around a giant bag of neuropsychological tests in the snow and on smelly public transit.

Never underestimate the power of blanket forts

2009-01-25T18:55:00.000-08:00

The contrast to the fact that I feel justified acting younger when I'm back in HomeTown is that I feel compelled to act my age when I am back in the city.

The city is the place where I only hit the snooze button one time.

Where I file my own taxes.

Where I use a clipboard regularly.

Where I eat steamed vegetables by choice.

Where I own too many pairs of plain black socks.

Where I spend my Saturday afternoons buying garbage bags and Swiffer refills.

Where I send important emails on the train to work.

Where I make sure I wear sensible earrings (in certain contexts, at least).

Every once in a while, though, I get a flash of something that makes me feel like a child again.

Today, I was taking my bedding out of the dryer, I noticed that one of my pillow cases had gone missing. I stuck my head into my comforter cover, and saw that the pillow case had become wedged at the bottom, so I crawled in a little further to retrieve it. All the sudden, with the way the light was filtering through the blanket, I felt as though I was hiding out in a blanket fort.

And I smiled.

I realize, now, even though I've done a remarkable job at this whole "adult" thing, there are some things that all the practical pants and day planners in the world can't suppress.

Like the smell of crayons.

Having breakfast for supper.

Giving myself a bubble bath beard.

Jumping onto every chalked game of hopscotch I come across.

Dancing around my apartment to the song on my iPod the second the front door closes behind me.

Eating too much ice cream.

Tickle fights.

And being tucked into bed so tightly that my arms can barely move.

Blanket forts trump steamed vegetables any day.

You can stop that now.

2009-01-22T14:10:00.000-08:00

You know what I am getting really damn sick of?

Sexual harassment.

Okay, I dress up pretty and go to the bar, and a sleazy guy offers to buy me a drink or grabs at me as I walk by. I get that. I may not always appreciate it, but I get it.

I'm not a wimp in this regard. My job requires that I occasionally work in a jail. I get the howls, the stares, the comments. It's not because I'm special. It's because I have boobs and I'm not a senior citizen. It's more for the benefit of the other inmates than getting my attention. I was just telling my guy the other day how I barely even notice most of the attention anymore, unless their comments get particularly clever or original, or their grunting is particularly loud.

But, really, it would be nice to be able to go for a coffee downtown, and not have the experience I did last night. It would be lovely not to have some creep start following me to my bus stop after I simply did the polite thing and said hi back to him. It would be super if he noticed that me walking quickly to get ten feet ahead of him, and ignoring his request that we spend time together. It would be bloody great if he didn't stand right beside me, staring unblinkingly, for several minutes at the bus stop, as I texted my boyfriend to call me so I could find a way to forcibly disengage from the situation. It would be fucking wonderful if he didn't start telling me he was coming home with me, and then, after I told him that was not going to happen, he stated that I could come home with him. And it was, at least, a damn relief when he finally got the point, and ran away after multiple refusals, before my bus came and he followed me home like he said he would.

It would be even better if this was a one time only type of thing, rather than a relatively regular source of stress.

I don't want to have to worry about this kind of stuff. My cousin joked about me bringing my new boyfriend home when I returned, and while I understand that he is just trying to diffuse the tension, these stories are no longer feeling very funny. Instead, I start to wonder what would have happened had it been later, darker, less populated. I worry about people's motivations, wondering if they had the nerve to say such things to me in public, what more they would do in private.

I also wonder why. Does this ever work? Does a girl ever simply agree to let this random fellow into her home, or hop in the car with him? Does it make them feel like big men to make me like I am but the sum of my female parts? Yeah, I am probably overthinking the motivations of some random pervert, but when it happens on a number of occasions, you can't help but think about it in a more systematic fashion.

I don't want to let this get to me or make it a big thing, as the truth is, it just a reality of life. It just feels good to rant sometimes, because, damn, being a woman in the city sucks sometimes.

(and now back to my scheduled hiatus...)

Time out

2009-01-19T12:36:00.000-08:00

I am trying desperately to be an optimist.

I am also trying desperately to be a morning person.

Neither of these feel especially natural at the moment.

The story is nothing particularly interesting. My cousin is visiting BigCity for the first time, and has taken up residence on our couch for a week now. My spare time is spent playing tour guide on jaunts in and out of town, which is fun in the moment, but means that I have to fit the same amount of work into compressed hours, especially considering that I am trying to get my first dissertation study up and running in a week's time.

I am feeling that very soon, I will need the luxury of being anti-social. This is a difficult thing to communicate to people, who always have the best of intentions when seeking to drag you out of the house. For instance, this upcoming weekend, several friends are going on a ski trip. Originally, we couldn't make it for a series of practical reasons, though we breathed a sigh of relief, as it was wedged in the midst of my cousin's visit, an out of town girl's weekend, and my week in the U.S. for a conference-- not to forget dissertation induced madness. However, my friends, bless their hearts, are determined, and are being graciously accommodating in their attempts to get us to join them. The idea of packing another overnight bag makes me sick right now, but I'm not sure how to communicate this non-offensively.

Him and I also need to focus on us, rather than everybody else. Part of the charm of grad student romances is intertwined periods of stress. It doesn't help that we are both gritting our teeth through massive family let downs. As tends to happen, we realized, with the aid of too much alcohol on Saturday night, that both of us have the ability to sting the other one more than we realize when we are sucked into these self-indulgent stress whirlwinds. Yesterday morning, when my cousin went to run some errands, we felt finally comfortable enough to speak frankly in tones above whispers without the fear of being overheard. As I laid my head on his chest, he said "We need to do something together to remind ourselves of how madly in love we are."

This is all, in part, why I feel the need to formally excuse myself a little from blogging over the next few weeks. Knowing me, I still will have these words swimming through my head. With my hour commute, staring out the window, you couldn't turn my brain off if you tried. So I will write, when the pressure of the words filling up my head becomes a little too much.

However, more than anything, I feel neurotically compelled to understand why I may be less present on your side of things. Between my visitor and the fact that I am now sharing my work office space, my free time alone in front of a computer is few and far between. When I do open my Reader, I am slapped across the face with some huge triple digit number. When I actually have time to give your words the time they deserve, it becomes more about reducing that number than really reading. This isn't fair to either of us-- to you all, because I am supposed to read your blogs because I enjoy what you have to say, and to me, because the last thing I need is my hobby framed as another quantitative homework project. I don't want this to become another demand on my time-- I want it to be something that gives me a break from these demands instead.

In the meanwhile, feel free to send me some serenity vibes. Or a gift certificate for more caffeine.

365 x 2 +3

2009-01-15T12:10:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like the forced reflection brought about by seemingly symbolic days... birthdays, new years, anniversaries, and, of course, blogoversaries!

Yep, 2 years ago (minus, oh, say 3 days... I should start marking this in my day planner), ...and hijinks ensued was born. Apparently, after having just finished the maddest half year in my life, I was overwhelmed by a sudden influx of spare time, and decided to start jotting down my observations about the world in a little more systematic of a fashion.

Honestly, I am a little surprised I didn't think to start blogging earlier. My friend's mother, upon meeting me for the first time, said I was an observer, noticing everything around me to a greater degree than people realized. I was always constructing little anecdotes in my head in far too much detail. Once they were constructed, I didn't know what to do with them.

When I was 10, my literary masterpiece, Dognapped, placed in a city-wide children's writing contest. At 13, I wrote novellas about girl detectives and feisty orphans. At 15, I wrote melodramatic poetry. And at 18, I stopped writing for me, and started writing for grades. At 22, my mother and I went across Canada, and I sent out a number of update emails including my silly observations about our travels. These emails were an unexpected hit, with people printing them out to read them to others, and even my boss telling me how much he'd enjoyed them. I felt a burst of pride, knowing that I still had that writer's spark in me, but also a bit of helplessness. Great, I can still write, but what purpose does a talent for witty emails about teaching Brazilians about hockey and my mother's failed attempts to speak French serve?

At 25, I started blogging. A summer earlier, I had met a blue-eyed fellow at a concert, a fellow who helped me see that focusing on one foot in front of the other so you can ignore everything else tumbling down alongside you is not a good way to live. One night, after I'd found out of the death of a friend, he insisted on coming out to the suburbs to take me for gelato. That night, he told me, in perhaps less direct terms, that I didn't need to live under the weight of someone else's beer bottles. He also told me that he had a blog. That night, I found these words of his, and spend hours reading them. He'd even written about me. Although his writing tapered off soon afterwards, he was the one that told me, with all the thoughts bolting through my mind, I may want to think about blogging.

And, on January 12th 2006, I took his advice.

So, here I am, 2 years later. Strangely enough, despite my fears otherwise, my brain has yet to run dry. I still get sudden burst of inspiration in various locales, jot down descriptions on scrap paper or in my phone, run through lines I don't want to forget over and over again in my head. Blogging is almost a seamless part of my life now.

Even more shocking, perhaps, is that I have managed (I seriously did just knock on wood... well, pressboard, really) to write anonymously over all this time. Sure, there have been a few close calls, like friends tapping me on the shoulder unexpectedly (resulting in lightening fast window minimization), blogs popping up in search histories when someone uses my computer, and on the spot lies about people I have met or who are on my Facebook. Still, though, my obsessive site meter usage reveals only one or two other readers from my general vicinity, and despite my occasional fears that it is my boss or an ex, it is actually surprising I don't have more random readers from a city of several million.

Does my anonymity really matter all that much? Probably not. My world wouldn't collapse if the link got sent about. Sure, a few people would probably be stung by my keeping this large part of my life secret. There are a few other people who may smart from particular entries. Most would probably giggle about the idea of documenting one's life over the internet. But, really, it is more about the freedom and having this wonderful little side identity than hiding from one person in particular. I've been invested in keeping these words separate from my day-to-day life for two years now-- it just doesn't feel right to let that go. Even if I do get the occasional yearning to send someone a specific entry (though I have no idea how to explain why I am writing about such things), or I wish I could share some of my piece in a more public forum and truly claim them as my own, not the work of some little avatar with a silly name.

Over the years, what has blogging done for me? It has put me back in touch with myself, after years of unknowingly just going through the motions. It has helped me pay better attention-- to my thoughts, to the beauty around me, to people's motivations. It is amazing how much more you watch when the idea to write about it occurs to you. It has made me feel like a writer again, a feeling I thought I had lost years back with the entrance into real life adulthood. And I actually feel good at it. It has brought some amazing people into my life, people who, whether through emails or even a single sentence in a comment, I sometimes feel may know me better than the people who see real-life me on a regular basis.

So, thank you to all of you for making me feel good at this, like my words may be a little important or meaningful. And thank you, little red blog, for helping me feel like me again.

Guilt

2009-01-13T18:22:00.000-08:00

It's a damn weighty feeling to know you have let someone down.

I tend to be hypervigilent at the best of times (and downright neurotic at the worst of times) about the way my actions with be perceived by others. So the notion that, despite the noblest of intentions, and theoretically the most precise of attention, I have still slipped up, is like a swift kick to the stomach.

I'm starting to think there is merit to patenting the term "psychologist's guilt". For me, I fall into despair when I unintentionally do something to offend or sting someone. I chastise myself in a heavyhanded manner-- how can I be a professional if I screw up every day interpersonal interactions?

So, yes, I hurt someone I care about.

Nothing irreparable, nothing unforgivable, nothing intentional.

But I still hurt them.

At first, excuses poured out of my mouth like a waterfall, like rapids.

I needed it to be understood that there were miscommunications, misunderstandings, distractions, that malevolence was never a part of the plan.

That, quite simply, I never meant to.

But sometimes you just need to admit that you made a mistake.

That moment I admitted it, I felt myself crumple, the wall hard against my back.

I guess we all deserve to feel guilty sometimes.

The Facebook status updates that weren't

2009-01-12T00:34:00.000-08:00

An aside-- would you like to find out what movies I'm glad I didn't see in 2008 and my thoughts on the great Tom Cruise debate? Come visit me in the land of Brandy!

***

... alternately titled my Saturday night, in hypothetically Facebooked form.

(Background: Annual Christmas party, now held in January, with seven of my besties, mucho wine, cheese, and debauchery)

Princess thinks that an average of nearly two bottles of wine each is a little frightening.

Princess still has not reached her maximum cheese capacity.

Princess is giving Snoop a run for his money.

Princess is doing the limbo beneath a Swiffer.

Princess is now spanking her friend with said Swiffer.

Princess is all about having whip cream sprayed liberally into her mouth.

Princess is sharing a lollipop with a cricket in it. It apparently tastes nutty.

Princess hates it when she falls while enacting sexy dance moves.

Princess is the walrus... koo-koo-ka-choo!

Princess is laughing at S's dogpile related injuries and her resulting washcloth and ribbon bandage.

Princess does not think that picture is a very good idea at all.

Princess is perplexed as to why her friends are singing along to the Chipmunks.

Princess is surprised at the cornucopia of salacious information exchanged in a game of "I've Never".

Princess wonders why her boyfriend doesn't respond when she texts him "Wooooooo!"

Princess thinks it is time for bed when people starts singing Achy-Breaky Heart.

(and today... "Princess' head and tummy wish she would stop pretending she is 19.")

Princesses, squared: My interview by the Princess of the Universe

2009-01-09T07:27:00.000-08:00

So, a little ways back, my lovely cohort in royalty, the Princess of the Universe (who also sends me dried fish and chocolate-- true story) made a tempting offer-- to interview her readers in five questions.

My answers are below, but first, if you would like to play, these are the rules...

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. (note-- I can't guarantee original questions for all. Depends how much caffeine I have drank that day. Or how lame of questions you will tolerate- e.g., what's your favourite number?)
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Without further ado, la Princesse asked me....

1. Have you ever been to Winnipeg? And seriously, what do other people in Canada say about us? Are we at least cooler than Regina? Or Guelph? C'mon, we HAVE to be cooler than Guelph!

I have in fact been to Winnipeg. When I graduated high school, I won (and I use that term loosely) 30 days free Greyhound travel across Canada for two, and a bunch of nights stay at hostels. So, my sister and I set on a sibling-bonding trip across our very, very vast country to see our father's neglected side of the family.

Spoiler: The Greyhound sucks. And it eats luggage.

Stop one on our way was Winnipeg, only about 36 or so hours in. We stayed for a night. I remember very little except a bridge, a bunk bed, finally getting to shower, and drinking bubble tea for the first time. Honestly, I didn't form much of an impression from what I saw, as I was there for less than 24 hours.

But my friend from Winnipeg raves about how much fun she had living there. Apparently it is more cultured than people realize, with a much more laid back attitude than some other cities.

Without stepping on anyone's toes, it *was* prettier than Hamilton, at least!

Oh, and one more Winnipeg memory? When we were waiting in the bus depot to leave, I left to buy a bottle of water, and came back to the sleaziest guy in the planet hitting on my 15-year old sister. He was from Winnipeg and inexplicably hanging out at the bus depot. When she told him she had a boyfriend, his response (and I quote) was "Fuck him, I have a bigger dick than him anyhow."

Sorry.

The Winnipeg Jets were awesome, though.

2. I have a little soft spot in my heart for Freud, because I took a Topics course on the guy. What are your thoughts? Genius? Depraved?

My favourite quote of Freud's is "I was pass over all the details which showed how utterly correct I was" (from his famous Dora case study).

So egomaniacal? Yes, to say the least.

Honestly, though, despite the current views that the guy was full of it (and it does tend to be a bit of a knee jerk reaction when you hear about penis envy), he was a genius. So many of his ideas were so phenomenal, considering how far they were from the paradigm of the day-- where would modern psychology be without concepts like defense mechanisms or the unconscious? I think we tend to ignore those, and focus on the more kooky stuff that seems so over the top and misogynistic now.

I recommend that everyone with an interest in psychology read some of his case studies. Whether you believe his conclusions or not, they are hugely fascinating, as he weaves these amazing poetic linkages between dreams, body language and word choices to come up with this amazing picture of a person at their core. He may be completely out of left field, but you almost want to believe him.

3. The Tragically Hip: Best Canadian band ever, or WAY over-rated?

For those of you non-Canucks out there, the Tragically Hip are one of Canada's pride and joys. We like the fact that they haven't really been discovered by the rest of the world, that they sell out stadiums here but barely sell out bars south of the border, that they seem like good humble non-Hollywood Prairie boys.

I'm going to go in the middle for this one. They've certainly got some catchy tunes sprinkled across their musical career, and I don't complain when someone puts their CD on. But I also don't own more than a few of their songs, and find some of their stuff a little underwhelming.

Besides, any true Canadian knows that the best Canadian band ever is Loverboy.

4. Starbucks or Tim's? And if Starbucks- do you understand how to speak their language? Cause I totally have a blog post I keep meaning to write about the humiliating day when I had the nerve to order a "medium" hot chocolate...

Again, a bit of Canadiana-- Tim Horton's is our favourite coffee and donut place, named after a hockey player, and apparently holding 62% of the Canadian coffee market.

There's a time and place for both. Road trips are Timmy's all the way, as is any early morning camping/sporting excursion. But coffee breaks and sit down dates are Starbucks.

I will certainly take a double/double over Starbucks' gut rotting coffee though. That stuff rips the enamel off my teeth. Starbucks is only for multi-word orders, not just plain coffee.

But I have been known to order a non-fat sugar free Vanilla latte. But I swear I don't tell them how I like my foam.

5. Hot vacation or Europe? Discuss.

For just a week or so, I'll go hot vacation. Anything much longer, though, and I'll go Europe all the way.

I am the stir crazy type. I can take about one lazy day of sitting in my PJs, and then I begin to get jumpy. I figure that could be prolonged somewhat if you slapped some sunscreen on me and put a marguarita in hand, but mostly, I like doing things. I love exploring new places with nothing but a vague agenda, and taking time out to people watch. Europe seems like the perfect place for that, as there would be so much to keep me stimulated. I can't even conceive of the notion of so much culture packed into such a small place...

***

We're venturing into horn-tooting territory, I'm afraid.

The nominations for the 20-something Bootleg Awards have come out, and despite my insistences that I am in no way cool, I have been nominated for a few (most distinct voice, most sincere, best commenter-- ironic considering my Google Reader is still guilt-tripping the crap out of me, and best title). Umm... Now What has also been nominated for best group blog.

Proof I'm not cool? I can't play this smooth. I'm tickled pink and I can't tell anyone in my real life (though I may have whispered it into the Duke's ear as he was waking up because I'm lame like that), so I'm telling you guys.

Last year, when I was nominated, I decided that I wouldn't create a big hullabaloo and tell people to vote. Last year I also went 0 for 3. So, you know what? I'm going to be honest, and tell you all that it would be really sweet, if you are a member of 20-something bloggers, you did vote. There's a lot of amazing people up for awards, so show some love!

The worst boyfriend ever

2009-01-07T10:22:00.000-08:00

I have a theory that everyone needs a horrible romantic relationship at same point in their life. I'm not talking about abusive here, but rather someone who takes you for granted, is too jealous, is unreliable, even unfaithful.

The reason for this? To find your boundaries.

We are all a little clueless when we first start dating. If you were like me, your role models were your "mature" friends who had boyfriends from 13 onwards (when I was still in the awkward caterpillar eyebrow and twelve sizes too big t-shirt phase), sitcoms, or Sweet Valley High. We are told it is supposed to a perfectly smooth ride, with talking on the phone all night every night and slow dances. We have no idea how to react when he doesn't like our friends or he doesn't want to go to the school dance with you. We don't know which of his quirks we think are adorable and idiosyncratic, and which are just plain mean. We have no idea how we are supposed to be treated.

As harsh as it may seem, being treated like a doormat, for most of us, will show us exactly how we don't want to be treated.

As such, even though I can say that my first serious boyfriend, Logan, who I dated for 10 months in Grade 10, is still one of the great dirt bags to walk the earth, he taught me a hell of a lot. Logan is the only guy who will ever treat me as miserably as that, because after him, I could see his traits in other guys from a mile away, and would avoid them like the bubonic plague. And if anyone ever started on any of his style trips on me? I have the faith that even my 16 year old self could have walked out the door.

Logan was probably everything a desperately insecure 15 year old girl should not have been kissing. Judgmental, angry, jealous, controlling, though mighty cute, funny, and seemingly dedicated.

He decided he liked me the way I was, and thus, I was forbidden to change. He would turn around and walk away from me, shaking his head in disgust, if he didn't like the clothes I was wearing. He would grumble angrily if my new CD didn't meet his approval. I even hid my class projects from him for fear of his disapproval, such as the time I did a biography on Drew Barrymore, as I knew he thought she was a "slut".

He was insanely jealous, and would try to fight any guy who was friendly towards me. When I tried to stop him, he would accuse me of wanting to be with them, so I learned to just stare at the ground as he shouted and shook his fists. He would also wildly confront anyone who expressed concern for me. He never hit anyone, but that was more to do with their skills at backing away and negotiating than a flattening of his temper.

I made the mistake of letting him be my first everything, losing my virginity on my bedroom floor. He then believed he had the right to me at anytime, as though sex was solely his decision, and I was merely an accessory to it. I distinctly remember sleeping in the same room as a friend, and him chastising me to tears because I wouldn't have sex with him there. I actually tried to curl up and sleep on the bathroom floor, as though the cold tiles were more peaceful than lying beside him.

My sister was stronger than me in all of this. Despite being all of 12 years old, one time after he had berated me over the phone, I left to walk to his house, she called him, this big 16-year old, and told him to stop being so cruel to me.

I actually set to my reminiscing about Logan yesterday over dinner, when my friend, after laughing at her distress at her first time being dumped, asked me what my most horrendous "dumped" story was.

I started laughing hysterically at how truly awful it was.

And I told her about how, in French 10, we did a fashion show. My friends asked me to be their model for a pair of shorts and a tank top. I asked them if I could wear a jacket with it. They said yes, but ended up giving away the jacket to another catwalker, so I strutted my stuff anyhow. I didn't tell Logan, but someone else reported back to him.

He asked me to meet him on the street, and proceeded to call me every name on the book. Slut, whore, tramp, you name it. In the midst of these slew of words, I was told he never wanted to see me again. The cherry on top was when I ran away, crying, he threw snowballs at my head.

I fell asleep in my parents bed, clutching my stuffed bunny.

And I took him back the next day.

One of the conditions of us getting back together is that I had to ask my french teacher to delete the video of me in the fashion show.

He dumped me four times in total. The fourth time, I didn't accept his pleas to come back. These pleas proceeded to bended knees, to tears, to persuading friends to knock on my door, to 3am drunken visits that began with poetry and ended with him storming off with vows to kill himself.

I still said no.

Perhaps a better victory would have been to say no the first time he broke up with me, or the first time he called me names.

But I'm still proud the final answer was no.

As painful and unfair as it was to go through so young, I am infinitely glad I went through it at age 15, rather than at 18, 20, 25, like I see friends going through now. It is almost like one of those diseases, like the chicken pox. At least if you get it when you are young, you are immune to its later, more dangerous adult form.

And, small town that it is, that was not the last I saw of Logan. Later that summer, his poor heart apparently recovered enough to sleep with a visiting friend of mine in my bed. On my 19th birthday, he was coincidentally at the same bar, trying to fight the ex-boyfriend I'd dated after him, still holding a grudge years later.

And just as I was wondering if I was holding onto my grudge a little too fiercely, I saw him at a friend's birthday party around five years ago in UndergradCity. He began hitting on my friend, but when he heard how we knew each other (she had dated the Ex's friend for a year-- a guy who was a bit of a ladies man in high school), he said to her "Well, if you dated him, I hope you got yourself checked"... as in STDs. He accused a girl he just met, and was trying to seduce, of having STDs.

Some things never change.

Small town bar

2009-01-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

An annual tradition in HomeTown is the Boxing Night Extravaganza. The various people home for the holidays all gather at the local pub early in the evening, generally heading down to the local "nightclub" (I use this word loosely) after a sufficient buzz has been accomplished.

This year I again find myself the recipient of multiple phone calls in the days and hours approaching Boxing Night. "What's going on tonight?" "Are we meeting before?" "Is so-and-so coming?" "Can I crash on your parents' floor?"

In high school, I was the resident co-ordinator, playing at being a social butterfly, knowing where the party was at, and offering up a sleeping bag and floor space to anyone without a ride home or too drunk to drive afterwards. It's a role I deliberately eschewed when I moved away, ricocheting into the opposite "going with the flow" orientation, as it gets exhausting serving as everyone's planning middle man. However, going home is like a time machine, where everyone treats you a little like your 18-year old self-- and, well, my 18-year old self was the party go-to girl, so my fate is sealed for the time being.

The first step of Boxing Night, though, is not pre-drinking and planning a meeting place. It is deciding what to wear. This is of the utmost importance, considering you are most likely to run into at least one of each the following: ex-boyfriend, ex-crush, and former stalker. As such, you need to look good. Very good. However, HomeTown is also a place where most people wear winter gear to the bar on a Friday night, which means you can't look too done up-- because then you are "too big city", and thus likely to be shunned. I was once deemed to have turned big city because my earrings were too big. This means that a delicate balance needs to be struck.

Deliberately casual yet coordinated, then the pre-drinking begins, as people arrive and squish into my bedroom, like old time sake. I have not drank on my bed in a long time, considering I have a living room and coasters now. We have taken a bit of a step up, though, drinking store bought wine and fancy mixed drinks, rather than whatever beer comes in an 8-pack or whatever homemade wine we could scam.

A little more nostalgia hits as we drive downtown, too many people in one car. Like old times, I am the one crammed on a friend's lap, my head grazing the roof. We teeter on icy sidewalks, and make our way into the pub around 7:45. There are already no tables, so we claim the corner by the foozball table as our own. My phone buzzes near constantly, as more people announce their upcoming arrivals. We all hug and summarize our lives in response to the countless times we are asked "What have you been up to over the past year?" I don't mind this question quite so much as the "How much more school do you have left?" or the much more direct "Aren't you done school yet?"

I notice this year that I don't know a good third of the bar like I used to. It occurs to me that coming back to HomeTown is no longer everyone's first priority over the holidays. People have their "new" families-- spouses, children, in-laws, or jobs that do not halt because of the significance of a particular day. Perhaps this is another one of the realities that comes along with the fact that it is my (yikes yikes yikes) ten year high school reunion this summer, and I am, in fact, getting old.

I stand by our territory of the foozball table and a guy of about 19 tries to start chatting me up. As he is getting his game on, and I try not to giggle too much, a friend hands me a drink. It is wet on the outside, as he has just carried up an enormous round from the bar, and seems to have spilled a little. Just as it occurs to 19-year old to ask me my name, the drink slides out of my hands and shatters to the floor. He actually backs away slowly. I go over to my friends, and laugh that I have inadvertently found the easiest way to get rid of a guy.

Except he comes back and tries again. Apparently he mistook my clumsiness as intoxication and figured he still had a shot. And tries to impress me by telling me all about the first year psychology course he had taken. Yes, indeed, guys, the way to impress the woman completing her PhD in psychology? Show her how much you know about psychology from your first year. Educate me, baby! Of course, this was after he pretended to run away when he first heard what I studied.

Of course, I run into the checklist of people, including exes, former crushes, and random people I hadn't thought about in years. There is also a guy I went to elementary school inexplicably wearing a polar bear costume. I joke with a friend that I just needed an awkward former drunken make-out partner to make the night complete.

It is soon after that I notice the Ex's best friend, who I have previously deemed ABF (Alcoholic Best Friend) at the bar. The vodka perhaps artificially enhancing my nostalgia, I go over to say hi. He is drunk and ecstatic. The first thing out of his mouth is the comment I've already recounted below about the Ex needing me more than ever. He then tells me he is buying me a drink, despite my claims that I am not in the mood for double fisting, as I have a fresh drink in hand. He buys me one anyways, and then proceeds to pour out his heart about his girl troubles, disregarding the fact that we haven't seen each other in two and a half years. He doesn't ask me a thing about myself, rather begging me for detailed plans of action about what he should say to his ex-girlfriend and current crush. As my friends come to extricate me from the situation, he slurs "Please just give me a few minutes with her. I promise I'm not trying to molest her. She's been my counselor for years."

A few minutes to closing time, we exit the bar. There is no hope of getting a taxi any time in the next hour, given you can count the number of taxis in the town on one hand. Two of us walk to the front door of another bar, where people have chosen to go instead of paying the unheard of $10 cover charge at the "nightclub". Seven of us set to walking up the enormous hill home.

Snow is tumbling from the sky, as we walk down the middle of the empty street. Despite the drunken cries around, it is strangely peaceful, as though the snow muffles it from our ears. We walk a half block backwards, so we can watch the snow sprinkling on the view below. As we make it to one person's destination, someone grabs a six-pack of beer, and someone else two inner tubes. We spin and slide down the steep street on the inflated rubber, a lone car beeping its horn at us as we skim by, our hair frosted in snow. I decide at this moment, despite my instincts earlier in the night, that I refuse to be too old for this.

So this is the new year

2009-01-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

Yep, it's that time again-- the obligatory welcome to 2009 post!

As I did last year, I'm going to kick this post off with a meme, with a twist. The standard rules say that you are supposed to post the first line of the first post of every month of the past year. I choose to do the last line, as it seems like we are celebrating the passing of the last year and the beginning of a new one, not vice versa.

January: It's time to bust out the hideous tacky metaphors and hop on the train back to Princess-land!

February: Arghblephiz.

March: Part of growing up with hippie parents is summers spent in the great outdoors.

April: ... and I go a little crazy.

May: It came to mind yesterday, while at a event scattered with random faces from my past, that my ten year high school reunion is due to rear up next summer.

June: I adore Chicago.

July: Two Yale law students, fed up with threats and lies being printed alongside their full names at the law school admission forum, AutoAdmit.com, filed a lawsuit against multiple anonymous trolls.

August: There are reasons one doesn't skinny dip in a lake in the middle of the day.

September: Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor.

October: I don't entirely understand those who enjoy being scared.

November: A little housekeeping out of the way first...

December: I usually have a post more or less lined up in my head before I start writing, a few choice lines on repeat in my head.

***

Other than these choice words, what has 2008 been for me?

I kept plugging away at the good old PhD, and actually just finished my last course, meaning I may be able to pretentiously call myself Dr. Princess sometime in the future.

(Don't get too excited... I still have those pesky things called a dissertation and an internship to get through)

I left behind my apartment and moved into our apartment.

February brought me to Albuquerque for a conference and a hot air balloon ride.

May was a visit to Seattle (including very personal questions by customs).

In June, Chicago spited me, but I continued to have full on unrequited love for her.

In July, I hid out on an island and went camping.

I also celebrated nuptials and poutine with my girlfriends for an epic stagette.

In August, the Duke and I celebrated awkwardness in a hijinks ridden wedding trip.

September had a far more mellow wedding weekend away.

September also had our celebration of two years, and another wonderful escape to an island to frolic with marine life.

I also made it back to HomeTown two times.

While last year, I had one bloggie meet-up, this year, I had something like five separate meet-ups-- which were shockingly consistent in their ease and awesomeness.

These included a a multicited visit with Distracted Spunk, three separate meet-ups with a veritable Chicago blogger explosion, and a bad luck filled reunion with Surfergrrl and first meeting with Ultra Toast.

I also started on a very exciting group blog endeavour!

(oh, and FYI, I didn't end up having to go to court... a nice extra Christmas present)

The year finished off with a quieter, but still equally wine-soaked, night than most-- and the first one that I was able to ring in the next 365 with a kiss from my guy, which I figure has to be a good omen.

It is funny... while thinking about this post, I managed to convince myself that since I hadn't met any of the major milestones I'd passed in years passed, I'd actually had a sadly uneventful year. Perhaps that is one of the bonuses of having a blog-- being able to have a documentation of those little excursions and moments as a reminder of what the past year has been for you. It doesn't look so boring, now, after all.