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.