My PhD in Lame-ass Flirting

After a painfully lame attempt at flirtation early this week, I thought I'd take a break from attempting to become an Irresistible Guy Magnet. It's not that I'm craving a boyfriend right now, or desperately lonely... I'd just like to relax, dammit. It's bloody hard work trying to be scintillating when that's not your normal operating mode. I can, in fact, scintillate quite handily given the right circumstances -- which equate to a rainstorm in a desert -- but when I'm not truly comfortable, it's a slog.

In truth, the flirtation wasn't a complete disaster, but in combination with a friend who served as a less-than-brilliant 'wingman', and a subsequent drying-up of the conversation, I left feeling oddly excited and deflated at the same time. When my friend decided to take the bull by the horns and offer the object of my attentions my business card, from her wallet, she upped the ante higher than I wanted to go. I didn't want him to feel like there was an expectation to follow up. It would have made a return visit more fun, rather than fraught with supposedly disappointed hopes. All of a sudden I looked needier than I felt I was. But as the deed was being done, I had the feeling that snatching the card away would have been petty. I dunno. Of course, when she pulled the fake cockroach out of her purse and jokingly feigned disgust at what she found in the establishment, well, it was pretty much Game Over.

It is a type of game, no? With byzantine, sometimes obscure, ever-shifting rules. I'm not sure I like the game. I repeat: when I'm not truly comfortable, it's a bloody slog. I long for the ease of shared interests, equality of temperament and intellect, senses of humour that seem to feed off each other, and the satisfying feeling that I'm being challenged but not belittled, enlightened and expanded without being patronised. And while I'm at it, a nice body and sensitive love-making skills wouldn't hurt one bit, either... I know, I know! Almost everyone looks for that, or at least almost everyone with more than two brain cells to rub together. But hell, it can be hard to find, especially when you're on the shy side.

I suppose I should be proud of the fact that I managed to get out of my shell and almost had a success of it. Even though it ended less than brilliantly, it was worth it for the learning curve. Some day, in the distant future, I may even get my PhD in Flirtology. Some day. When a snowball has a chance in hell. :)

I'm So Organised, I Scare Martha

It's pissy out today. Warm and wet and slushy. And my procrastinator button is stuck in the 'ON' position. Last night a friend came over and we made Christmas fruitcake for the very first time. Both of us fruitcake virgins, we decided on a double recipe and tried baking some of it in muffin tins as well as loaf pans. Well, since it was dark fruitcake it was a little hard to tell when it got to the 'over-baked' stage. So one of the few constructive things I've done today is scrape the burned outsides off the mini-cakes. Next, I'm going to wrap them in cheesecloth soaked in brandy and a soupcon of Grand Marnier, and then wrap them in the finest plastic, the rarest of aluminum foil, and put them in a safe place. When they are ready to be doled out to our unsuspecting friends and family, we'll garnish them with lovely nuts and figs and an apricot glaze, and hope they don't notice the scorched bits... What am I saying? If they're not on their knees in gratitude, they WILL be blacklisted. I'm also planning on making a huge whack of Greek shortbread cookies and vow to do my best not to eat them all before they can be given away. A monumental test of my puny will, but I am determined. There must be at least one cookie remaining when the clock runs out on 2008.

Not only that, but I managed to do all my Christmas shopping yesterday! Or virtually all of it. So now I'm going to traipse over to the post office and send some padded envelopes brimming with good cheer off to Alberta. This is so unusual for me, I don't know what to think. Perhaps I'll just bask in the togetherness of it all. I guess I'm less lazy than I thought.

Tip of the Iceberg?

Just got off Facebook. Curiously, I don't consider myself addicted, but I'm not sure where to draw the line. I think it lies a little further out than where I've gone. It's not the draw for me that it is for others, but I can totally see the appeal. If you're nosy, it's the perfect drug. Facebook news about one's friends and distant acquaintances is well, sort of consensual gossip, no? Well, not always entirely consensual:) I daresay there might be one or two photos out there that people would rather bury deep in a fortified bunker many leagues underground...

I rather like it on several levels. One the one hand, I catch up with the goings-on in my friends' lives without having to actually put out much effort. Mmmmmm. Very satisfying for my introverted soul. On the other hand, if I want some attention, all I have to do is post something a bit intriguing, or add a new friend, change my photo, or my status, and up pop the comments. Nice. Usually. Or, I can indulge my desire to spy a bit by scanning a friend's profile, looking for updates. Creepy, but I'll bet I'm not the only one who does it. And someone has probably done it to me. And someone else to them. C'mon, it's not like I'm a full-on stalker, right? Riiiiight. Maybe I'm a little closer to that line than I'd like to be. But full-on, certifiable stalking is a whole other, disturbing issue.

I've been the object of a stalker's attention. Thankfully, he was on the relatively harmless side. But it was pretty damn uncomfortable, nonetheless. Trying to figure out how to deal with him was one of the most distressing aspects. While I knew his attention was inappropriate, he didn't seem to have a clue. And I didn't want to make it worse by provoking him. Luckily, for some reason, he merely left me a few long, long messages and then, eventually gave up. I know a few women who've had it worse. It can be very upsetting and scary. The stalkers need psychological help, because they're deep in denial, unable to perceive boundaries, out of touch with reality. Which makes getting help all the more difficult. And, of course, that kind of denial may just be the tip of a very large, very nasty iceberg. Not all women (and some men) have been as lucky as me. Sobering thought for the Facebook crowd.

People are People, so Why Should it Be...?

So much for my pathetic attempt to try NaBloPoMo for the official run in November. I completely forgot to post something/anything yesterday. So instead, I'm just going to do what I can, and hope that I have a repeat of April (23 glorious posts!).

Today is the U.S. presidential election. I'm pretty sure Obama will take it. While I don't truly believe he's the Messiah of the free world, I do think this is a significant moment in U.S. history. One ceiling is about to be smashed in spectacular fashion. I would love to debate the pros and cons of a race-focused campaign, but I don't think this is the right forum. It's such a touchy issue, so fraught with cultural and historic landmines, and so universal. If you have not been the object of racial prejudice, you probably know somebody who has, regardless of skin colour or the shape of the eyes.

It goes far deeper than melanin, the substance that gives skin its colour. Yeah that's right, more than skin deep. Even science can be opted by racists to try to justify their cause. I wish we could look beyond it and concentrate on merit and goodness (both of which, I admit, are subjective), but it's one of the hardest things to do in political dialogue.

In my Utopian view of the future (maybe this borrows, pathetically, from the world of 'Star Trek'), I pray there will come a time when people are just people, with all their strengths and flaws. They're not 'black' or 'yellow' or 'red' or 'white'. They're just human. That's all. Hopefully, voting for change is the beginning...

Chaud et Froid

So Mr. Cute Singer continued to blow hot and cold, and we ended it with a hurried, awkward kiss to the corners of our mouths in front of quite a few people at the final shindig. Huh. The kiss was the perfect manifestation of our ambivalence towards each other. But, for some reason, I wasn't especially embarrassed. More like amused. I don't think we ever quite accepted each other.

I'm not sure he found me fun enough, or perhaps I didn't flirt with the expected vigour of a college girl in heat. Or maybe I wasn't ambitious enough; maybe he was looking for a real go-getter. Dunno. It's sheer speculation, as I don't think I'll ever get the truth from the horse's mouth. I likely won't be seeing that horse again.

As far as I was concerned, two things were holding me back. First was his creepily slavish devotion to that self-motivational movement mentioned below. Second was the hot and cold behaviour: the private jokes, the teasing, the seeking me out at social gatherings. Then the ignoring me, the eyes scanning the room when I started in on anything like an actual conversation, the walking away without so much as a hug goodbye. WTF? No wonder I held back. No sense making a fool of myself over that kind of treatment. When it was good, the chemistry was very, very good, but I don't think it was unique. I got the impression he held a number of females in his thrall. The idea that it wasn't special for him burns, because that sort of thing doesn't come my way that often, and when it does, I loooooove it.

So there we have it. The end of something that was/not was. Zut. Surely I could do better than that. Couldn't I?

One man for himself

I work with someone who drives me crazy. And everybody else, except our boss and a few select people who seem to be able to look beyond his self-centred, patronizing behaviour. I want so badly to be Zen about him, so as to fend off the irritation, but it's proving harder than a vow of chocolate abstention. In his world, there's no team, just a bunch of people he has to work around. In our world, we actually try (and sometimes fail, but c'mon...) to support each other. More later...

Unfinished Business

A month has passed, the curtain soon draws to a close on the opera ("WAH!!"), the bathroom is painted, and my taxes are still waiting to be done.

Progress? Sort of.

I met this guy in the opera. I liked him. I thought he liked me enough to want to go out with me. He apparently doesn't. This realization is both a relief and an embarrassment. Cute, and funny and bright, and nice-ish. What's not to like? Well, maybe hs belief in some self-motivational organization that gives me the willies. Just not my bag, baby.

For a while, he seemed to be giving off all the right signals, making me belly-laugh, and sharing stories about himself, and, best of all, laughing at my jokes. But here's the thing: that's where it ended. No, "Let's continue this conversation another time." No, "So, wanna go for coffee?" No, "You're really beautiful." (O.K., that last one was serious pie-in-the-sky...) Either he has decided he's not that into me, or he never was and I made up the whole stupid thing in my head.

I need a little more time, I think, to come to terms with who I truly am and want to be. I posted a profile on a personals site a few days ago, and it's making me feel uncomfortable. First, I want desperately to get attention, and it's not happening like it did five-plus years ago. One reason may be that I'm not 36 anymore. I hate to say it, but I think a lot of the guys I would half-consider for the position of 'date' (to say nothing of 'boyfriend') are trolling the personals for younger meat. I don't think I look anywhere near my early-forty years, but there's my age, pulsing like a neon light, on my profile for all to see.

The second thing giving me the willies is my queasiness at the thought of having to reject guys I don't find interesting. It's a nasty little reality of the singles scene. I've already been disregarded by the one and only fellow I sent a 'wink' to. Ouch. Must brush it off. His loss. Other, better fish in the sea. Blah, blah, blah.

The third thing that bothers me is the fact that if I did actually make contact with one of these types and find him half-way interesting, I'd have to put out. I mean socially. My introverted side quails at the thought. Well, actually, more accurately, it wants to avoid it altogether. Too much bloody effort. Much easier to stay all coy and mysterious and lazy over the Internet. My delusions about being all alluring are quickly fading.

Part of me -- a major, important part -- knows and wants to put in more effort to develop myself and feel better about who I am. I'm an interesting gal, right? Funny, articulate, intelligent, caring, giving, pretty, getting sassier every day. Appealing right? Right. I think I'll just get off the personals and get back to the business of life.

Right. Must. Finish. Taxes.

You Go, Bitch!

I am living in my new home now. It's a basement apartment on the same side of town, but well removed from the scene of the crime. I have caring, compassionate landlords, ditto for my friends, and am singing in the opera chorus right now, so I have a job I love. Life is definitely looking up - slightly above the horizon. As I mentioned before, I'm in a much better position than I was the last time I slogged through something like this.

However, I'm nowhere near out of the woods yet. I still have bad dreams about him from time to time. That surprises me. I didn't think the residual filth from that unfortunate breakup was stewing in my psyche like that. Ah well, as Shrek would say, "Better out than in!" If that's the case, then given how many people have heard my sob story, I should be well on the road to recovery. I wish that were actually true. In all honestly, this one's going to take a fair bit of time. I don't know yet whether I'll need a therapist, or whether friends and family will be enough. I suspect if I did need professional help, I'd feel it in my gut, and that's not happening right now. I have taken a little time away from the tourist-industry job, which is allowing for more sleep and exploring the city. And blogging. That's helping.

I do have to get some practical things done, like taxes and the final financial negotiations. As soon as I finish typing this, I'm going to have to be stern with myself and pull out the basket overflowing with my tax folders from the last three years. I get cold shivers just thinking about it, but the time has definitely come. The bathroom re-do has got to wait.

Must. Put. Up. Towel. Racks. Now.

Nooooo!!!!!!!!!!!

I stumbled upon Heartless Bitches International today. It's a site I had read about many years ago, but never followed up on. It's spearheaded by a gal from Ottawa, and has members from all over the world. Best of all, it has some great writing. This 'discovery' resulted from an article in the Toronto Star about the notable decline in completely anorexic-looking models in most of the NYC fall fashion shows. That this should even be news is a sad statement on the horrible, artificial pressures in that business. One commentator included a link to a column in HBI by a woman who calls herself Morrigan. From what I can gather, she's been an HBI member for a hella long time (in Internet years), since at least 2000. In bouncing around her posts, cherry-picking from the list, I found a fierce, brave, funny, extremely articulate, strong-minded woman who has weathered a marriage, a high-pressure law career, and, now, a devastating illness (although I didn't see it named directly, it's certainly epilepsy).

She is such a good writer. So good it's tragic. Tragic, because her mind and body are under constant assault either from the drugs she has to take to manage her illness, or the seizures that stop her in her tracks. I can feel the intense willpower it sometimes takes for her to wrench words out of her consciousness and enter them into her computer. Not only that, but, despite her ferocity, she has enormous compassion for others, especially those who are also dependent on drugs to give them some control over the everyday (I'm thinking of my mother, here...and K... and T...). She posts advice and encouragement based on her own experiences. I would say "doles out", but her written voice is far more strident and insistent. She doesn't just dole it out, she bangs it down on the table, insisting the reader pay attention.

A person like that would shame me if she weren't so inspiring and admirable. She would probably dominate the shit out of me in real life, but if she's that honest, I think I'd be able to stand up to it, to some extent. It's the people who bluster who I can't stand. 'Telling it like it is' only really works for me if it's not a front for ignorance or insecurity (in which case, it's usually grossly unfair, blatantly untrue and/or needlessly harsh). I may not be a true, card-carrying Heartless Bitch, but I'm definitely rooting for them. Besides, if someone like Morrigan can still find purpose and meaning in such a plagued life, then surely I can find the strength to make it through my own, comparatively mild struggles.

Again! Again!! O.K., That's Enough!!!!!!!

So, last month the roof fell in on my house of sticks, and now the walls are collapsing. Life as I know it is changing and I either have to adapt or die (or at least bury under bedsheets in a fog of depression -- also not a palatable option). I found a new place to live right away, it just wasn't ready until, well, pretty much now. My rashly planned and announced mega-move (another one of my impetuous mistakes), was quickly re-tooled into a mini-move due to widespread unavailability of more than two people with spare time, neither of whom had big enough muscles for what needed doing. I am trying to ignore the filth at the B's house (it has gone from "our" to "his") and focus on what I need to do to re-establish the outward semblance of internal order. It's a bloody pain-in-the-ass, that's what.

I did have a very nice break visiting the family in Alberta and B.C. recently, spending time lazing around at my sister's "cottage" (more like a "country estate"), hanging with people I like and who like me, soaking up a lot of sun, not thinking about stupid boys masquerading as men. Felt oh-so-good. I genuinely did not want to leave, knowing what I faced back home. But life and time march forward with grim determination, and so must I. Blech.

I want to be 10 yrs. old again and do a few things over. Problem is, I'm not sure do-overs would make a huge difference. Even with hindsight, I would probably end up making mistakes, judging poorly and jumping in where I shouldn't, only in different circumstances. I'd still have other harsh life lessons to learn. Different ones. And really, in many cases, I don't think my judgment was so bad, I was mostly just unlucky or overly-optimistic (ummmmm, isn't that a form of bad judgment?) Sigh. I'm just going to have to take some of these metaphorical lumps. Maybe next time things will turn out better. Sometimes it's hell being a cock-eyed optimist.

Chop! Chop! Chop!!!

The Boyfriend dumped me. He declared, after several weeks of more and more extreme emotional alienation, that he no longer loved me and was no longer physically attracted to me.

Ka-POW!!!

I had held out hope that we could make it through this rough patch; that he was probably stressed about work or stressed about my stress over his daughter living with us. I was, indeed, having trouble coping -- some time ago -- but recently I felt like I was reaching a good point of fluid balance with her, neither perfect nor completely horrible. Ironic that as the situation with the daughter was feeling better, the one with The B was worse and worse.

Because he has not been treating me with much decency lately, I have avoided another frank conversation like the one that brought the axe down. It'll happen sooner than later, probably in a day or two, when I can see him face-to-face, but for now, I'm still the angered and injured party. And he is the one probably barely tolerating my presence in HIS home.

In the meantime, I am in a much better position to weather this than the last time it happened to me. Then, I was poor, in poor health, lonely, unhappy over my bad luck with the singing, singing badly, struggling to make ends meet with inadequate employment, living in a less-than-ideal shared house. Now I have a small but dedicated network of friends, in addition to my wonderful and supportive (though far away) family, decent employment, and, best of all, I'm a lot more positive about me as an artist. Things have improved immensely, partly (as I've said before) due to having known The B. He did bring some good things into my life. He has also proved to be stuck in some kind of time warp, back in teenage days, when he has to deal with emotional issues. His instincts are fairly primitive in that regard: fight or flight, kill or be killed, telling the other person how you feel will expose the soft underbelly, whoever has the coolest mix-tape wins (just replace with 'iPod' mix, for the 21st century). Criminy!

I honestly don't know what demons he's trying to ignore in his head. I have the feeling that this has lead to resentment, that I represent all that is uncool and prosaic and conventional in his life right now. I may never know for sure. I just know that the me he hates now is the same me he fell "in love" (was it really love?) with, only better off in so many ways. If he doesn't find me cool now, there are some people out there who do. I just have to hunt them down now and make them my eternal love slaves... Kidding!!

The Demise of the Critic

I just booked a trip to go see my family this summer. It's funny. I like to travel, but I HATE planning it. I have almost a phobia about setting anything up and committing to it over the phone or internet, i.e.: via any method but face-to-face. It happens when I plan a party, make a rental booking, set up a hair appointment, etc.. Part of me says, "This is unproven. You may never see these plans come true. You should go there in person and take care of it. That way you can look whomever it is you're dealing with in the eyes and believe that they'll follow through." Another part of me says, "Oh get over it you wuss. You've done it before...everything will be just fine. Quit being so paranoid. Just get on with it."

So, too many times, I'm paralysed by the inertia of being caught behind those two opposing voices and I do NOTHING. Stupid, I know. I think it's what keeps me from being a take-charge kinda gal most of the time. That gal is in there, and does make appearances, but not often enough to shake the impression that I'm not the go-getter I really should be. According to whom? I'm not quite sure on the outside, but on the inside, it's definitely the ugly little inner critic. She's a girl of about 9, but shriveled, a chain smoker and she never, ever bathes. She has a voice like a rusty bandsaw and she will often jump up and down and shriek to get attention. Or at least that's the picture.

It hadn't occurred to me until now, and it's a bit woo-woo, but I may try to squelch my inner critic by physically harming her. This could be fun. I'm sure I could come up with some colourful ways to do her in. Like poke her eyes out with a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Or take a meat hook to the back of her skull and yank. Or crush her with a Panzer. Mental note: this is an imaginary critic and her imaginary demise. I'm actually eager to see if this will work. And then I'll work on constructing my take-charge gal. Stay tuned...

Postscript: Turns out I booked my departure on the right day in the wrong week, thus transforming a ten-day trip into a three-day trip. Cost me forty bucks to right that wrong. My inner critic was very pleased. She purred, "I told you so. I told you so." for two days straight afterwards. I'll get my revenge... I swear it.

The Doormat that Roared

What do you do when someone you love and look up to makes a bad error in judgement? It happened to me today. I lost it. A parent I know advised their child to cheat on their schoolwork. I was taken aback by how shocked I was. In my world, everyone has loose ethics from time to time, but a parent, as role model, moral compass, and standard-bearer, has a responsibility to insist on the highest level of moral behaviour possible. Even if it's not achieved, at least the child has some idea of the minimum expectations of right and wrong. Any one of their friends can show them how to cheat. As far as I'm concerned a parent is one of the only people the child can always turn to for guidance about how not to cheat.

I lit into this parent. To quote my sister, I "ripped them a new butt hole." To their credit, once they got over the "what's done can't be undone" excuse, they promised to admit to their child they had made a mistake. So I was gradually able to peel my composure off the ceiling. I know they were chastised. A mouse would have been braver after my tirade.

What surprised me was how strongly I felt and reacted. I have held my tongue a lot lately, telling myself they're not my child. Parent already knows I don't always approve of the way things are done. But I normally keep my distance. This time, though, I couldn't hold it in. Screeching may not have been the most mature way to handle it, but I amazed myself that I actually finally stood my ground. Wow. I'm not always the doormat I thought I was long, long ago.

Restoration

A weekend at the cottage of friends. I was determined to do very little, and of that, mostly what I pleased. I ended up starting to knit a new pair of socks, had some good conversations, puttered about trying to be helpful, and baked two delicious pies. Being out of the city, breathing lilac-scented air and hearing bird calls instead of traffic was heavenly. I even shook off the week-long cold I had suffered. If only I could get a whole week of restoration like that.

I consider myself profoundly fortunate to be in the company of people who can give me these gifts. They open their homes, buy food for their friends, give the gifts of delight in our company and warm welcomes. The Boyfriend is the primary reason for this bounty. Without him I might still be longing for an escape like that instead of having lived it. I say might because it's possible things like that would have come my way, regardless. And I've made plenty happen for myself in the short time I've been on this earth. But there's no denying he brought things into my life that I wouldn't have sought myself -- mostly good things. So I'm the richer for having met him. I have to remind myself of that when the relationship is frustrating.

My Voices

The NaBloPoMo theme for May is 'Voices'. How ironic that I decided to opt out of daily blogging this month, seeing as I'm a singer and all. I have this lovely voice and the ability to control it in a very special way. I can't count how many people have told me how lucky I am. I know it. I feel it. When I have laryngitis I mourn its loss. Many times I've thanked whatever powers that be for also giving me healthy hearing so that I could use my voice so effectively. Did I inherit this trait from my parents? Hardly. When she was still willing to sing in church choir, my mother would timidly squeak away in the soprano section. My father was stricken with partial deafness at a fairly young age -- disease-related, not hereditary -- but his singing still leaves you wondering how a human being can span that many octaves on one note. Now that he's older, his deteriorating hearing makes it more difficult for him to hear me perform. If I sing in my hometown, he doesn't stay for a whole performance because it frustrates him. However, he's the reason I sing what I sing in the first place because he took me to my first opera performances as a young girl. How about that for a lasting gift?

My voice is also a voice in abstract. Something used to express an opinion or support a cause. It's not so much heard as felt. I don't use that type of voice nearly as often, and for that, sometimes, I'm ashamed. But as I get older, I find myself more and more outspoken. The opinions of others don't make me cower as much as they used to: my growing 'voice' is accompanied by growing courage. I just hope it's also accompanied by increasingly good judgement, otherwise it's just that noisy gong or clanging symbol talked about in the Bible, or, as Shakespeare would say, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing". Ultimately, I'd rather be a smart, old hag than a stupid, old windbag. 'Nuff said.

The Thirsty Car?

I just came across an ad that promotes a manual on how to convert your car to run on water, or at least partially on water. Seriously. So I Googled the subject and turned up a whole slew of articles and even videos about it. Huh. Now, I haven't actually read up on the specifics, or dug very deep, but the mere fact that I didn't turn up any sites that call this a hoax is comforting. One site voiced the same doubt and came up with promising results, but didn't go into much substantiated detail: greentchgazette.com

It sounds almost too good to be true and there must be a catch, mustn't there? But lordy, wouldn't it be exciting to no longer be so dependent on gas to get around?

FNB

Fave New Band: Vampire Weekend. Thanks to one of the bloggers out there in Blogland. If I can find her again I'll give her credit.

Spring Futon Sale!

Where to begin? The weather. It rather sucks. Cold and damp as a dead fish. Not as stinky, though. Spring is supplying some sweet new-plant smells to almost make up for the current gloom.

The Boyfriend is getting ready to launch his sailboat. He's as excited as a puppy at dinnertime. Sailing season is a ton of fun for him, but it means it's twice as hard to get him to do the big household jobs I don't want to do by myself. Like painting the first floor, staining the deck, and/or cleaning and re-organizing the entire basement. The basement has become our de-facto attic. My worldly goods from before moving in with him are still trapped down there, two years after being stowed there. Some of them are waiting to be un-buried and given a home, some I'm simply holding on to, some must be junked, and some will be part of the yard sale which it behooves ne to hold this year.

Talk about procrastinating. Along with two years of taxes, this is the other elephant in the room. I think the thing holding me back, aside from the difficulty in swinging the time off to actually hold the yard sale (my Saturdays are work days at the museum), there's this hulking futon mattress which The B managed to fold in half and wedge into a niche created by a wall and an old desk. Until I moved in with The B, the mattress was beautiful, in great condition, and comfortable. Now, after being stored in his leaky garage and being folded and compressed in his basement, I fear the mattress may have to go to the landfill if I can't resuscitate it. Besides which, even if I can bring it back to a respectable shadow of its former self, I would have to go to quite a bit of trouble to avoid the dump. Second-hand stores don't take them (too much risk of pests). Most families tend to avoid them (bulky, hard to handle, require a special frame, and sometimes not as comfortable as spring mattresses), and selling or giving it away requires advertising.

Sigh. But it must be done, otherwise I can't get to the rest of my... uh... crap. Oh bother. Sometimes it's bloody hard to be environmentally friendly. So... anyone wanna buy a futon?

Under Pressure

I actually missed this, this confessional, this op-ed column, this typing fiasco of a blog (luckily I'm quick to correct most of my mistakes...). I prefer it to Facebook, which, to me, has an element of cookie-cutter, pre-packaged dumbed-down small talk. Not all the time, mind you, but often enough that I log out feeling unsatisfied.

It's like a non-stop party, in a way. And I am am lover and hater of parties. It's that old extroverted introvert thing. By nature I'm shy: a cautious, careful person who opts for calculated risk and controlled situations. But I can be a quick thinker or dynamic or charismatic under the right conditions, usually a matter of a suitable comfort level (or the right time of the month). Occasionally I will push myself into a bigger gamble, usually because I feel it would be good for me (see 'The Zen of Waitressing').

But when it comes to parties, I most often feel an intense social pressure -- a need to be "pretty, and witty and bright" (to quote 'West Side Story'). Usually I flee to some temporary sanctuary, like the outdoors or the bathroom, where I can be alone for a few minutes. When I'm not perusing the contents of the medicine cabinet, I work the room to the extent that I can stand it, while secretly despairing that I'm boring the other party goers to tears or saying incomprehensibly awkward things. I suspect I take things too personally sometimes, as if my awkwardness were a zit on my nose that, to me, looks like Mount Vesuvius, but barely registers with anyone else.

Give me a small dinner party with good friends, or a coffee date and I'm in my element. My attention is focused and reciprocated, and I can say the odd awkward thing and it's laughed off: I am immediately forgiven. Being accepted for who I am is so much easier in a more intimate setting than trying to make a fabulous impression in a crowded, clamoring kitchen or among a group of virtual strangers. Hmmmm. I may have to re-think my plans to go to that high school reunion...

PROGRESS!

I know I'm off the hook and I don't have to post every day anymore, but I can't seem to stop.

I think I had a minor breakthrough with The Boyfriend's Younger Daughter (TBYD). As I had written earlier, I was very stressed at the thought of her living with us again as the last time was equivalent to the 'ol pouring-rubbing-alcohol-on-paper-cuts-day-after-day routine. In a word: harrowing. So I was not looking forward to the sequel.

Well things have gone better than expected thus far. We have passed the three week mark without any major fits or doldrums and, although she is still leaving detritus in her wake (books, shoes, apple cores, wet towels, dirty mugs), she is more cooperative than last year.

I'm most excited about the fact that today I helped her with some math homework and she didn't roll her eyes (not that I would see them, for they are artfully hidden by sweeping manga bangs -- see illustration), burst into tears or make cutting remarks. She was practically civilised. And, despite being as math-challenged as she, I learned some trig into the bargain! I won't go into minute detail but at least she let me nudge her a little which, to me, is a big deal. And hopefully I may have planted a learning strategy (mnemonic devices) into her head which helps her in the future. The mere fact that she tolerated my interference was a very good sign.

TBYD probably still thinks I'm a barely tolerable, dweeby moron, but it's better than hating me. Onward... into the breach!

The Enviro Rollercoaster

Well, so much for Earth Day. I did my part by cycling to my singing lesson and taking transit to a recital. But I kind of messed things up with the gas-sucking car ride to get groceries. It was a lot easier to be environmentally virtuous when I was single. Of course, being poor and not owning a car helped. I'll just try to bumble along in my 21st-century, modern consumer-ist way.

Sometimes I wish I could perform a grand gesture in tribute to the environment. Something big, brassy and lasting. My feeble attempts at cycling and recycling and taking 5-minute showers seem puny and unimportant at times. I know/hope I'm one of many doing the same things and that our cumulative gestures amount to xxxx number of cars taken off the road. Earth Hour was kind of comforting that way, with a whole community doing something very visible all at once. Then I read an article in the paper that said our energy consumption during Earth Hour actually exceeded last year's total (probably due to the harsh weather this year, although that wasn't entirely clear in the article).

I suppose the sight of all those blue and green bins lined up like little plastic tanks on the sidewalk, come garbage day are another indication that there's a widespread willingness to help. But then a monster SUV drives by, or I hear a car idling, or I see another "RRRRRoll up the RRRRRim to Win" cup tossed on the sidewalk, and my spirits take a dive. Up, then down, then up again for a while. Ah well, at least the enviro-snowball has started rolling... I dream that someday, eventually, it will flatten those guzzlers.

Word-o-philia

I published a paean to the Wednesday Guy a while back and I want to expand on it slightly. I wish I could tell him this directly, but since he's a single male in serious search of a mate and I am a mated female who blithely trolls the CL Personals for amusement (or in this case, inspiration), it might be a little hard to explain the fan mail.

WG, as I will henceforth call him, is a very good writer. One of the best I have seen in the personals. Unfortunately, that's not saying much. The average male posting on the Internet personals (on CL or anywhere else) is "looking for a women (sic.) in to (sic., again) fine wine, cottaging, going out and staying in to watch a movie". There's absolutely nothing wrong with all that, it's just... conventional... that's all. Intellectually and emotionally tame and uncreative. Prosaic. Yeah.

When I stumble upon a guy who can sling words around, turn a phrase, and open up his heart, I'm hooked. That goes for the ladies, as well (however, I don't find myself cruising the w4m ads as often). And, since I'm on a roll, as mentioned previously, that goes for blogs, or... or... anything, really! More and more, I find I'm a sucker for the literary-minded, I suppose.

I suspect I'm partly drawn in by the extra courage it takes to express oneself more creatively. Not only does it entail more emotional vulnerability, but it requires more guts artistically. There's a risk of appearing too snooty, or like too much of a bleeding heart, or like a poser who doesn't really have a genuine command of the English language. WG's intent -- to reveal his inner emotional world -- is immediately unique, but the word pictures he paints are what truly get me. This guy crafts his posts carefully. I pay attention to the phrases and descriptions and the choices he makes to express himself 'just so'. I've never had writerly ambitions, but if I did, I would look up to him. That sounds lofty, but it's true. He may be a hunchbacked, bug-eyed, pimply, halitosis-plagued lonely guy (or not), but he gives good copy, dammit (for the record, so does Ian Brown):

"...I think about Pt, and I think about Pr. Two fine fellows, writers both, whom I once knew years ago.

"One evening, in the mid 90s I guess, we sat in deeply comfortable armchairs in the attic of a dilapidated house and talked about the thoughts we had lost. The ideas not jotted down, the ephemeral dreams dispersed by alarm clocks, the unfulfilled promises of early drafts that become ghosts haunting the final revisions.

"We were three poets, sharing between us the ego of six and maybe the talent of two. We'd each just had some slight works published in small journals read only by those who have their names on the inside cover of that issue...

"...On that evening in the attic we talked about the thoughts we'd lost, and we praised each other with the false modesty of young writers who think they invented the vowel. And as we read each other's works, and believed each other's praise, our heads swelled and swelled and swelled some more.

"Ever since then, whenever the topic of lost thoughts comes up, I think of that night in the attic. Pt, who fought the world and gave his mind to the fray. Pr, who embraced the world but never someone else. And me, still riding and writing and trying to find some place between them. Some place connected to the world, and connected to someone within it. The reason I'm writing these letters."

Blog on Blogs

Well, it finally happened. I dropped the ball, and failed the April challenge to post every day for a month. No special reason, really. Everyday life just got in the way and I forgot. I work on Saturdays, and as soon as I arrived home, I dove into cooking dinner (veggie stuffed peppers, in case you were wondering...), then The B had rented a movie ("Casino Royale', if you're dying to know...), and poof! Just like that it was time to go to bed.

Lunch time at work, rather than posting, I surfed a few other blogs instead. Came across one called 'Pictures of Everything I Eat'. Some guy in Australia who takes pictures of all the food he ate in a day (WTH?). He's 27 and likes cola and corn chips, apparently. This put me in mind of one of my early posts about amateur food pictures. Seems to me a lot of people like taking pictures of the food they're enjoying. Or just plain writing about the food they eat. Every bloody day (just search 'what I ate today' and see...). Other trends I noticed in the blogging world: the 'family blog, the 'team sport blog', the 'fashion blog', the 'scrapbooking blog', the 'travel blog', the 'photography blog'.

All of the posters have a need to share, most are highly visual, very few are opinion pieces, even fewer have good, interesting writing. There are also what I call 'confession blogs' (of which mine is occasionally one...), but the majority are self-obsessed, highly derivative, and shlocky (sentimental and low quality). I'm just calling it as I see it. I generally skip over anything with poetry because 99% of it is just plain awful, IMO. Now, admittedly, mostly I'm just randomly surfing using the 'Next Blog' button at the top of the page, so my sample group is not very specialised, and I guess I could be accused of being lazy myself. But, as far as English-language blogs go, I don't land on that many sites that truly capture my fancy.

The upside of this is a) I don't waste huge amounts of time on trash, and b) when I do find something I like, it's all the more special. Some blogs I have recently bookmarked:

The Carrot Revolution
Anonymous Works
Angry John Sellers
Todd Babiak
Nervous Birds

Enjoy!

Feeling the Fear

I'm embarking on another venture. A bigger venture than blogging every day for a month. This one entails co-writing theatrical scenes for the museum at which I work, and performing them -- as a pilot project -- for the public. My partner-in-crime and I started out with a ballsy, shoot-for-the-moon proposal which was, to put it mildly, unrealistic, but it served two purposes. It got their attention, and it made us dream. Or scheme. I'm not sure which; they are fairly intertwined at this point.

I often find myself emotionally restrained on some levels. It's as if I hold myself in check, almost like little Walker Brown (see April 13, 2008), so that my gallumphing emotions and enthusiasms don't flail around and hurt me. Or someone else. Yeeeeaaaahhhh. Maybe I'm a little more repressed than I should be sometimes. IMO, that's one aspect of being and extroverted introvert: seemingly outgoing on the outside, but shy on the inside. It probably also explains some of my more common digestive troubles... :)

So to counteract the fear of not just harm but failure, I push myself to cautiously creep forward, or stride ahead blindly, hoping things will sort themselves out along the way -- which they often do. "Feel the fear and do it anyway.", pretty much sums it up. When I asked my former husband for a divorce, when, shortly after that, I moved away from the city we lived in to a totally new place, or when I recklessly auditioned, in the worst of circumstances for a program waaaaay over my head, I wanted to be brave and true to what I felt I needed to do. And I was curious to see what would happen. Sometimes I was pleasantly surprised. Sometimes it was truly a trial. Sometimes it turned out pretty well, in ways I never would have predicted. There were also times I've regretted being so reckless, but I've always come out wiser.

So bring on the wacky theatrical antics. Should be an interesting, probably bumpy, ride...

Must. Post. Entry. Before. Midnight.

Arrrrghhhhh!!!!!!

So, this'll be a lot shorter than the last one, because it's late and I have to go to bed.

Exactly a week after I bought the $800 keyboard, the stand collapsed and the whole shebang landed -- hard -- face down on the floor, mashing some of the black keys in the lower register into the keyboard assembly. The gods had a good laugh over that one. Luckily, The Boyfriend rode to the rescue and pried them out. Now it's back to working good as new. Yay B! I love him.

I also love that the word 'shebang' didn't register on spell check. Go figure.

Mother Mary Said to Me...

I'm listening to Bright Eyes singing "Waste of Paint". So angry/sad:

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.

It's not in church. It's inside us. I sing in a church and I don't believe in all of it. I believe in little bits, but not the whole elaborate construction that weighs it down. They pay me to sing at the church. My fundamentalist cousins didn't know what to think when I told them that.

There are a LOT of religious people -- mostly Catholic and Mormon -- on Blogger. A LOT. It's intriguing, actually. I get the feeling they see it as a new, less overt way of witnessing. For some of them, I wager there's some pressure to 'get the word out'. Why not do it on the Internet where, potentially, millions of people could get the message about how right their path is? Having come from a fairly devout, if not fundamentalist, religious background, I can understand the seduction of assurance -- of being told that one's faith is exactly what's needed to bring meaning to a life. And then the high of sharing it with others.

I just have waaaaaay too many doubts. My belief, such as it is, is that there may be some greater force out there which connects everything, does inexplicable things, brings us into existence for some purpose, but there's not much point in defining it. As far as I'm concerned, trying to explain it just imposes our own wishes upon it, which then transforms it into a being of our own construction rather than simply its inexplicable self. Besides, isn't this attempt at explanation presumptuous and arrogant? It also necessitates further explanation to explain the first explanation. Layer over layer, agenda upon agenda, assertion and rebuttal 'ad nauseum'. I say, "Let it be." And let yourself be. Love yourself and love others. 'Nuff said.

From the CL Vaults 6

Some of the more outstandingly, hilariously weird posts from Missed Connections and Personals. Yes, they're all real...:

Will kill spiders and zombies - m4w - 40's

I'm particularly versed in disposing of zombies. Like, the effectiveness of boarding windows, 100 myths about zombies, Chainsaw? or Shotgun? amongst other things. Will asses (sic.!) your home to see how zombie proof it is.

Also fairly good with Grizzly Bears.

Horny centaur seeking nymphs, dryads or even a hobgobliness. - m4w

Very horny centaur looking for oversexed forest spirits.
Well hung!

Can also protect you from bears should the need arise.

Hmmmm, could those first two be related?

Botanical Stripper - m4w - 20's

You were the young adorable stripper working Saturday night at the *******.
I was the awkward skinny guy wearing a tie that only brought 40 dollars.

It's not that I'm asking out a stripper or think those eyes batted specifically for me. I'm just pretty sure we're supposed to be friends or you're my guardian stripper. either way, something (besides your nudity) has drawn me to you.

anywho, you'll never read this and people will mock a missed connection with a stripper. but on the slim chance you ever do see this, to prove it's you, you gotta tell me the province you're from, school you're going to, area of crackheads you live near or your favorite movie.

talk to you never.

Up to date glasses and levis incasing your bubble butt. - 40's

I love you to tickle my chest hair (possibly dyed) peeking out of my Ralph Lauren Polo Shirt. No Turks. Please be vertically challenged, Jewish, not Turkish, with damp thunder thighs. Bi-Sexual, Non-Turk, Switches also encouraged.

If you are turned off by 2 for 1 coupons please do not respond. Also no Turks.

The Garden of Weathered Delights

My father's backyard is a junk garden. It's a combination of grass, open patches of dirt, raspberry canes, opium poppies -- yes, those big red ones (needless to say, he doesn't do anything he shouldn't with them), strawberry plants, and assorted junky paraphernalia. Over the years, he has tidied it up some, so that it was fit for his grandchildren to play in, without fear of finding them impaled on some old, rusty bicycle part.

But there's still a certain odd, crazed beauty to that yard in the summer, with its random old bits, splintering, weathered shelving and that blazing assault of poppy blooms. Then, after the strawberries and the poppies, the raspberries come in, more than he could ever eat alone, and when I'm visiting I pick them and make ruby jam for his dark winter mornings.

The house will probably be sold within the next few years. It's not in the safest part of town and he wants something that requires less maintenance. He'll still need a place to fulfill his urge to tinker -- for that, he built a two-door garage in the back. So eventually, he'll probably find a smaller, more modern space, with a garage or a basement full of nothing more than potential. When he does move on, I suspect most of the junk won't move with him.

Part of me hopes that will be the case: less to deal with in the more distant future when he's no longer with us. Part of me will miss that topsy-turvy back garden with its rusty, worn-out totems and berry bounty. It's a reflection of my dad's mix of love and disinterest in material things and his constantly roving mind, picking things up, then leaving them to weather on the slivery shelves when he finds the next interesting piece of junk he "might need someday...you never know". Eventually I'll have to say goodbye first to the junk garden, then to my father, but hopefully I can squeeze in a few more visits in the meantime.

Pretty Good Life So Far

I have recently been reminded that, despite my relatively low income, I'm still leading a life of comparative luxury and privilege.

Two nights ago I read Ian Brown's deeply moving and thought-provoking piece about his disabled son, "The Boy in the Moon". He describes in exquisite detail the struggles he and his family have faced dealing with his 11-year-old son Walker's Cranio-fascia-cutaneous syndrome, which renders the boy incapable of speech, ultra-sensitive to touch, and ridden with digestive system complications -- among many handicaps. Brown also struggles with his emotions surrounding his seemingly flawed son and his search for Walker's significance in the lives of his father, his family, and the society around them.

This morning I read a few posts from "Life Must Go On in Gaza and Sderot", a Blog of Note. I read of the siege of Gaza, the blockades, the resulting unemployment and despair, and the plea for One Month of Ceasefire. The posters state over and over that the conflict is not generated by the average citizens, but by militants who seemingly don't desire to stop until one side or the other is brought to its knees and begs for mercy, or is annihilated outright.

Reading these stories sobers me up considerably, but also makes me extremely thankful for the life I am lucky enough to enjoy. The fact that I can bike to and from work without riding over a land mine and getting blown to smithereens is, when I think about it, almost dumb luck. That I have a roof over my head, relatively robust health, good food in my belly, clean water to use and am surrounded by people who love me? Practically an accident of birth. There are billions more people who suffer much worse, in one way or another. It makes me want to do something, anything, even the smallest thing to help out. So I give blood and sign petitions for Avaaz.org. Peanuts, really, but it's better than willful, blissful complacency.

Martha Wainright (Rufus' sister) has a song that pins down the sentiment of someone who never takes a safe and comfortable life for granted. "Pretty Good Day" is a perfect meld of the sardonic dark and bittersweet light of such a situation.

I slept through the night, I got through to the dawn
I flipped a switch & the light went on
I got out of bed, I put some clothes on
It was a pretty good day so far

I turned the tap, there was cold, there was hot
I put on my coat to go to the shop
I stepped outside & I didn't get shot
It's a pretty good day so far

I didn't hear sirens or explosions
No murders coming in from those heavy guns
No UN tanks, I didn’t see one
It's a pretty good day so far

No snipers in windows, taking a peak
No people panic, running scared through the streets
I didn't see any bodies without arms, legs, or feet
It's a pretty good day so far

There was plasma & bandages & electricity
Food, wood & water & the air was smoke-free
No camera crews from my TV
Pretty good day so far

It was all such a strange sight to behold
Nobody was frightened, wounded, hungry, or cold
The children seemed normal, they didn't look old
Pretty good day so far

I walked through a park & you would not believe it
There in the park, there were a few trees left
And on some branches, there were a few leaves
It's a pretty good day so far

I slept through the night, I got through to the dawn
I flipped the switch & the light came on
I wrote down my dream & I made it this song
It's a pretty good day so far

Sign of Spring

Hmmm. What to write, what to write? Shall I rhapsodize about how happy I am that the crows are back? Or rail on about the incompetent parents who visit the museum and want you to lie to their children for them ("Would you please tell little Johnny that you actually DO close at 2:30 p.m. in exactly five minutes?")? Or should I tell of how sad I was to see a little dead bird on the way home from work?

No. I think I'll sing the praises of spring, even though it's @$$%&()^ cold outside. Still, the snow has retreated and green things are pushing bravely out of the ground. And I'm finally riding my bike again. I get so much joy out of this small event that it's ridiculous. The feeling of the wind sweeping past my cheeks as if it's glad to see me again fills me with bone-deep pleasure. When I finally started commuting on my bike on a regular basis, I realised how much more sensuous cycling was, as opposed to getting around in a vehicle. Sounds and sights and smells surrounded me. When that realisation sank in, I was overwhelmed with delight.

I know I'm rhapsodising, but it's all true. I was almost bowled off my bike. Even now, being aware of the passing of the seasons is that much sweeter because I'm right in the midst of the changes.

Except of course, when it rains heavily, snows or the routes ice over. Yup. I'll freely admit I'm, by-and-large, a fair-weather cyclist. I only have one bike and I don't want to mess it up more than necessary. It could already star in the pilot episode of "The Bionic Bike" ("We can re-build it. We have the technology."). Aside from the central frame, the seat, and the handlebars, that bike has had just about every major piece of it replaced. As the guy at the repair shop said, "Nobody would want to steal it, to look at it, but they'd be getting practically a brand new bike." So, having stuck with it this long, and through this much money, I don't want to torture it and lose it. Besides, riding through the rain a lot means I get very dirty. Ew. : )

Anyway... yay spring!!!!!!!!!!!

I'll Have What She's Having

Noticed at the restaurant: 'Monkey-See-Monkey-Want'.

There is no better way to sell an item, be it animal, vegetable, or mineral, than to flaunt it in the moments before a customer is to make up his or her mind. I have seen it over and over again since I started waitressing: the latte days, the tea days, the french fry days, the dessert days. The customer all-of-a-sudden craves one of those dishes/beverages that were paraded past their nose a moment earlier, and I'm convinced they often have no idea they were so easily seduced.

A picture is truly worth thousands of my lame attempts to promote something. BTW, today, was, indeed, another fries day.

Oh god, I think I have to go turn on the deep fryer now...

Canada Eats its Artists

Item: Artists Fight Tax Bill 'Censorship'

When Pierre Trudeau said the government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation, I don't think he was thinking specifically about film, but it's an apt response to the idea that the federal government could even presume to revoke tax credits from films deemed "offensive or not in the public interest". How is it fair that a film called "Young People Fucking" could potentially even have credits revoked retroactively? As decided by whom, exactly? Some federal bureaucrat with no stake whatsoever in the industry?

I understand the concern over public funds going to projects perceived as wacky, like the (so-called) porn-esque films produced in the nineties. Though I understand the hue and cry, I don't agree with it. Culture is incubated and then nurtured by those who take risks. It doesn't advance or evolve if it's hamstrung by "propriety". It just shrivels up and becomes dry and "safe". Both risky and safe are necessary for a healthy cultural landscape, but one cannot exist without the other.

Leaving that aside, the Canadian film and T.V. industry has a hard enough time as it is trying to eke out an existence in this nation. Sometimes it barely makes a blip. With little thanks to the government. The CBC is folding domestic productions left and right, film distributors are constantly assailed by competitors from other nations lobbying for protective rights. Those who normally work on the productions directly are facing huge reductions in income due to lack of work. Why is it a country like Australia or France can support films for its own people that are actually seen and heard round the world, and yet, in Canada, most filmmakers scrabble and claw to get the meager funding available?

Stepping even further back, why is this government so seemingly dismissive of home-grown culture?? Why was there nary a murmur regarding funding for the arts in the last budget? The status-quo is not enough. As someone wrote recently (sorry, can't remember who -- so I'm paraphrasing here), "The pervasive invasion of other cultures has exposed us to amazing international works of art, but what good is it if we can't produce our own works in kind?" Not only that, but study upon study shows creative industries benefit the economy as a whole, rather than siphoning money away. Isn't that a good and desirable thing?

At the very least, if we can't get any more money, can't we artists at least be allowed to save a little? Rather than having it taken away, robbing us of our reason for being, and kicking us in the heiney for being "offensive"? Bloody Conservatives. I wish they'd go eat some environmental polluters, instead...

So, If I Die With The Most Toys, Do I Actually Win Something?

I just bought an $800.00 Yamaha electric piano. Last week it was a Blackberry. What the hell??? O.K. I saved up for the keyboard, and bought it used, and I feel I've needed one for a long time (the 64-key, non-weighted, 48-voice polyphony number that The B bought for his daughter in the '90's just wasn't cutting it anymore, bless its little cotton socks). As we were sliding it into the car, the girl who sold it to me said, "You know that this doesn't have a built-in speaker, right? That you need an amp for it?" I said, "Uh-huh. no problem." All the while thinking, "I just dropped $800 and now I have to go and buy an amp, too??????" Ah well, at least it acts more like a real piano. Maybe that will help when I'm desperately trying to play along with my voice students. Up 'til now, that has been one of the more painful episodes in my work week. And it 'only' weighs 37 lbs., plus the weight of its case. According to the online experts, that's supposed to be featherweight compared to most keyboards. Huh. Well, at least it's portable...-ish.

The Blackberry wasn't quite as essential, but if I learn to use it right, it could be a valuable tool. That's a big 'IF'. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to gettin' jiggy wid da high tech doodads. As I mentioned before, I feel a bit lost in its labyrinthine options, but I'm getting closer to the Minotaur with each passing day. Today it was learning how to re-configure my ring profiles. Who knew there were such things as profiles for one's rings? Marvelous!!! I wonder if it can play 'Blue Skies' for my student next week?

I'm very lucky to have had jobs close to nature -- even in cities. I have worked at provincial parks, and at a city museum with a nature preserve and as a guide for the snowshoe department at a local ski hill. All of them allowed me the chance to go outside and watch and listen to birds, and look out for furry creatures. I have seen moose cross the front yard, a fisher (a large weasel) lounging in the tree outside the office, deer cropping grass just over the hill, a muskrat ferrying grasses to its nest in the marsh bank down the path, rabbits looking scared as I biked past them on my way to and from work.

The museum I now work for is near the aforementioned, small marsh. In the summer, if I'm feeling at all stressed, I go down there for my little dose of nature. It's a great spot because of the water, which attracts a lot of different birds as well as turtles (some of which were dumped there, by people who didn't want them anymore) , goldfish (ditto), and frogs. I also get the occasional glimpse of a snake or toad. I consider toads way cuter than their reputations would make them out to be. So squat and knobby and blending in with the background, their round, protruding eyes looking everywhere but at you, they remind me of quiet little kids who don't want attention drawn to themselves, so they sit, squished down and unobtrusive, until the moment when they can't wait any longer and have to leap for safety.

These jobs and their idyllic settings are one reason I have been been able to bear not being able to afford traveling often. They give me the gift of a hundred opportunities to escape, if only for a few minutes in a day. The birds wing overhead, frogs chant, muskrats paddle, fish leap for an insect, none of them bothered by my presence for long. All of them living their short lives as best they can, because that's all they know how to do.

From the CL Vaults 5

The challenge: find a catchy ad of 100 words or less. Success!!

Seeking a Smoocher. NOT a Moocher - 20's

You don't need me to buy you food or drinks or gifts out of obligation. You can do that for yourself.
You do need me to kiss you. Trying to do that yourself just looks weird.
Me: 5'7, fit. fun, with the cushiest lips you've ever put a pucker on.
You: Eqivalent.
We: KAPOW!
Write me back and let the osculation begin.


And this slightly beat-poem-ish ad:


Gin and platonic or Scotch and sofa - 20's

this is fairly simple...

Anais Nin look look looking for her Antonio Artaud...

sans those couple years in the insane asylum...

that probably isn't the best thing to put on here.

hummmmm...

i'm funny or witty
playful and sweet
i like walks and pubs
and beer
i'm quitting smoking
i wear skirts and high heels to work
i don't know that i like my job
particulary
i'm a bit eccentric and expect the same
i read a lot
i'm passionate
i love music

you
are
lonely/depressed/lost

or

just a witty good looking smart passionate guy who reads a lot and wants to lay in fresh cut grass with me looking at the poetry in clouds...

Uhhh, o.k. 122 words or less...

Welcome to the Now

I mentioned earlier that I had bought a new Blackberry thingamabob. It's replacing my 6 yr. old, steam powered cellphone. Golly. It's fancy. I didn't order the web browser option which , in the minds of many technophiles, is probably an almost sacrilegious choice. I figured I would have enough to worry about with the e-mail-only and text-messaging functions. Yeesh. Another $120.00 per year to browse the Internet and waste yet more time? Mmmm...no. I may change my mind later. Heaven knows, the phone company won't penalize me for upgrading my plan.

My efforts to navigate the arcane and multi-layered world of my Blackberry applications is daunting, to say the least. But I really want to do this. I picked the Blackberry so that I could roll a lot more of the functions I need in my paper agenda, like full contact info and a calendar, into one unit. Now I have it. Might as well make the effort to use it as more than a glorified, ringing paperweight with undersized keyboard, full colour screen, and web browser capabilities. Hoorah. I've made it to the 21st century.

A Bit of Cat Porn to Brighten Your Day

The cat has a new love: her scratch pad. Best $8.00 I've spent in a long time. It's made of corrugated cardboard and a enhanced with a bit of catnip. I bought it to save the cat from imminent annihilation courtesy of The Boyfriend. She was shredding the base of the newel post on the main floor, going on eight years now, which was sitting less and less well with The B. She also focused some scratching effort on the new back porch supports. Not destined to improve her standing. Bad/good kitty! Doing what she's supposed to do without scratching the furniture! Shredding the $14,000 porch!!!! Although...I wouldn't have minded a reason to do something about our sad excuse for a loveseat... Oh well, at least kitty's happy, as you can see...

Getting the Wrinkles Out

At one of my places of employment I do many interesting things, lucky girl that I am. One of them sometimes involves sharing interesting news stories with the public. Wednesday, one of the stories was about the cloning of human/cow embryos. "That was a tricky one.", she said, not overstating the case...

When you dig a little deeper, the stories often unfold like the wrinkles in a shirt being ironed. What, at first, appears to be a mess soon starts making sense. The cloning story is a perfect case in point. On the surface, it's an ethical minefield full of the nastiest explosives you could wish for. What to do with a hybrid (chimera) embryo? Allow it to develop to term? Would it survive? What about the genetic diseases carried by one cell to the other? How would the eggs be acquired? What about the notion of "playing God" -- messing with the perceived natural order of things? Not to mention: what would they call it? Cow-boy? Too confusing. Boy-cow? Sexist. Moo-man? Too 50's sci-fi...and STILL sexist.

Enough to make most sensible, rational-yet-non-confrontational people run screaming in the opposite direction. But wait. The powers that be are trying to do something (cue the superhero music). The UK (from whence the story originated), like most other countries that need such a thing, has a standing Authority that regulates all legitimate research in that field, and each application for permission is considered on a case-by-case basis. There are also many rules in place to handle a lot of those sticky questions, including the one about the life of a hybrid embryo: answer: max. 14 days (most don't even survive half that long...).

The difficulty is that these regulations are constantly playing catch up with gallumphing advances in the field. Just when someone claimed chimeras to be so much pie-in-the-sky, along come the Chinese, way back in 2003, cloning embryos using rabbit eggs and human DNA. It's no wonder churches and other watchdog groups make a considerable (and understandable) noise, questioning or outright opposing such research. Add to that the "your worst nightmare" scenarios, which make people verrrry jittery, and unfortunately rational, informed debate falls by the wayside. Those who wade into the debate shoulder-deep should be the ones to do the kind of background work I have to do. It doesn't take long (yaaayyy Internet!!!!) Too bad they can't all work my job for a day... maybe that's a good thing.

Pillow Talk

I had a long-winded post about genetic engineering all ready to go, but I think I'll hold off on that one. It needs some...ermmm...radical re-tooling.

The Boyfriend has two daughters. They lived part-time with us until just under a year ago when the elder (now 18) picked up and moved without any to-do to her mother's full time. The younger (now 15) soon followed. Not a bad plan, really. It's hard to split your time between two fairly different households, and overall, they usually get along better with their mum, anyway.

The younger has moved back, on the 'suggestion' of her beleaguered mother who was butting heads with the teen over her reluctance to go to school on a regular basis. She seems to have a problem with how hard school is and would rather just stay home and sleep when it stresses her out. This is a habit going all the way back to kindergarten, and it was not exactly discouraged by her then stay-at-home mum.

This moving back in with us has now stressed ME out. I'll state it bald and plain: she's bloody hard to live with. Yeah, yeah. I know. What teenager isn't? However, she's not MY daughter, and, had she been, I suspect she would have lived with slightly different expectations. The gap between what is and what I feel (or wish) should (would) be is what makes me crazy. I struggle to be positive and zen. My expectations need to be relinquished. I know that. But I have a hard time accepting and acting on that reality. £%^*(&_)&&%$@!!!!!!

I am straining not to go on a rant/vitriolic diatribe about this. I guess I have to retreat into, "If you don't have anything good to say, scream into your pillow instead." Consider this my cyber-pillow.

Aural Smoke

A few days ago, I heard the world's earliest recorded voice. A scratchy, haunting off-key version of 'Au Clair de la Lune' sung by what sounded to me like a girl (listen to it here). It was produced in France, by Edouard-Leon Scott de Marinville, one hundred and forty-eight years ago, on April 9, 1860.

There are a few things about that recording that blow my mind. First, the fact that because Scott was merely trying to get a picture of sound so that he could study it, he created a machine, called the phonoautograph (a very suitable name for that purpose, IMHO) which would scratch impressions of the sound waves onto paper covered in soot. In that age, when sound was probably considered one of the most ephemeral of all phenomena, his ingenuity is astounding.

As a result, I'm also blown away by the fact that the recording was preserved lovingly enough that a team of determined researchers could untangle the scratchy lines and actually produce something audible for our lucky ears. The recording was produced with no suitable means of playing it back. It was 'sound writing', that's all. Scott never thought when that girl sang it, that he would be able to hear it back again in his life time. The machine for that task didn't exist. As it turns out, he lived long enough to witness Thomas Edison's triumph (and subsequent fame) 17 years later, with wax cylinders. I read somewhere that he was rather bitter about Edison taking the credit for producing the first sound recordings. In the purest sense of the word "recording", he did beat Tom to it.

Most of all, I'm blown away by hearing such an old, young voice. She sounds like she's about ten. And can't hold a tune to save her life, and doesn't care. It's kind of corny, but I feel privileged to be able to hear something that old, that still holds a hint of the person who sang it. A bit awestruck, the way I felt when I ran my hands over the stones in the Acropolis, imagining the hands that carved it thousands of years ago. A blip on the geological clock, but, relative to my little blip of a life on earth, it's huge.

The advances that humans have made in the last century, let alone throughout our history on earth, are staggering to me. I so often take for granted all the technology I can use now, from the computer I use to write this blog, to the Blackberry I bought yesterday, to the can opener that opened the cat food this morning, that I welcome these reminders of how far we've come. I can't wait to see what comes next. Should be occurring in the next few minutes or so...

From the CL Vaults 4

Today I have to start blogging everyday for a month. The NaBloPoMo theme for April is letters. We don't have to stick to that, but it might help. Anyway, I came across another fabulous set of posts from CL last night. April 1 - done!!!:

Salmonchanted Evening - 3o-ish

You can call this chinese cod; Rob,
I'm a game fish, not a bass player.

I've cruised the dating stream, been trollin' down the pike a few times,
Fact is been to every oyster bar; got the usual -
a Rusty Snail, hold the grunion, shaken, not stirred;
With a peanut butter and jellyfish sandwich on the side,
heavy on the maaco.

I just can't fathom why i can't find an angel in this aquarium.

Many have a whale of a time: dinner; dancing to popular tunas;
a bouquet of flounders.

But I get tossed that same old line: "Not tonight, I got a haddock."
Looking for a cute yellowtail in this can of sardines interested in a deep LTR.

Not interested in one-time midnight baits. No crabs or clams please.


re: Salmonchanted Evening

Holy mackerel, Rob! Sorry to hear you've been struggling so to make it upstream.
Now, I don't mean to be koi, but maybe you've been swimming in the wrong pond.

If you don't want to be just another catch-of-the-day,
don't get hooked by shellfish goldfishing anglers
who just want to know hamachi you have.

Time to stop swimming around in circles.
Patience and fin-esse are required.
Find plaices and groupers you enjoy.
Spawn a reel friendship first, with no strings attached.

Keep casting,
and wait for the right bob, Rob.
Timing and smelt ARE important.

Keep your pole steady.
Lure her in slowly.
Without a trout, you'll soon be buying herring.

Best of luck!

Winter scene outside work. I posted it because it's lovely.

NaBloPoMo - or - Scared Wordless

I've just signed on to National (really, it's beyond merely the States) Blog Posting Month or, NaBloPoMo. It's a challenge to push bloggers to write an entry every single day for a month. Those who meet the challenge successfully are entered in a draw for small prizes, as an added incentive. Why did I sign up for this? I think because I read "Do something that scares you every day." on someone's Lululemon bag yesterday and I decided to take it literally.

What, in the day-to-day, would scare the willies out of me? The obvious things are bungee jumping, ski jumping, luge, surfing, tornado chasing, etc. Not exactly the "day-to-day" I had in mind. But what of the smaller, subtler things? Like: talking to a gorgeous stranger or a famous person. Dancing alone in a public square. Eating oxtongue. Or blogging every bloody day for a month. Or commenting on a new blog every day for a month. Or actually sending out my performing resume. And preparing for auditions that may or may not come. Or starting a new one-person show. YIKES!

I suppose if it doesn't kill me, it may just make me stronger. The blogging starts in earnest on April 1. No foolin'.

"I dig you" takes on a whole new meaning...

From the CL vaults:

Seeking woman willing to dig a hole in the woods on short notice,

I will supply:
-two (2) shovels
-a grim disposition
-extreme sarcasm
-many jokes made in poor taste

You should:
-have a strong back
-willing to work at a moments notice
-a morbid sense of humour
-be between the ages of 20-30
-not the type to ask a lot of questions
-can keep a secret

What's greater than the trust two people can share under the stars. Just the two of us, some shovels, rope, gasoline, and bleach.

If your interested, drop me a line!

Mmmmmm. I'll bring the piano wire...

From the CL vaults

More from my CL archive:

tuesday - w4m

my heart calls you before
my eyes

(saw you) before

my ears

(heard you) before

your hand...

(touched me on the leg)

Or this:

Downtown subway line (I forget which), 5:00 PM, - m4w

Every time I've ridden the subway for the last few years, I've nonchalantly scanned the crowds, wondering if I'll ever see an attractive white, thin, medium-tall girl wearing a black coat, carrying a purse, reading a book, with straight, jet black hair draped over her sharp features, down just past her shoulders.

And I did...

Now the game won't be as fun anymore.

Or this gem:

NO WEERD GIRLZ OR FREEKS PLZ. - 40's

please. normal woman only between 30 to 43 years of age. very sensual a plus.
NO crafters, graphic designers (the worst!), poets, playwrights or shamans pls.
wiccans OK if hwp.
no visible tan lines.

me: up to date eyewear. look good in silk pajamas. sensualist. no visible tan lines.

serious only. with pic or drawing (no artists!).

Huhhhhh...???

There was a picture included, but I think it's of him,so I won't post it. Shame. It's really good. In a baaaaaad way...

From the CL Archives: The Wednesday Guy

There is a fellow who recently started posting and has mastered the art of appealing to the intelligent, romantic, lonely, straight female willing to be seduced by a well-crafted turn of phrase. If I were not attached and older than he (a liability to many men, apparently), I would have emailed him by now. Maybe he hasn't received the reply that will win his heart, maybe he's still looking, but I'm so glad the WG continues to post. I will miss his posts when he finds his heart's desire and has no further need to express himself on CL.

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you excerpts from the Wednesday Guy (Sigh!!):

"...I'll tell you two (secrets), shall I?

"The first is that I can be moved. I don't mean physically, because lots of things can jostle me about. I mean emotionally moved: touched, deeply affected, whatever term you prefer. I can be stopped in my tracks by the beauty of a perfectly phrased lyric or the symmetry of hedgerows. Or the elegance of highly optimized computer code, for that matter. I would by no means be described as "flaky" by anyone who knows me: I'm a logical reasoner, a skeptical thinker and a lover of the scientific method. But nonetheless the point--the secret--is that I'm one of those lads for whom beauty of all forms can (and frequently does) sound a resonant chime deep inside me.

"I suppose that makes me sound a bit like a foppish dandy, but so be it. I'll simply write in a future letter about my motorcycle trips if my fragile male ego is bruised after I submit this.

"The second secret is that my living room is painted the precise color of hockey arena vending machine hot chocolate. Yes, really. One of my favorite smells growing up was hot chocolate after playing hockey, and so when I found a paint shop on !@£$%^& that claimed to be able to match the color of any object... well, you can imagine the rest. The fun part is, nobody suspects a thing: it just looks like a warm earthy brown to house guests. But you and I know differently.

"There are so many other things I had meant to mention, so many tales to tell and traits to trot out, but this post is already so long I think I'll save them for future letters.

"I trust this has been a sufficient introduction to both my character and my intent. I will continue to send my words, secret and otherwise, winging their electronic way to you each Wednesday.

"Until next week, I remain
Your ardent, if unmet, suitor."

And another excerpt:

"...I am in a great mood, even on this (grey) midweek afternoon. This morning the radio sang me a song I hadn't heard in years. The melody carried with it a rush of happy memories from a trip I took a few years back to visit the four corners of North America via motorcycle.

"(That trip makes me seem FAR more cool than I actually am, but I'm not above dropping mention of things like that to try to pique your interest; hey, if Macy's wants to sell something they put it in the window, right?)

"I love music: rock, blues, pop, shoegazer, classical, funk, big band, punk ... you name it. From "music to bang your head to" to "music that makes you feel like you should push the button for your floor." I like lots of obscure bands, but I still like them after they become popular. And I continue to like bands long after they're no longer popular. I especially enjoy witty lyrics and songs that tell stories. I check aurgasm.us every day and I'm on my 5th iPod.

"But even so, that same iPod still betrays my utter lack of cool:

"There I am with my headphones on, looking for all the world like I'm digging the latest club remix, and it probably appears as if ... well, as if I'm not the sort of guy who uses unhip words like "digging." Or unhip words like "unhip," for that matter.

"But the truth is, inside my cold-day cocoon of headphones and wool cap it's as likely as not that I'm listening to some audiobook, a BBC radio comedy show, a podcast or maybe a lecture series. I'm definitely "student for life" material."

Sigh. Articulate, full of curiosity, a music lover. And he knows how to spell and use 'pique'! Maidens with brains in their heads are probably swooning by the dozens. If not, they're idiots.

From the Archives: The Post that Started it All

This hilarious CL post (excerpted) started me collecting (is that proper grammer? Oh dear...): For more details about my collection, see the post entitled Collections.

"I am Perfect! - 40's

"I must post this to at least spare one lucky woman the necessity of placing her own posting in craigslist. For her I am eliminating the process of having to specify which faults she cannot tolerate and the pain of wondering which ones of her own may be deal-breakers, telling prospective suitors not to bother applying if they are this, that or the other, telling them to check baggage, to be educated, able to spell, be clean, etc. I would never dare criticize a woman for having standards for her mate, in fact I encourage it. I am simply saying that one woman, assuming she reads this and responds, will not have to concern herself with any of these things because...

"I am perfect !

"Now right away you are going to say "wait a minute, you sound arrogant to me". I would just politely point out that I am not engaging in braggadocio, in fact I am not quantifying anything - I am just expressing a fact: that I am perfect. This means I have the correct amount of confidence, am humble but not falsely modest, and have faith in God (who or whatever that may be) and my abilities.

"Where to begin, let's see. Well first, as you can detect, my command of English and spelling are impeccable (punctuation/grammar police, you may skip this posting - any concerns you may have are strictly a matter of interpretation, and since I am perfect and you are not, you are wrong). I have received the perfect amount of education, could read when I was 3 years old, and have an IQ of 151 - the perfect Intelligence Qotient - just enough to be a genius without all that imposing Steven Hawking/Albert Einstein stuff. I am **, which is the perfect age. I still have my youthful body, appearance, and sexual energy, but have the perfect amount of life experience to live life to the fullest. I intend to stay **.

"My heart rate and blood pressure, perfect and perfect. Perfect brown hair styled in a perfect bed-head spiky way, perfect expressive brown eyes, and perfect face - I look exactly the way I should. Height: 5'*", weight: 155 - perfect for my height. I play or played all the correct sports: golf, hockey, football, baseball, tennis, bowling, and avoid the others ("ultimate", basketball, soccer - wonderful to watch, but too much work to play, and lacrosse), have exactly the correct car (none), live in a perfect home in the perfect neighborhood in Central (naturally) *. I make it a point to be patient, polite, and helpful to others because it's just stupid to not be. Also, I'm hoping that instead of me telling you "I'm funny", that even if I'm not I do enjoy having a sense of humor and don't "take myself too seriously" - just the perfect amount of seriously.

"I am self-employed so I have the perfect boss, without saying exactly what I do I am in the perfect field for my skills and intelligence (IT). I am extremely talented musically, having taught myself to play several instruments, and have written, produced, and recorded several songs, lyrics included, doing all the performing myself. I recognized that life as a musician may lead to imperfection, so several years ago I decided I should have a real career.

"I know your next question: "if you're so damned (just the right amount of profanity) perfect, why are you not married ?". Duh. Is there some kind of law stating I'm imperfect if I'm not ? I've made it to ** still single and had time to accomplish many things, but still have enough left to do that it would be exciting to share it with someone. Is that not perfect ? As I write I realize that I could just go on and on about myself, but I'm thinking that I do not wish to take more than my fair share of your time."

Ed. Note: Etc., etc., etc...

Collections

I have had a few collections. My first was a stamp collection that my parents started for me at the tender age of about 9. It was a kit featuring a binder with pages for ALL the countries of the world (at that time), ready to show off my finds, and a little instruction booklet. For a short time I was enthused, collecting stamps willy-nilly: Montreal Olympics stamps, stamps from my West German relatives, those random sampler packs from Coles bookstore that contained stamps from obscure and exotic locales such as Trinidad and Tobago, or San Marino, or Yemen (my 9-yr.-old self marveled that those places had post offices). I even mastered the art of mounting those stamps with the little gummy glassine flaps that the booklet insisted I use. But my heart wasn't really in it. Less than a year into it, the binder was gathering dust in the back of my bedroom closet.

My next collection was my junior and senior high artwork. I had a few pieces of which I was rather proud, including my unusually good pencil sketches of furry animals like squirrels (no, really, they were actually REALLY good!), an anorexic-looking ballerina all in pink, and a brilliant vanishing point painting of red, blue and yellow boxes (pure genius...). Unfortunately, that collection died an untimely death when my bipolar mum, in one of her manic cleaning phases, tossed the entire portfolio (lovingly handmade of bristol board, staples and tempera paint) into the trash. After my adolescent rage faded, I vowed I was done with collecting.

My resolve didn't last, of course. While I was in university, my parents went on a junket to the British Isles -- a prize my dad earned for having sold the most Phillips T.V.'s in town. At some point during the trip, when she wasn't locked in her hotel suites' bathrooms (she was not a good traveler), mum bought me a scarf as a souvenir of Scotland. On my next visit to the thrift store near our home, I discovered a whole selection of souvenir scarves. The light bulb in my head clicked on. They were cute, cheap, reasonably portable, and dollars-to-doughnuts (what the hell DOES that mean?), nobody else in my acquaintance was going to be scouring the thrift stores for those babies -- making my collection UNIQUE!! Woo hoo!!! Thus my souvenir-or-vintage-or-just-plain-neato scarf collection was born.

150-or so scarves later, I am on to my newest collection, probably also unique. I collect Craigslist postings. Not just any postings, but specifically those from wfm or mfw 'Missed Connections' and the personals. The ones that make me laugh or have a really well-written story, or have a moving or profound thing to say. The ones that stick out in their uniqueness.

The 'Missed Connections' trolling is relatively easy to justify. Although I, like many others have a tiny, secret longing to be one of those missed connections, I, also like many others (as I am gradually realising), am attracted to CL - MC because of the occasional irresistible glimpse into the yearning of one soul (or hot bod) for another.

Trolling the personals is a little more difficult to defend, but I'll do my best. Yes, I am in a committed relationship -- we actually met on an internet personals site, for which we shelled out a bit of dough. Yes, after I started seeing The Boyfriend, I kept an oar in the water for a while, just in case prince turned to frog. Eventually, I deleted my profile, but now and then, when bored, I went back to have a look -- as a form of amusement (and maybe a little escapism). However, I never re-posted or contacted anyone. When I checked out Craigslist, I discovered its FREE personals -- a whole new animal. People could write as much or as little as they wanted, post pictures, e-mail each other for no money down. I figured this would attract a broader array of desperate singles and I was right. But some of those ads, good and bad, were too entertaining to ignore.

So I started a collection. It's pretty simple: if the ad looks good, I cut and paste into MSWORD. I'm up to over 200 pages now. I want to post excerpts from my favorites and see how it goes. I'm aware of the possibility of transgressing some term of service or other, but hopefully, by trying to retain the anonymity of the posts, I'll skate on the right side of the rules. Ergo: no names, locations, dates, times, or ages. Age-ranges, general appearance descriptions, and some personal preferences may be included. There won't be any overtly sexual writing, but the odd naughty allusion may pop up (HA! ...that's rather funny..!). Aside from what I just mentioned, it's all going to come from the horses' mouths. I won't be making any of this up, despite sometimes wishing I had. All that being said... here goes nothing...