Resistance

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve published anything. Mostly because life has a way of taking over – passions take energy, putting words to paper can be cathartic like it can be draining. I read my past posts today with a sense of humour, they seem incredibly naïve five years later…it made me laugh.

So much has changed since I first put this blog up, not only has my life changed immensely – my outlook, my patience — my self-worth is no longer dependent on the outside world. My passions have changed, my career and circle have also…Dave is still here though.

I’ve learned to be OK on my own, to appreciate the silence that comes after a hectic days work and the importance of self-preservation. I used to measure my value from others words or actions, now, I value myself regardless of the noise that surrounds me and have worked my tail off to ensure I make meaningful contributions when possible and though my mind is sometimes still the equivalent of ADHD on MDMA — I’ve learned to embrace my quirkiness, my sensitivity and strength and most importantly cleaned house of anyone who didn’t also embrace those attributes.

A little over two years ago I was an atrophied human being, constantly in hospital or on a waiting list for treatment and surgery with very little patience left for anything really. I had lost any will to value myself, partly because of my circumstances and partly because I felt I was outgrowing my tendency to question everything – let me tell you, having high-functioning anxiety and a penchant for everything or everyone emotionally torturous was no longer an option…it wasn’t sustainable and I had to ask myself some hard questions. Did I even want to sustain or was I going to take accountability for my choices and my shortcomings.


The first step was finding calm, as best as possible and as often as possible, I started engaging in meaningful conversations that contributed to my growth and happiness as opposed to avoiding them. I learned to ask when needed something and most importantly I let go of trying to change who I was at my core – highly sensitive yet incredibly resilient with a twisted sense of humour and a need for passion, transparency and improvement.

When I was first diagnosed, I saw it as a life sentence that no matter how hard I tried – I’d be stuck in forever. I won’t lie — when it get’s tough (because it does and always will) I still have trouble vocalizing and engaging and do have a tendency to retreat into hibernation.

Speaking with a constant lack of confidence because I was playing a track of set-backs in my health and life – ignorant comments and insensitive remarks in my mind on repeat. I was fragile and hated every second of of it – this was not who I aspired to be. I felt branded by my illness and could not accept that it was permanent. It wasn’t until I recognized the value of understanding and setting expectations — even when it isn’t pretty or what you would have wanted that I gained perspective on what I actually need in my life or rather what I’m willing to allow in my life.


Being sick is hard, it’s unpleasant and it can play on how you engage with those around you and how you allow others to treat you. I’ve lived through every emotion from blind rage to complete impotence — I allowed myself to visit these emotions without them consuming me, by recognizing that they are normal and human and letting them run their course without self-imposed judgement or criticism I somehow felt them less and less. By choosing to protect myself from ignorance and surround myself with meaningful challenges and concrete goals outside of my diagnosis — I found that I was proud of what I’d accomplished and decided to live free of self-imposed judgement as often possible — living with good intention and supportive people is as close as I’ll get to being cured.

A Father’s Day Letter to Those with Daughters 

Dear fathers and single mothers of little girls;

Never forget that your role is one of privilege, it’s not just a rite of passage and it doesn’t end once you’ve handed out the cigars. Whether you choose to stay in the life of your offspring or not: you are shaping who they will become, with your presence as well as your absence.

Be a man of integrity and teach them right from wrong, but, when no one is looking ridicule the seriousness of the world and let them understand there’s no harm in being different; and show them that making a fool of oneself is not the same as being a fool.

If you are a single mother; associate yourself with men of integrity if you don’t know your own worth how is your daughter supposed to know hers?

Show them how they deserve to be treated; there’s a likelihood that she will associate her value with that of the one you demonstrate. They will become women who enter the workforce, already disadvantaged by their sex:

Teach them that there is nothing wrong with speaking their opinions out loud; in holding their own and changing the ‘rules’.  Let them know that ‘being liked’ is not the be all, end all of their world. They are of great value with or without the majority’s consensus.

Go ahead; be the protector. They will need to feel safe when they go through their first heartbreak.

Don’t minimize their pain, just be there, silent and stoic if you can’t find the right words. What matters is that they understand that a broken heart doesn’t mean they are broken, or less valuable:

They will become wives and mothers if they choose to do so; they’re better off entering a partnership knowing their value than a dictatorship feeling unworthy. It is up to you to instill this while they still listen whole-heartedly to their daddy/ mommy.

Teach them everything you would if they were your son;

limitations are imagined and knowing that being a girl doesn’t mean that they can’t keep up with boys.

They will face situations as young adults where they will need to assert themselves, make sure they can do so with anyone who challenges their worth. Unfortunately you had no choice on the state of the world they entered; they will need to know how to say NO and mean it.

You can’t control everything, they will need to face hardships in their lives. Don’t question  yourself as a parent if what you do is to protect them, love them and lead them to their own path. Know that they may not become the person you envisioned when you first held them; and that dear fathers/ mothers means you’ve done it right.

When they haven’t conceded to the path that was offered but made their own, remember that you were part of that whether you agree with their choices or not, you helped shape them and they are always going to be your daughter, long after you’re gone, they will still have you with them everyday. Be someone who you’d like to have around, because you will never leave them.

You have the hardest job in the world, mistakes will happen.

Do your best, she will grow up and know that you did.

Endo(h) My

I’ve been M.I.A from posting for quite some time, this means you’re either thinking: ‘oh no, not this girl again’ (to you, I say piss off) or ‘oh great, she’s back’ (to you I say, thanks and read on).

 Look, I’m not going to mince words here. I’m at a place in my life where everyday has become challenging and I’ve been on a Ferris wheel of redundant doctors visits and physio therapy, naturopathy (I’ve tried everything but standing on my head naked in the woods howling at the moon) trying to improve my quality of life in order to live the life I want and not the circumstances that are. 

For those that know me well; you know I’ve been ‘different or suffering’ for approximately 3 years now. For those of you who don’t know me, surprise! 

Let me make one thing clear from the beginning, I’m not here for pity and I won’t accept defeat. I’m here to raise awareness about a silent disease, which is destroying women’s lives, relationships and livelihoods. I know this personally and something’s got to give, there is no cure and worse yet, there is very little understanding: 

en·do·me·tri·o·sis

ˌendōˌmētrēˈōsis/

nounMEDICINE

a condition resulting from the appearance of endometrial tissue outside the uterus and causing pelvic pain.

Well, that explains very little doesn’t it. Let me give you a better understanding of my personal experience:

I went from living a normal, happy life to becoming an atrophy of a human in the span of a year, it took me 15 months to receive a proper diagnosis. (Words like Chrohns and Gluten intolerance were thrown around, I’m considered lucky, the average is 7 years because pelvic pain in women is considered the number 1 complaint, and there is only surgery as an option to confirm a diagnosis.) I wasn’t lucky, I was an absolute pest to the medical professionals, I knew my body and ‘It’s all in your head’ was not going to shut me up. I returned with a physiologists diagnosis saying ‘It’s not in her head’ handed it to my gynaecologist and said ‘see, now let’s get to work buddy.’

My relationship at the time did not survive the tornado of ups and downs which come with this disease, like a good patient I’d swallow every pill and allowed every poke and prod but I couldn’t control what the medications did to me. They made me crazy with a capital ‘C’ and my partner hadn’t signed on for that. He’d signed a mortgage, not a crazy contract. Those who love me tell me I dodged a bullet, I still feel I was robbed.

Dating again after the rupture was out of the question, I’d turned into a shadow of my former self, and I needed help. I was hospitalized for nearly a year to try and regain the 50 lbs I’d dropped from the stress and anxiety that followed me everywhere, I was in too much pain to fight, eat, live. It should have never gotten to that point, never. 

Multiple ER visits with so much pain I thought I wasn’t going to make the night, tagged me as a ‘frequent flyer’ and so they looked at me as if I was a drug addict coming in for morphine. Again, I was a pest, and came back with a paper from the director of the Chronic Pain Unit, ‘She’s not an addict, she’s in chronic pain’. 

I kept working my day job as long as I could but being sick became a full time job, I could no longer provide the quality of work I once had and after much hesitation I accepted that I couldn’t do both. I no longer had my job, my partner or my home. My role was now to face the disease I had never heard of….alone.

This is my reality, it’s an every day struggle not to see yourself as ‘damaged goods’ or ‘unworthy of happiness’ and unfortunately it’s a reality faced by millions (1 in 10) of women globally. I studied film in college and had a particular passion for documentary work. Before I had the chance to make what I believe is a necessary tool in educating people about this disease, I found Endowhat?

I strongly suggest you take a look: Here

You can buy, donate or just take a minute to watch the trailer if you’re interested.

There are resources at The endo network as well as a national walk on May 7th to raise awareness.

As for me, It’s one day at a time. Dating, socializing is still an uphill battle as you don’t know when it will be a ‘bad day.’ And explaining this disease to strangers feels like saying ‘Hi nice to meet you, oh I hope you don’t mind, I brought my misbehaved uterus along.’

Total buzzkill..

I hope I can reach at least one person with this and make some sort of impact.

And the only advice I can give is: You know your body, don’t be afraid to be a pest. 

Forgetting Why and Figuring out How

I’ve had a bit of a rough go at life this past week, [seeing as the embargo is still in place] I’ve had time to ponder, being that I’m the poster child for over thinking; this isn’t necessarily something productive for me. But I think this time I’m onto something. I’ve been examining triggers. E.g:

” ‘A’ triggered ‘Guy X’ to lie about; (fact/ insignificant cockamamy story) ‘Y'”.  With the added questions like what triggers me to feel like I’m somehow responsible for every single thing that has gone wrong in my life?

Well, I know for a fact that everyone has triggers, whether these set off positive/ negative actions or thoughts doesn’t really matter, or isn’t what’s gotten me pondering right now. I’m a private person, (says the girl on her blog) my triggers include criticism, embarrassment and guilt. Three feelings that are difficult for me to process without receding into into my shell, closing lines of communication and for some reason shutting the whole show down. (Don’t worry the irony isn’t lost on me; I’m sharing this on a blog open to everyone and don’t quite play the part of introvert afraid of judgement in my interactions….well, that’s because if it were up to me I’d hibernate all year and not have to interact with people. The thing is, I don’t want to suck at life.) So, every day, every blog post is an exercise in not becoming an anxious little mouse stuck on a wheel that goes nowhere. It is difficult for me to act against my nature of wanting to hide and not be seen, I do it because at the end of the day being with people and having pertinent conversations makes me happier than writing novels I’m too shy to share, reading about other peoples interesting lives and contemplating my existence alone. I risk criticism, embarrassment and guilt every time, knowing they are my triggers, because, the benefits outweigh the risks. My nature may be to hide and hibernate but the rational adult in me knows it doesn’t do me any good and actually sets me on a path I’d rather not revisit. Fact is (as for many) my nature is a danger to me. That, is something that is difficult to swallow, to recognize and finally to accept:

To go against my nature, to trust; (and not hibernate) in blind faith is the only way I’ve learned to function in a world full of wolves and snakes. I had to put on my big girl pants and learn to play the game. I truly tried my mightiest to stop giving a fuck. (That’s still a work in progress.)

I’ve come to accept that the “Why” I have these triggers is not as important as the “How” I won’t let them swallow me whole.

Perhaps,  it’s because I was the last kid to learn to tie my shoes in kindergarten, maybe I didn’t get enough vitamin D as a toddler or wasn’t invited to eat with the cool kids in second grade. (What I’m saying is who the fuck knows why I am the way I am?) Maybe it’s because I’m the baby of the family, all a possibility; still remains that my triggers have the power to taint me now.

Today; a place that has yet to be decided is rich with opportunities; and I only have to put one foot in front of the other in order to participate.

There is no going back to learn to tie my shoes faster in order to escape the embarrassment of not getting my name on ‘the board’ of shoe tying success. Either way; as I’ve made clear I don’t own proper shoes: likely for this very reason So fuck it…why should I still care about the “Why” or the the “Y”?

I shouldn’t and I’m not, I try to apply this to my present “failures” or “missteps”:

Why “X” made me sad or feel unworthy or guilty doesn’t matter as much as how I’ll stop being sad and get on with it.

Spending time trying to figure out where it all went wrong is akin to trying to catch the bus that passed 20 minutes ago. You aren’t ever going to make that bus, and if you keep waiting for it, you will likely miss the next one coming.

So I have triggers (like everyone). I’m learning that what I do instinctively isn’t what will help me.

To say “let shit go” is the easy part, to actually put one foot in front of the other and get on with it is where most of us get caught up.

The only advice I have for us who ponder like it’s going out of style is to stop trying to catch a bus you’re never going to make. Fuck; take an Uber to get where going: Better yet; tie your proper shoes and walk. You’ll know when you’ve gotten to a place where “you’ve let shit go” but you can’t get there unless you’re up to going somewhere new.

Embargo

It’s not an easy time for me, I’ve come to terms with the fact that it won’t be for a while. I wish I could regale you with dating mishaps and funny stories of men unknowingly encouraging me to go forward with the dating embargo lingering on the outscurts of my mind; but not this time.

I’m realizing a lot regarding my views, values if you will. I have little patience for chit chat unless it comes with a solution, a resolve an answer. To what? I wish I could tell you, but primarily it’s to turn my ‘great expectations’ into ‘great conversations’. Let me explain this; dating in your 30’s whilst dealing with a trunkful of baggage is the equivalent of sliding down a cheese grater naked and landing in a vat of vineagar. It’s time consuming, it’s almost always disappointing and you’re never left feeling any better from it. It’s the pits as a wise drunk used to say. Sure, I’m willing to accept that I may not be trying very hard…honestly, who wants to ‘try hard’ at dating? Excluding the eternal bachelors of the world that make it their mission to to double book their evenings for fear of having to spend any time at all alone with oneself...(yeah I’m talking to you, guy from the fall…eat it.) Passive aggressive rants aside; I don’t feel sated with what ‘dating’ has provided me as of yet, I feel passive….aggressive, and even more jaded than before…if that’s even remotely possible.

I’ve never been one to accommodate rules, or to play by them. I’m enthralled easily by boundaries and buttons and what happens after you cross or push them. A dark horse and not a black sheep is an anology used to describe me recently that I hold to dearly, it helps get me up and going…helps me cope when I feel overwhelmed. It’s truly a gift to have someone you love give you perspective when you feel lost. These gifts, these perspectives don’t come very often. They definitely don’t come from social apps or recycling past transgressions to fit them in to your life today. They come from people who know you intrinsically. It’s a lot to ask from a date; to give you perspective, to make you feel like you’re not wasting your time; ‘meeting people’ for the sake of ‘meeting people’. I’ve no time for bullshit, actually scratch that, time is not what I’m lacking…it’s patience and tolerance. I can no longer sip a glass of wine quietly accross from a stranger telling me how important he is, or why he’s a feminist (who doesn’t know Sylvia Plath) that believes in women’s rights (thanks, man you still make three times my salary and don’t have to work twice as hard to get shit signed and sold but good hustle), it’s bonkers…pure madness to accept this. I just can’t…I’ve got too much in my aging brain going on to conform to this lifestyle. I give in, I’m not cut out for it.

I want to connect with people who ‘get me’ as simple yet as broad as that is. Who know that my sensitivity and restless mind are greatest assets and my biggest curse, who know it has nothing to do with anything other than being happy and sated in the long run. Who aren’t pretentious and value conversation, for whom learning new things is not a contest at who knows what but an adventure, simply another adventure. A new perspective.

I’m lagging, I miss being inspired and just running with it. Dating has too many unwritten rules that I’ve no interest in learning. I want perspective, a soft place to land and a strong arm for support. I don’t want a 7pm Chianti in some place where I have to find proper shoes to visit. I’m a fucking dark horse for shit’s sake, I don’t own proper shoes….I just can’t sell my soul for free booze like I could in my twenties. As disgusting an image that is, that’s the feeling I get when I ‘meet people’ to ‘meet people’.

Embargo, only option….

Properly Blocked

I’ve been experiencing a major case of the ‘Februaries’ which in turn has totally blocked me from any form of inspiration, even when it comes to writing. March arriving, I stupidly thought I’d be cured and all would be well again….it was not. I woke up past my alarm to a cat pawing at my face for food, attention and mostly because he knows it annoys the shit out of me. Dragged my half asleep ass to feed him, coffee me, and hoped a shower would wash away the desperate smell of boredom off of me.

Ive been looking for inspiration everywhere, and by everywhere; I mean I’ve been annoying my friends to no end with useless conversation, cat videos and words that I can’t say are even English to try get the spark back (imagine a virtual six year old using her finger to poke you in the face without any sign of relief, that’s basically what I’ve been doing to them) and though I’ve recieved much encouragement (they put up with my antics, bless them) and ideas…nothing. No. Ideas. To. Be. Had. I’d usually get loaded and write until my fingers hurt, but now that I’m 30 the concequences of binge drinking on my body aren’t worth the inspiration. At least not at 10 am on a weekday.

After my shower, smelling better but no less of boredom, I felt compelled to reach out to someone after seeing a particularly sad/ touching post on FB. We hadn’t spoken  in a while (like most people if not everyone on FB) after small talk he said: ‘long walks work for me’ when I complained (I really need to learn to stop complaining so much…) about my writers block. My initial reaction was to open the curtains look outside (neighbor on balcony across from me shivering to finish her smoke, people with hoods on down below fighting the wind and snow blowing in their faces…this poor girl bailing HARD in the middle of the street- OK I laughed a little/ lot.) and say NOPE, not doing it. But then I looked at the state of my place and my fat cat giving me the ‘get out of my house’ look and said; “I’m taking a journey, a long walk. Dave call grandma if I’m not back by nightfall!” So off I went on my journey to find inspiration, and I saw things that not only sparked ideas but made me reconsider some of my traits as a person…

Crossing the first block, a recycling bag filled only with empty cat cans and an empty of gin told me I am not the worst cat lady spinster on the block!! I still have time to turn this thing around and maybe just maybe find happiness and a partner in crime. It gave me hope, really. Until block 3: a large man wearing a ridiculously large coat (seriously though, this whole huge coat thing has to stop, we get it, your coat is bigger than his, you have small penis issues. It’s fine, just buy a normal sized coat for crying out loud.) blocked my path on the sidewalk, killing my momentum and slowing my pace to snail level. Hope dwindling, I started getting angry, looked left: huge snow bank….no way I’ll make it up and over. To my right: hipsters in wolf print/ Navajo jackets talking in an unnecessary high pitch about how ‘dope’ last nights ‘performance piece’ was…(Yes we know it was all veeeeery exclusive. And yet I’m so very glad I missed it….No Sir, I did not sign up for this…I’m turnin round…buuuuut wait, how badly do I want inspiration? Badly, very, very badly.) So I did what any Montrealer with a mission would do, I stepped to his left shouting excuse me and pulled a swift pedestrian merge (may have jostled him a tad, but, all is fair in Montreal winters man) and didn’t look back.

I also observed a very astute looking middle aged man from across the street, dressed in courds, perfect amount of grey in his magnificently coiffed head of hair, smoking what I found out was a mini cigar (Cigarillo, so cool, except for the cancer part..) when I got closer, BAM! I’m inspired for a new character in the ‘novel’ I’m writing (like all other ‘novels’ I’ve written, no one will ever read them but still I’m pretty stoked) and couldn’t have crafted this man from imagination alone.

On my way back I was considering the theory of ‘the way back always seems shorter than the way there’ and decided that in this case it was wrong. My glasses were frozen to my face, my toes were begging for heat and I could swear I the ‘Big Coat Association’ of Montreal had sent out a mass email to block me on my journey home. (all is fair man, all is fair.) So I ducked into a store I’ve never been in before (brand new, I usually despise brand new for it goes against my penchant for all things worn, old, and that tell a story.) and scored free tea!!! Brand new tea store, you’re now alright by me. Also I am sufficiently caffeinated to tell people I ran an imaginary marathon, just the right level for annoying Sandra to morph into productive Sandra.

So here I sit sipping a deliciously caffeinated beverage, fingers nimble, back to my craft. Onwards and upwards, yup…until the caffeine dissipates and I nap my way to glory…

 

To Bah or Not to Bah

There is a funny thing about the human condition; we seek to understand things to their fullest. What I mean by this is that we complicate simple things, twist them, manipulate them until they eventually fit in a box that puts our brains at ease. Where we can say “Alright, I get it, now I can move on to the next thing.” The reason for my bringing this up is that when we are tired enough, sick enough, fed up enough; we can simplify these things. The boxes get broader, their lines more opaque, not so box like anymore but more fluid and malleable. We are open to simplicity when it’s convieniant, quick to complicate when idle or overly comfortable.

In the past, I’d always thought of myself as someone who was misunderstood in many respects, and quickly learned that I had to adapt to situations and people in order to be accepted or confident amongst a group of “peers” or “colleagues” there were many times where I just wanted to blend into the wall because what I had to say seemed “out there” or “ridiculous” and I had no desire to fit into a box…if that was the choice I’d have rathered disappear. I’m not sure when it happened exactly, but, when I was finally tired, sick and fed up enough, my circle got smaller and my life became richer. I no longer played the part of a fly on the wall in fear of being chastised or shut down. I learned to take being chastised as an invitation to engage in rhetoric that would eventually prove my point or teach me something. I’m continually learning…

The friends, family and co. that I could count on (I’m talking call on because I need a sounding board for my wild ideas or terrible falls from grace, my go-to’s when my sentences are barely coherent, my “I’d fight someone twice my size for you, and it would be my pleasure.” people) were halved (that’s a conservative guesstimate) practically overnight. 

The foundations I had built, worked my ass off for and invested every inch of my being in were flipped, torn down with no signs of fertile ground left (or that I could see) to build on or plant in…everything was broken. The people who survived that complete clusterfuck with me (most from afar, purely out of logistics, they no longer lived here and couldn’t be present to hug it out and drink past it) and still set me straight when I deserve it are the ones that kept me sane (as sane as I could be, sanity is relative really) and alive. Once the smoke cleared from the disaster I was calling life, I realized something. It’s something that’s kept me from dispersing unnecessary energy and still keeps me relatively sane when things seem chaotic and excessive in a sensory overload kind of way: Everything that has been a constant, in my life post clusterfuck, I have chosen, I have built, it is mine and I am confident in its wear withal, it is not a conventional box, different entity and shape altogether, but it’s what I want and it’s a pretty rad place in my humble opinion.

I no longer wish to be a sheep, I no longer “bah” my way through the day. Have no wish to be a wallflower or misunderstood. I have qualified people, things and activities in two columns: healthy or unhealthy for me. Simple. 

There may not be a particular point to this post, other than to remind myself in a difficult time. Partly induced by sharing stories and shooting the shit over a good coffee, partly me being nostalgic and laughing at what I’ve done so far in my life, and partly to thank the people that have stuck through it or have just met it and bare no judgement, have given me an ear and a shoulder all the while never expecting anything but what I have to give, who I am at my strongest and my weakest…just because…that’s good enough for them. 

My circle, my “non-box” may not be very complex or sizeable, but it’s mine and I am happy in it. 

Narnia & Blueberry Tea

A few months back I decided to define my “type” in words.

It being;

polite, witty, socially conscious, curious and bright, not homeless, has a job (usually a cool one that makes mediocre money, but that’s what you find attractive, he’s passionate and doesn’t worry or stress over money and works for himself in something he loves.) No sign of a hidden wife and secret family, and most of all he makes you laugh and is a safe place for you. My “type” (which I usually keep top secret in fear of scaring away a genuinely nice man with potential who may not fit into the lines I’ve drawn in my misanthropic brain) is as per usual, the artsy, bookworm with good looks (that he hasn’t quite learned are sexy to the outside world yet).

WAIT!

Now let me stop myself right here, He doesn’t exist: they all know what they are worth; and that’s ok.

Looks, career, charm even the mediocre but risky endeavours they take on and then call jobs…they all know it’s sexy (as they should, confidence is necessary, and attractive) and usually use it to their advantage any chance they get. Problem being; some use it negatively (in my humble opinion/experience) regardless of who they take down in their wake. The one thing I’ve noticed about my “type” is their false modesty, and “here today gone tomorrow” attitudes….which considering their other traits I should expect. (As always I don’t apply this to ALL men that fit the bill, just most…that I’ve met….and who breathe)

Alas, I’ve yet to learn that maybe,  just maybe my “type” is not meant to be a my match.

(They are still terribly hard to resist as I have yet to master the separation of my rational brain vs. my “please have my artsy, non-conformist babies” brain)

So what did I do when I came to realize that maybe I was fishing in the wrong pond? Social experiment! (Social experiments are my bread and butter, however, I’d like to make clear that I never use people whilst “experimenting”, this is just a term I use when I push myself out of my comfort zone; the subject of the experiment is always me not them) and reflect on what I’ve learned from the experience.

So off I went into the world of “many other fish” in search of people who were in no way my “type”.

My hypothesis being; I would be bored to tears and would want to fake anaphylactic shock to get my sorry ass home asap.

My conclusion: I’ve decided no longer to type-cast, and here is why:

After having a very boring first date with an accountant who was very nice and showed no signs of being a rapist or secret Mormon, I was…well, bored to tears (No really I cried on the way home listening to Cat Stevens’ “Wild world”) listening to how tax season is hectic and thrilling all at once. (Shoot me now, someone put me out of my misery.)

I took a decision then and there: FUCK IT, just go for what you want, what is attractive to you…stop trying to fit a square into a circle simply because you’ve had so-so to terrible experiences with ALL TYPES.

Which inevitably lead me to deleting everything on my phone and pulling the blankets over my head for a while, comforted by my ‘Cat Stevens coma period’ as I now refer to it.

This brings me to my next date, which honestly was a long time after accountant man, because I was still in my Cat Stevens induced “ I don’t want to go out with anyone anymore coma.”

A coffee date with guy who ticks all the boxes my messed brain has categorized as attractive (Uh-oh, bail now, run…it’s not worth it…here we go again.) and has accomplished to make me laugh and seems to banter with the best of them, (he’s going to show up, have a self-involved attitude and back to my Cat Stevens coma I will go) so why not give it a shot, sadomasochist that I am.

First date

He is on time, I’m barely late….he’s nice, funny, attentive and doesn’t look at me funny when I explain that I go through these ‘periods’ of wanting to soak up as much knowledge as possible on a certain subject and even laughs at my politically incorrect likely shitty jokes..this is new, I don’t think this has ever happened.

(I’m in Narnia….that’s it…has to be.)

What’s happening here? We laugh on cue, at the same things and are practically finishing each others sentences once the blueberry tea (after coffee) has arrived to our table. (He hasn’t escaped out the bathroom window?!) This can’t be real life? I mean he’s not hard to look at either, can this possibly be? It’s like meeting an old friend for coffee…we’ve known each other for years but have never met. At this point I’m in a state of disbelief and can’t compute…as if we’re sharing a brain. Dumbfounded.

When it’s about time to wrap up the date (cue horror music) he drops a bomb:

He isn’t convinced by the idea of monogamy…He doesn’t believe in it anymore.

FUCK!

Somehow, I want to slap him and say: “bring the other guy back dammit!!!”

But we’re already in our respective cars, me dumbfounded and he probably thinking: “well, I’ll never see her again….way to drop a bomb.”

Cue second date:

(Wait!! What!?!) I know…but shut it for a second:

The banter did not cease, and I enjoyed it, forgot (or ignored) for a moment that we are on a different path, or didn’t share the same values regarding relationships.

On the drive there I’m thinking: What am I doing? I should not be here, because we don’t want the same things, we have different plans or expectations. But…I can’t seem to stay away like a moth to a flame, I need answers, a debate, a reason. “Explain yourself man!”

After 2 minutes of not so awkward hello’s

My thoughts have shifted, I’m comfortable and thinking: I get on with this person, the rhetoric shared, the effortless care he’s demonstrated of a person ‘who gives a shit’ about your wellbeing without really knowing you…but simply because that’s who he is…..it’s all very confusing and yet in the moment so simple.

No awkward. No reasoning. No problem.

Conversation flows, we are embarrassingly honest and share a meal without any awkward pauses. I’ve forgotten my points on why team monogamy is team awesome. He seems not to really push the topic too much either. Somethings aren’t debatable, explained or rational. I’m having a good time, it’s honest, unpretentious and just what I needed.

This appears to be one of those things.

I’m thinking: why would I deprive myself of a human being who makes me laugh, gets my humour and most of all makes me feel at ease and somehow relevant?

So I decide not to. Deprive myself that is.

I can’t say what will happen, but this person will be my friend even if this doesn’t “work out” (his words and my feeling, another brain sharing moment) It’s incredibly confusing, and yet….I don’t care. I have no expectations. Why? Because I trust this person to be decent towards me. And that my friends is not an every day occurrence and it’s absolutely liberating. It is something that I look for in other people and hardly ever find: The capacity to care about someone’s wellbeing because they are human and they are there, no motive, no agenda…just because that’s just who you are.

Little acts of selflessness: handing you a Kleenex before you ask, hugging you right when it’s needed, cover your shoulders right before you get cold….all these things done,  yet never requested…it feels well…nice to be honest, and all the questions and points I have no longer really need to be answered or made at this point…later, who knows?

So In conclusion, I don’t have a happy/sad ending to give….it’s so very complicated…but so simple:
Do you, be happy. Whatever happens will happen, whatever doesn’t won’t. Easy Peasy. Fine by me. Narnia.

Weird, liberating and completely unexpected….I dig it.

Suburbian Secret

So, I have been on house/pet sitting duty for 2 weeks now, in the house where I grew up. I’m running on little sleep (privileged dogs and cats waking me up on the hour every hour) and lots of caffeine/ boredom induced, hyperactive spells of spinning in circles, craving human conversation, company or an old fashion/Chablis delivery boy at 7pm sharp every night. Yes, it has been wonderful for my social life, thank you. Let’s just say the suburbs are turning me into a proper weirdo. Even weirder than before? Impossible. (yes, possible, wow.)

My mood is dark at times, and instantly turns to what I can only compare to ‘excited puppy like’ when I get a phone call (which as we know is a rarety these days, still waiting to propose BTW) or the chance to go have a coffee with an actual human. I don’t know how long I will last, I mean you can only run into your elementary school gym teacher in the condom/sexual health aisle at the pharmacy (have an awkward conversation on why you’re not married with kids yet, because last time she saw you “things were just swell with that guy you had the beautiful home and yearly vacations with”) once maximum twice (true story) before it gets pathetic. I mean I was obviously just browsing out of boredom and for research purposes (I wish I could say otherwise but nope, no birth control needed, just BOREDOM) I think she was actually eying the him/her lube varieties, which was not awkward at all..I actually wanted to know if she’d heard of Tinder…

Which brings me to my issue…I have a little secret, an addiction of sorts…I can’t even type it with a straight face, because it is that sad and well, ridiculous. Seeing as I know everyone I’ve told laughs at me for it, I guess I may as well share for comedy’s sake… Here it goes: I have a fake online shopping addiction.

Let me explain, Since I’ve been here, I basically shop excessively (its out of control) online, (I’ve even left an old Hotmail account open just so I can receive daily sales) and compulsively add things to my cart as if I were rolling with a black AmEx hearing myself in my head: ‘imagine; wearing those boots with that $1200 bag and of course that t-shirt that i have from the salvation army’ (its a ll a question of balance when styling the perfect outfit.) I could wear it to….wait, I’m in the suburbs…I could wear it to the grocery store?

The hilarious part of this is that I never ‘checkout’,  there are sites with shopping carts full of books (I want to read but not bad enough to pay $49,99 plus shipping), clothes (I don’t need or would feel comfortable wearing, as I stain everything I own and consider that giving my clothes ‘character’), sheets (Egyptian cotton 1200 thread count no less) and matching duvet covers all over the interwebs. I don’t even know if I could count that’s how serious this has gotten. Some of these sites don’t even ship to Canada, I mean common, this is full blown crazy.

I’m seriously shopping as if it were a video game (those daily sale sites, where you’re the one to snag the last pair of cashmere leggings in your size…..it’s ab-so-lu-te-ly fucking thrilling) and I was the last man standing after a long battle and my only job was to get those leather piped skinny jeans at 60% off retail price for the sake of honoring my fallen comrades….wow….my life…I can’t even…

I’m really not sure why I do it, maybe, for the sake of creating this imaginary world (It has to be a form of escapism) where I care about luxurious things and I permit myself to have them. It boggles my mind; because as much as I have an interest in fashion, and fascinated by the stories behind ‘Haute Couture Maison’s, their evolution through the eras, their head designers and curators’ (my close friends may remember when I went through my McQueen, Givenchy and Saint-Laurent period of book/documentary/biography binges…just because that’s what I do ) I am not someone attached to material things at all.

I’ve moved close to 10 times in the past 6-7 years (yeah I know that is a lot of moving) and I was thrilled by throwing useless shit away in big donation bags. (I live what I would consider a simple life, in a small loft, with very few “trinkets” and the only ones allowed in my apartment are those with sentimental value.) I am the antithesis of a hoarder or shopping addict in real life, I like ‘hand me downs’ and don’t really enjoy shopping for myself that often, unless it’s pharmacy shopping but that’s a whole other bag of worms which I’ve somewhat shared before.
But once I close the page on my browser after my ‘I’ve captured the jeans for my brethren’, I’m satisfied, it’s over, point final.

I’m quite concerned about this will do to psyche long term; I can’t go on being fake online shopping addict forever. I’m already quite secluded as it is…this may cause major damage to my social skills…and trust me I’m not known for those to begin with. I’m quite concerned here, but the daily sales start in a few minutes and I have my eye on a decorative pillow that I simply must add to my cart, you understand right?

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Crotchless Panties and Heart Shaped Rings

Let me get straight to the point, for lack of any other creative introduction, Valentine’s Day:

A time of year when resolutions are just starting to fade from your social media feeds, no more cleanses or gym regimens popping up in spam ads every time you open your browser. Just when you feel like you can relax from the holiday rush and New Years pressure, a massive load of red and pink propaganda is dumped on your lap and all of a sudden it’s pressure to find a valentine or if you’re like me, it’s pressure to wait until the day after when all the chocolate is half price.

It’s a funny thing; when I was in a relationship, Valentine’s Day never seemed to hold any huge importance, It’s not like we spoke about it as if it were an important part of the relationship. If anything we’d simply do sweet little things to show each other that we hadn’t forgotten; because if we had forgotten we’d have an excuse to fight over who forgot the unimportant “holiday”. Wow I guess that’s not very funny after all…anyways I’m a sentimental person, but it hasn’t been important since I was a kid and my mom used to go all out with heart shaped placemats at breakfast and cute little trinkets…really sweet, and that’s the sentiment I like to think of when I think Valentine’s Day. Unfortunately, it’s no longer that way. Though I still look forward to my moms cute card.

Now that I’m single, I can’t help but walk into stores and look at the displays with disdain thinking : “Fuck, this is such bullshit…if I still smoked I’d have a lighter…and I’d set fire to this whole mess of pink and red, creepy teddy bears would be the first to go. ” Ok…maybe I’m exaggerating a bit here, I’m not a pyro nor do I condone violent acts of fire and I’d obviously save the chocolate.

To get to my point; (always takes me a while, but we know that. Who is we? When did I start speaking this way? Just write dammit.) I seem to notice things now that I’m single that I didn’t notice regarding the “holiday” before. The biggest example of this so far has been all the online lists of “what to get him” and “what she really wants” in ads, online sales, even on my daily news websites. So far I’ve yet to see a list where I haven’t said: “This can’t be real, people don’t buy into this shit, do they?”

Anyways, I’m here to tell you, what she really wants is not $150 crotchless panties or a heart shaped ring(two real life examples I’ve Noted from a list entitled ‘The 10 Gifts she Really Wants This Year’) and if you buy her any of these things; you’re a fucking moron.

First off let me attack the $150 crotchless panties

(Dear God, if my English professor could have predicted the sentences I’d be writing when I grew up…)

If you’re thinking of the crotchless panties as an option because of an easy access thing for some sort of public romp you two have imagined, I’m here to tell you that if your GF is willing to wear crotchless panties, she’s willing to go commando. Which is just as effective if not more and way cheaper. Problem. solved.

If she’s not willing to go commando, thats what scissors were invented for, seriously, they were invented solely to make normal panties into crotchless panties….I promise. There’s an article about it on that site there, you know the one. (But, real talk: if she’s not willing to go commando but wants $150 crotchless panties, run, you’re dating a diva, and you should be smart enough to save the cash for the ‘lewd behaviour in a public place’ ticket you might be getting.)

Either way, save your $150; go forth and raid her underwear drawer. Pick a pair, the more expensive looking the better, grab the scissors and start your Valentine’s Day art project. Your honey will love you for it, I promise…..she will think you’re finally looking interested in Pinterest, no, I’m not lying at all, now GO! And please don’t forget to capture a few pics of your art project and your girlfriends’ happy reaction. Also send them to: perfectiondefectionblog@gmail.com I think your GF would rather eat at a nice restaurant or drink a great bottle of champagne for that price, just a thought. ($150 crotchless panties……fucking morons…I can’t even…)

Now for the heart shaped ring 

If your getting engaged, Mozel Tov, buy the ring (she doesn’t want a heart shaped ring you dunce, buy her a decent sized solitaire or something she’s ‘subtlety’ pointed out in her Pinterest that you’ve obviously been paying attention to) and be happy. Pics of the wedding aren’t necessary, my Facebook feed has plenty of those. Daily. Nonstop. Always.

Now, for you men who have considered the heart shaped ring and have no intention of proposing; if I have to explain to you why buying a ring, be it of any shape (it could be shaped like your face I don’t care) for your GF on Valentine’s Day is a properly fucked up and a bad joke; hence a bad idea….you’re also a moron and I’m not wasting my time explaining as to why this is the worst idea ever.

That’s it.

I’m not explaining it to you, you deserve what you get if you do that. Also don’t forget to send me the pictures of her reaction, and of your new apartment once she’s done with you.

So in conclusion, Cupid = Stupid. Yes immature, bite me.

As for me, I’ll likely be spending my Valentine’s Day with Dave. Which on its own is good enough but will likely drink expensive champagne in my underwear. Because really, what’s the point of pants, if you have no one to share them with?

 

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