Merry Christmas, Baby!

Missed that memo

And as you sit, drinking a cup of tea, laughing at taped episodes of Arrested Development, thinking to yourself, well, this is comfortable, it's comfortable at least, it changes.

He calls to you, through a door steamed shut, faint scents of cologne and shaving cream seeping from underneath it,

'Hey -babe, do we have plans on the 30th?'

And suddenly the Earl Gray in your mouth turns to cement and you think,

'Christ, when did this happen?

Liar Liar

The five of us are snuggled up on her couch, sharing a plate heavy with a sizeable chunk of homemade Black Forest cake, her Boston Terrier wedged comfortably between us. Wet, tossed tissues are strewn about the floor, a multi-colored afghan blanket covers our toes. Her husband opens the front door, home from his poker game, takes one look at our puffy red eyes and flannel pajamas and says, ‘can I get you girls a glass of wine?’

It’s ten o’clock on Friday night, and we’re watching our friend’s wedding video. I had forgotten, in all the chaos of that day, how beautiful she was. Really, how beautiful we all were. And so, as we laughed at ourselves dancing barefoot to Follow the Leader and cried at the ‘I dos,’ it dawned on me just how incredibly, and untouchably happy we all looked.

And just how much a girl can hide behind her smile.

She's come undone

I guess it’s a good sign that I didn’t drive home crying. That I didn’t come home to sink into a bath with a cup of tea only to emerge red-eyed and discouraged. I guess it’s a good thing that I walked away with a smile, and phoned a close friend to giggle like a 16-year old girl and say, ‘guess what?’ And to feel her smile back at you through the phone because she knows.

It’s the glimmer of something you can’t quite name in the eyes that meet yours across the table, the glimmer, as you talk of elementary school plays and family vacations that seems to say, ‘I understand, and it’s ok. I understand, and I like you anyway.’

Cost of a good deed? Why, that will be $42!

About three months ago, I was named editor of Aids Community Care Montreal’s newspaper. It’s a nifty little publication, and in my humble opinion, does an excellent job of tying what is already a pretty close community even closer together. And so, I don’t mind battling 4:30 traffic to the complete other side of the city after a day’s work, to hole up in a church basement, pouring over articles, placing graphics, putting in commas and coming up with headlines until 11 o’clock at night. What I DO mind is coming outside, completely exhausted, hungry and ready for bed, to find a GD $42, soaking wet parking ticket on my car.

Montreal, sometimes you really, really suck.

The power of one

And there are moments you can taste it. Where you can hear the voice and feel the hand and you hate this, because you realize you haven’t moved. That sure, you may have a list of accomplishments to rattle off, and good for you, but really, who cares. Not you. Not anyone else. And the despair at the knowledge that you’d trade it all in a blink. And you hate this even more. Because really, you’d like to be stronger. You’d like to have cried all your tears and tossed all your pillows and laughed all your bitter, hurt laughs. But it’ll get you. It’ll sneak up. When you least expect it. Like tonight, at the apartment of the elderly couple, who pry you with books and chai tea and photo albums of curly-haired children and spice muffins. And you look at the walls full of smiling faces and you smile back at them, but they see through you. And the fear that everyone does.

And it’s one more day of pulpy, orange juice mornings and yoga class nights, of meeting-filled afternoons and 3 a.m. longings. It’s you and it’s only you and it’s the fear of how much longer, how much more of this, and where is the reward, the payoff, the gold star, the end.

You know?

Just who do you think you are?

I went to a conflict mediator training session this past weekend. There were eight people in the group. Some old, some young, some wrinkled, some fresh-faced. Some well-dressed, others shabby, some smiling and bright, all of us waiting expectantly for the animator to provide us with some sort of indication or direction as to how the day would start off.

So, paperclips.

We were each instructed to select as many of the tiny tools as we wished, in order to create some sort of artistic display. Some members of the group were incredibly creative, blowing my simple-minded spelling of the word ‘Hello’ right out of the water. We then learned that for every paperclip used, we would have to tell the others something about ourselves. (At this point, I began to desperately wish I had gone for a simple, hi).

Blessedly, I didn’t have to go first. A girl sitting to my immediate left did. I expected her to launch into the typical, “I work here, I studied there, I live here.” But to my surprise, and only mine, she didn’t. Instead she spoke of her faith. Of her love for nature. For her neighbours. For her belief in herself and the universe around her. She spoke of not being afraid of death, as she is so certain of a beautiful afterlife.

And as we went around the table, I became increasingly shocked, and impressed, that no one, no one, spoke of what they did for a living, what neighbourhood they live in, what kind of car they drive, of what their husbands do. Instead I learned of depressions and delights, of battles with food and diets. Of children and miscarriages, of weddings and losses. I heard of personal beliefs, of fears, of failures and pride, of wrinkles and laugh lines.

It may be simple, but that afternoon changed something for me. I am not an editor. I am not a student. I don’t live in Pointe Claire and I don’t drive a car and I don’t have a degree. I don’t have ten pounds to lose and I don’t hate my hair.

I am a daughter. A sister. A friend. I am a lifeline. I am happy and at times desperately sad. I am excited and I can be terrified. I am love and I am loss. I am a million things in this world and not one of them has anything to do with any of the things I, for a long time, thought made me who I am.

And so, it begs the question. For me, and for all of us. Who do you think you are?

One of these things is not like the other

Oh, the baby shower.

The mothers and the mothers-in-law.

The crust-less cucumber sandwiches, the macaroni salads, the carrot sticks, the fat-free dressing, the cheese cubes, the cheese-less pizza squares, the cream cheese tortilla wraps, the pretzels, the smoked salmon, the jelly beans, the little iced cakes, the rice krispie squares, the apple juice, the caffeine-free tea.


The pastel-coloured everything.

The playschool games, the oohs, the awwws, the pictures, the cameras, the tales, the stories, the registries, the balloons.

‘Have-you-picked-a-name-have-you-painted-the-nursery-have-you-chosen-godparents-have-you-picked-a-hospital-how-are-you-feeling-how’s-hubby-feeling-are-you-excited-are-you-have-you-will-you-do-you?

The pervasive sense you have been irrevocably transported into a Jane Austen novel and are struggling, fighting desperately to come up for air.

The reams of tissue paper, wrapping paper, ribbon, streamers, discarded envelopes and gift bags. The diapers, the 15 receiving blankets. The booties, the bonnets, the baskets. The cribs, the cradles, the carriages, the clothes.

Fake smiles, fake laughs, weak hugs, kissed cheeks, tears with questionable causes.

The deep breath, the promises, the lies, the goodbyes.

The keys, the car, the drive home. The knowledge of one of many.

Word to the wise

‘And children, don’t grow up. Our bodies get bigger, but our hearts get torn up.’
-Arcade Fire

You don’t say.

Head of the table

I’m sitting in a pink conference room. In front of me are ten bottles of spring water, arranged in two, neat rows of five. Behind the bottles, strawberries and bananas hang out of a crystal bowl, set in a thoughtful, deliberate arrangement. A box of oolong organic tea cozies up next to a whistling kettle. The CEO stands at the head of the mahogany table, his manicured finger tips brushing the top. The navy blue pin stripe suit contours his fitness club-toned body like a bone-crushing hug.

‘Please’ he says, opening wide his arms to the ten industry journalists who stand before him, tired, weathered, hungry for something other than a freaking banana and in dire need of caffeine that only comes from coffee taken black. ‘Welcome to Virginia. Welcome to my company. Sit. Eat.’

We do as we are told. Caps are whipped off pens, tape recorders are set, papers fly. Alec introduces us to his company, the history of which traces well back to the late 1800s in Manhattan, when his grandfather came from Russia with a good idea. The business was then passed onto his father and then with his retirement, subsequently landed in his own hands. Pictures of models wearing Revlon, Chanel, Estee Lauder, and Elizabeth Arden frame the walls. Women dancing with flimsy pieces of gauzy material and spritzing themselves with Clinique mock us from their frames. Alec glances up at one particular woman, who smiles down at him with purple lips and wide, silvery eyes. She makes me think of a fish.

‘And now, I am sole shareholder.’


‘Jesus H Christ’ whispers one of the male journalists sitting to my left. ‘He even bought out his dad.’

Alec’s laugh is warm, but confusing. It bubbles in a way that lets you know there is something additionally funny about whatever has just occurred that you will never understand. In his presence you become immediately and acutely aware that the mascara you’re wearing was bought on sale and that because you forgot to pack enough socks, you’re wearing yesterday’s nylons. And you’re even more aware that he somehow can sense this. Suddenly, all of your flaws seem magnificent and huge, and so do everyone else’s, to the point where there is in fact no one in the room but him, just an overwhelming and messy pile of split ends, fleshy thighs and unbalanced chequebooks.

‘So,’ he bellows. ‘Shall we head over to the facility’?

We shuffle out. As he walks, the sleeves of his custom-made suit fall to just the right length, covering powerful wrists. Each step and swing of his arms punches through the air, making me almost want to shield it from him. He smiles and says hello to the overweight secretary, who coddles a bottle of Diet Coke, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and looks at her swollen feet, whispering a barely audible ‘hi there’ in return.

We enter the manufacturing facility. Alec pauses to clap a man named Steve on the back, asking him how his newborn son is doing. Steve’s eyes glimmer with something beyond happiness.

‘Oh, he’s just a beauty mister Alec. You wouldn’t believe!’

‘Children truly are a joy,’ Alec smiles into his face. ‘Truly a joy.’

We move on. A young girl wearing Jordache, stonewash jeans and a faded Guns n’ Roses t-shirt quickens her pace as she passes us and does not return my smile, or Alec’s nod.

The plant is full of workers scurrying about, rushing through the room with fluorescent earplugs and safety glasses, running from one workstation to the other in their Walmart running shoes, and all of a sudden it hit me, that all these employees, every single one, is working for Alec. That Steve is away from his newborn son so that he can help pay for Alec’s suit, for his brownstone in upper Manhattan, for the jewelry his wife wears. That the young girl with the chipped nail polish and the November Rain t-shirt didn’t go to college, but instead is working in a plant whose profits pay for Mediterranean vacations she will never go on, to pay for cars she will never drive.

Now, of course this isn’t Alec’s fault. Given that he only spends one week a month in Virginia, and still manages to know all his employees by name, all 120 of them, is impressive. It’s the nature of the system that’s at fault. But it’s the system I’m starting to really, intensely dislike.

And, starving though I was, I politely declined the offer of a perfectly ripe banana on my way out.

Life is a cabaret

And we thought the smoking ban was a bad idea?

http://www.thirteen.org/nyvoices/features/license.html

Pity Party

The things you notice.

I stepped into the elevator yesterday afternoon and in crowded a woman, mid-forties, dressed in a cheap, Le Garage, polyester suit, cut for a 20-year-old, but she was determined. Pink, plastic jewelry clasped her neck and wrists like a vice, had I reached out an index finger and pricked her arm she would have toppled over, such was the height of her patent leather heels. She flicks her head, gives her purse an arrogant little toss over her shoulder, cocks her head and says to the man standing to my left,

‘So. Whadiddya think of the presentation?’

The watermelon Bubble Yum she’s chewing snaps violently, the bubble inflating and collapsing in surrender behind bright orange lips.

‘Brilliant,’ he lies. ‘What a great team.’

She runs a hand with a chipped manicure through drugstore-dyed hair.

‘Yeah –sure. I did all the work.’

The man standing beside me says nothing, gives a smile that hints at sympathy that isn’t quite intended for her. And I got the distinct notion that at that very moment, this man and I were overwhelmed by a crippling sense of pity for this woman, this worker, this probable wife and mother, who teeters into work every day, armed with green and pink highlighters and an advanced understanding of the photocopier machine, this woman whose husband likely belongs to a bowling league and whose children don’t open up to her, this woman who scans the mall for sidewalk sales and the publi sac for coupons, this woman whose co-workers almost certainly don’t like her and she can’t understand why –didn’t she remember Josée’s birthday, didn’t she work late almost every night of the week? This woman who feels the need to claim responsibility for projects she does not share in order to impress passersby and elevator riders.

Pity, can be an awful thing.

City slicker

It makes a noise.

There is a distinctly audible click.

It happens when you know, in no uncertain terms, that it’s closed. That there has been a shut off, a shut down; a closing of the proverbial book. And you further know, that any futile effort on your behalf to pry it back open, to jam a foot back in the door, would be viewed as somewhat pathetic. The moment is gone, opportunity lost. Move on, move away. For God’s sake, whatever you do, leave the room.

Two years ago, I found myself sitting in a news editor’s office, interviewing for a position as a city reporter at a community paper. I was pretty sure I didn’t want the job; I had just been offered one as an editor at a magazine I had interned at all through school, but I hadn’t started yet, and being superstitious as I am, I figured it couldn’t hurt.

So let’s go back.

I’m sitting on a swivel chair, which is clothed in faded grey plaid. There is a huge, bright yellow plastic, decorative pencil in a corner of the room. The editor of the paper is sitting on an equally worn-out chair in front of me, one thin leg tucked under the other. Her long hair is loose; she wears a chunky necklace that makes me think of a beach vacation. She is the only person I know to actually look good in a pair of white jeans. She takes a swig from a Naya bottle and screws the cap back on tightly.

‘So,’ she says to me, ‘let’s see what you’ve got.’

Tentatively, I hand over my portfolio, bursting at the seams with clippings on library closures, school board meetings and bake sales. There were a few articles I had written on such weighty matters as softwood lumber, international trade and energy policy, all for the magazine I was due to start working at in a few weeks time. I proudly displayed these on top.

She looked at these first.

‘Hmmm.’ She screws up her mouth, bunching her cranberry lips into a terse, wrinkled, 0. I would have put a semicolon there…sorry…I’m a sucker for grammar.’

The insult. The assault.

We chat. She questions. I answer. I qualify, she quantifies. She tells me about her passion for journalism, for the written word, for the community her paper reports on. We talk about her kids, I listen. The phone rings. We talk about juggling domestic responsibilities with work demands. I decide I like her.

‘So. What are they going to be offering you at the magazine?’ she asks.

I toss out the truthful number.

She sighs.

‘I can’t offer you that. I can’t offer you even close to that.’

We stare at each other.

‘I’m going to tell you something,’ she says. ‘When I was in my late 20s, I had two young kids and my husband had just lost his job. I was making a pretty decent salary in a PR firm. But you know what? An opportunity came up at a little, community paper, as an assistant editor. I would be making $17,000 a year. And I took it. Then I became a single mother, but I still never looked back. And now, here I am. I’m the editor-in-chief here, and I make good money. And I love what I do. But I never would have got here had I stayed in PR, had I not taken that risk, had I not taken a gamble. Had I not followed my heart.’

I thought for a minute. I thought of the amazing staff I knew I would be joining soon. I thought of the spacious office that would be mine in just a few short weeks. I thought of the expense account, of the travel, of the three weeks vacation.

‘I really appreciate the offer. It was so kind of you to meet and discuss….’

Click.

She smiles. Unscrews her water bottle.

‘Hey –you gotta eat. I understand that. We all have our own priorities; we all know what makes us tick.’

‘I know that any young, Journalism grad would be lucky to work here, in fact I think I may know someone who…’

I had the distinct feeling, a knowing, that the decision I made that afternoon was a defining one. I was choosing more than a job; I was choosing a set of priorities, of standards. I felt like I had heard so many stories of young reporters cutting their teeth at community papers who wound up running major dailies years down the road. Young journalists who took a gamble, who followed their hearts, and wound up winning Pulitzers. I felt like I was staring myself straight in the face, and wasn’t sure I liked who I saw.

Skip ahead.

I had dinner a few weeks ago, with some friends from journalism school, one of whom landed that city reporter job, and who is now the editorial coordinator at the paper. I got there first. The rest of the girls filed in, and work-related stories began to fly around the table. The city reporter friend came in last, rushing over to our table in a breathless, apologetic frenzy.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late guys!’ she starts. ‘I was doing an interview with the most amazing man…it’s going to be such a fantastic story. You wouldn’t believe…’

Click.

A thank-you card

My girlfriends and I got to chatting the other night about the men in our lives (or total lack of them) and the impact they have all had on who we ultimately turned out to be. It turned out to be quite an interesting exercise, in fact. Of all the people who make up my world, my family, my friends, my co-workers, the people I volunteer with, the people I go to school with, from the woman who kicks and punches her heart out beside me in my Body Combat class, to the teenage kid in the Couche Tard downstairs who smilingly gives me change for my laundry every week, I think it’s safe to say that collectively, none of these has had such a big say in who I am as have the men I’ve shared my life with at different points along the way.

I’m grateful for these experiences. No, truly, I am. Sure I’ve had my heart broken a few times. I’ve broken a few, as well. But, as a relatively new member to the singles pool, I realize just how many things I’ve learned, and how thankful I am for those life lessons.

And so, here is a brief list of compiled thank-yous. I think it’s safe to say they all had a fairly large stake in who I call myself today.

Thank you for teaching me that I don’t need to be the loudest, flirtiest girl in the room to be noticed.

Thank you for showing me that being part of a relationship doesn’t mean I have to give up any part of who I am.

Thank you for showing me how to use a set of chopsticks properly.

Thank you for teaching me that respect, admiration and love aren’t necessarily bedfellows.

Thank you for teaching me not to take myself too seriously, or no one else will.

Thank you for teaching me that not everything is black or white. In fact, most things are confusing shades of grey.

Thank you for teaching me that absolutely everyone has something to offer.

Thank you for showing me I deserve to be brought flowers, to be walked to my door, to be wished sweet dreams.

Thank you for not saying anything.

Thank you for crying.

Thank you for teaching me that sex should be silly.

Thank you for showing me what matters.

Thank you for showing me that what I always thought matters, really doesn’t.

Thank you for teaching me I can get through.

Thank you for teaching me the best way to get over a hangover.

Thank you for making me feel like everything I had to say was important.

Thank you for the challenges.

Thank you for teaching me what I don’t want.

Thank you for having the courage to walk away.

Thank you for showing me that sometimes, hiding away from everything and everyone is more than ok.

Thank you for showing me how to make a kick-ass sauce for salmon.

Thank you for making me feel I had something to teach you.

Thank you for choosing me, but not needing me.

Thank you for turning everything I thought I knew on its head.

It made me search for new definitions.

I like the ones I found.

I found me.

Culture Clash

"I much prefer the anthropological definition of culture, which, has nothing to do with holding your pinky finger out when you drink a cup of tea."

-Lister Sinclair
1921-2006

A small life

A few things.

Last night, I spent a few hours strolling around the city with my friend and her six-month old baby. We lazed through Ogilvy’s, stopping for tuna cakes and diet cokes, browsed through the exquisite shops and marveled at the equally extravagant price tags. We popped into the flower shop on the basement floor, sticking our noses deep into lustrous arrangements of calla lilies and roses. Oh! Look! my friend shrieked, holding up an adorable plant pot, crafted of rich, creamy ceramic, with the word ‘plant’ tolled across it. ‘Heath, this would look so sweet in your place!’

She was right. I stuck out my hand for the pot, inhaled as I turned it over, and peered down at the price tag. Exhale. Totally affordable, totally adorable, a total must-have. On my way to the cash register, I additionally picked up a little pot of African Violets, the tiny purple buds housed in a glass cup. I paid my bill, content, already envisioning where I would station my new purchases in my apartment.

When I got home, I threw down my purse, ripped open the plaid bag, tossing aside the reams of lime green tissue paper. (I think half the thrill of making a purchase at Ogilvy’s is the decadent wrapping the shopkeepers enclose your purchase item in). I scoured my living room, trying to decide which plant would have the honour of being plopped into my new, prized pot. I made my selection, rearranged a bit of earth, and finally put my plant holder in its final resting place –a little table with hand-painted flowers on it. (Please note that I only have two tables in my entire apartment, so it wasn’t exactly a mind-bending decision).

Content, I stood back to admire my work. I was pleased. But then, ever the self-doubter, I asked myself why in fact I was pleased.

Had it come down to this? Is my life so small, my wants, needs and desires so limited, so confining, so shallow that buying a cute little plant pot, (admittedly one that is sure to garner lots of attention –yes it really IS that fabulous) fills me with a sense of self-satisfaction and accomplishment?

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down on my couch to ponder this question a little further. I thought back to a few hours ago, the hustle and bustle of Ste. Catherine’s street, Montrealers and tourists elbowing their way through shops, shouting into cell phones, running red lights. All of these people, all these hundreds of thousands of people on their own versions of plant pot quests. It struck me how individual we are, how individual I am, how disconnected we can be.

Shifting courses.

I had a very quiet day. I went to the gym. I did my groceries. I joined my local library and spent an hour sitting on a rock hard chair, drowning myself in Alice Munro’s The Love of a Good Woman. I made filet of sole with mushrooms and tomatoes. And then I decided to go for an evening walk. It’s a chilly evening, but busy-bee west islanders were out full throttle raking up their leaves as though their lives depended on removing every visible trace that their lawns in fact have trees planted on them.

I walked by one house where four, small children were out in a large yard, raking furiously. A middle-aged, portly man pulled into the driveway of the home, hopped out of his Toyota Prius, slamming the door. He had arrived to pick up his two of the four children.

‘Alright guys, time to pack it in! Sally, Ben, in the car guys! Tomorrow it’s our lawn!

‘Awwwww’…the children cried, in unified, staged protest.

‘What time are you two coming over to our place?’ the man asked, turning to the other two kids. ‘Better be bright and early, we’ve got a lot of leaves!’

‘How about 6?!’ one of the boys suggested. The man’s face turned a distinct shade of grey.

‘Well, six is a little early…could we make it just a little bit later’?

‘Ok….how about ten?’ the boy asked, eager to please.

This is what I love about children. That they have no concept of schedules, of timetables, of itineraries and to-do lists. All the errands, running around, cleaning, shopping and raking that could be accomplished in the four hours between 6 and 10 a.m. is of no consequence to a child. And it made me sad to be able to recognize that this trait is confined largely to childhood.

Switching again.

I decided to suck it up and buy myself a ticket to the kick-off session of this year’s Massey Lectures. I went on Wednesday evening. Having had the experience of doing this alone, I have to say, it’s the only way to go. The sheer opportunity for people watching was well-worth the $21.

There were the women with coarse, long grey hair, pulled into long pony tails with rubber bands, decked out in flowing skirts of vibrant colours, Birkenstocks enclosing feet and toes that have never felt the brush of nail polish or exfoliating cream. There were the men dragged there by their golf-club wives, eager to have something to discuss with their friends over tomorrow’s afternoon tea. There were the university kids, burdened by the quintessential North Face school bags, Nalgene water bottles bouncing off the backs of them.

Then there was the guy I wound up sitting next to. The tech writer who just got back from a four-month hiatus to India where he spent 16 weeks shuttered up in a dark room learning the depth and beauty behind the art of yoga. The guy whose family has a house in Halifax, where he ‘reeeealllllly tries to get to every summer –it’s restorative powers are just so intoxicating.’ The guy who leaves and breathes yoga, but you know is probably a lecherous carnivore with a condo in the Plateau and his own art collection.

I couldn’t, and still can’t decide if the lecture itself was all that interesting. Margaret Somerville, medical ethicist, spoke about ‘The Ethical Imagination’ and how to reconcile a shared sense of ethics within a shifting global dynamic. I spent a good deal of the two hours watching the people around me watching the stage. Crossed legs, folded hands, cocked heads. Stifled yawns, stifled coughs, stifled boredom. Sitting on my other side, was a man and his wife. The wife sat attentive, the sleeves of her pink cashmere sweater shoved up to her elbows, exposing three, solid gold bangle bracelets, a shimmering wedding ring and Tissot watch. She cupped her pointy chin in her hand, leaning forward, misty-eyed.

‘We are now engaged in debates about what we may, must not and must do with the extraordinary powers that no other humans before us have ever possessed.’

The wife shook her head in mock amazement. The man snuck a quick glance at his own wristwatch, quickly covering the evidence by pulling his sweater sleeve far down over his wrist. And this one small act of indulgence all of a sudden made him so completely and entirely human I could have leaned over and kissed his balding head.

Best Bumper Sticker Ever

'If you aren't outraged, you aren't paying attention.'

Shed, Saturday, Single

“Woah! I am SO full.” Sheila pushes the bowl away from her with deliberate force. She leans an elbow on the back of her chair and starts fanning herself with her free, perfectly manicured hand. “That was sooo spicy, and soooo filling. I can’t believe I ate almost HALF of it!” The rest of us look up guiltily from our own, less than half-full plates, enjoying every mouthful and not even contemplating putting down our forks. “It’s going to be a hard workout at the gym for me tomorrow!” she cackles, smug.

I’m sitting in Shed Café, to celebrate a friend’s birthday. A trendy little bistro on St. Laurent, just north of Sherbrooke, I feel entirely underdressed in this place, under scrutiny from discerning, fashion-expert eyes, and am still slightly sore over the $15 it cost me to park my car as trying to find a place to station one’s vehicle in this effing city is next to impossible. Sheila isn’t helping.

Our plates have been cleared (Sheila graciously declined the waiter's offer to pack up the remainder of her meal to bring home) and apparently, it’s time to get down to business.

“So,” Sheila says, three octaves higher than is necessary. “Who is single here?” She points an accusing finger at me. “Are you?”

“Y y y yes,” I stammer, not sure how to account for what has all of a sudden become a major shortcoming in my character.

“Are you?” She barked at the girl sitting next to me.

The poll was conducted, and the results poured in. Six of the girls at the table were without boyfriends.

“Gawd!” Shelia snapped, slamming both hands down on the table, sloshing the water in the glass I’m holding all around. “You see? THIS is what I’m talking about. Here we are, six gorgeous women, single. Single! What IS that?”

By this time, I should note that heads are starting to swivel in our direction. I’m trying to slink indiscernibly down in my seat.

“I mean, I have gone on more set-ups that I can even COUNT and nothing. Nothing! What IS THIS?”

I’ve heard from my friend that Sheila has indeed been in a frantic search for a boyfriend. But, considering the fact that she’s been in medical school for the past five years, I chalked her singlehood up to her manic schedule. Now, I’m mentally revising that perception.

“Did you hear that Jen and Kevin got engaged?” the girl sitting to my left says, innocently, smiling, bright-eyed. “Isn’t that great?”

“Reeeeally?” Sheila asks, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “That’s soooooooooo nice. I can’t believe it. How long have they been engaged? When’s the wedding? What does her dress look like? What does her ring look like? I’m sooooo happy for them. I’m sooooo excited!! So, so, so excited!”

At this point, I’m wondering if there is some sort of a marriage God Sheila feels is keeping tabs on her ability to be happy for the nuptials of other people. Maybe she worries that not showing the proper amount of enthusiasm for someone else’s engagement will be a strike against her, casting her into some sort of spinster purgatory.

I have to say, that Sheila’s obvious insecurity surprises me. She’s a good-looking girl, wicked smart, she’s a doctor of all things and yet, the fact that she is on her own overrides all other aspects of her life.

“So Heeeeather,” she drawls, turning to me. “You live alone. Do you love it? I really like the building you’re in, and wanted to look at it. Do you have a pet?”

This is followed by a series of questions that I assume are part of a checklist she has on the ‘ultimate single girl living alone experience.’ Apparently the fact that I don’t have a cat is a mark against me, that I have a few plants and fluffy white throw blankets are pluses.

The whole thing just made me sad. Sad because I can somewhat relate to her anxiousness about being single, and sad because she’s not able to enjoy something as simple as a friend’s birthday without harping on her lack of a male counterpart.

As the conversation turned to a play-by-play of her last disastrous set-up date, I took the opportunity to tell my friend that I would likely be skipping out after dinner because I wasn’t feeling all that well.

“Oh, sweets,” she says, “don’t worry about it. Feel better. Hey! Why don’t you talk to Sheila! She’s a doctor, after all!”

I look over to where Sheila is now standing, talking to some guy. Her spine looks like it could snap in half at any given moment, she is thrusting her chest out to such a degree. I honestly think if she could have temporarily removed her breasts and physically handed them to the guy for his inspection, she would have.

I turn back to my friend. “It’s ok hon. I’ll be fine. You go and have a good time.”

I walked back to my car, politely declined the offer from the parking attendant to take me out to dinner (It’s 1 a.m., who the hell goes OUT for dinner at 1 a.m.?) and start my drive home. Alone. And I was perfectly fine with that.

Q & not so many A's

I’ve been wondering lately, about the degree of truth to be found in the old, and somewhat overused adage of trusting your gut. My own seems to be relatively unreliable. I can’t even count on it to tell me when I’m actually hungry, let alone to serve as my guide when making decisions that vary in degrees of importance.

When do we know we’re making the right decision, and for the right reasons? I seem to have a rather remarkable knack for justifying whatever it is I happen to be doing at the moment, and seeking validation from people, places and things I know will confirm my particular path at the time, while equally avoiding the people places and things that will cause me to doubt.

I don’t necessarily think I’m alone in this concern. I think we’ve all been spectators to the stunning mistakes friends have made, knowing full well what they’re in for. But, we recognize that this is their path, and they need to travel it to learn what lies ahead, and to gain the wisdom to choose a different direction the next time around. Why isn’t it so easy when it comes to our own decisions?

I’d like to think that as we get a little older, our needs mature a little, too. I’d like to believe this is why I took leave of someone willing to make it his life’s work to cater to my every need. A few years ago, hell, maybe even a few months ago, spending time with someone who wanted to eat, sleep and breathe all things Heather would have made me a very happy lady indeed. Now I’m quite sure it doesn’t. What I’m not entirely certain about is the validity of the things I do feel are important. Does it matter that someone spends hours watching television every day if he never forgets to call, ask how my day was, and always wants to be with me? Does a lack of ambition really factor significantly into the grand scheme of things if he knows exactly how many freckles I have on my nose and tells me, as I’m scarfing down cheese cake like I haven’t seen food in a month, that I eat like a rabbit?

Sometimes, I just don’t know.

Things that make me feel awkward #244

Checking out my own ass in the mirror beside the elevator in my building, coming to the depressing, yet decided conclusion that it has attained proportions of enormity that were previously beyond even my own belief, only to come to the sickening realization that my cute neighbour is in line for the elevator behind me, looking like he not only thinks I have a big bum too, but that I'm also vain beyond belief.

Dude. Not. Cool.

An ode

‘You’re such a good driver, you like eggs I like eggs, your hair smells nice, I’ll pick you up, I’ll drive you home, I’ll never leave you ever, don’t go, don’t go yet, come back, come over tomorrow, stay the night, just have a glass of orange juice first.

You like that movie I like it too, you’re funny, you’re smart, you’re sweet, my grandmother will love you, my dad can’t wait to meet you. Come to the cottage you’ll like it there, meet my friends they’ll make you laugh you’ll make them laugh. You’re a breath of fresh air you’re the best ever did I tell you you’re the best. Your eyes are blue I love them did I tell you I think I love you too I love you because your eyes are blue.

Want flowers, want candy, want that magazine I saw you glancing at I saw you looking I’ll buy it for you just say the word. Do you like flowers, all girls like flowers, just tell me what your favourite flower is and I’ll buy a bouquet of them for you. I’ll buy those flowers for you every week so that you can wake up and see your favourite flower beside you every morning.

You don’t eat meat? I don’t have to either, you eat fish how about salmon how about sushi how about asparagus do you like asparagus.

Call me later call me now call me anytime you want make sure you call to let me know you got in ok. I’m always here for you always you know that don’t you. I’ll be your friend I’ll be your best friend, I’ll be your best friend ever. I don’t need anything I just need you all I’ll ever need is you.’

Who wouldn’t want it.

Me.

Lego that ego, baby

Things you will find in a political science class at Concordia University:

Fake British accents
Coke bottles with the labels ripped off
Briefcases with nothing in them except for gel pens and peanut butter sandwiches
Hemp clothing
Docker pants held up by Banana Republic belts
People wearing glasses who don’t need glasses
A disregard for the entire ‘raise your hand, wait for the professor’s nod, now speak,’ process
A disproportionate amount of people with unverifiable ties to politicians, lawyers and reputable journalists
Yourself, feeling shocked at the amount of nostrils you’re suddenly able to see into, because it has been scientifically proven that poli sci students hold their noses in the air at a quantifiably higher rate than students in any other program.



Things overheard in a political science class at Concordia University:

'I’d be inclined to disagree with you'
'That is a statement of obvious ignorance'
'Dude, like, I’ve got a blog'
'When I was working for the GOVERNMENT'
'And so that is why I am completely awesome, and am therefore better than all the rest of you and when I leave this class will sail onto a positively brilliant career solely based on my own, innate fabulousness.'

NB. This last one is an exaggeration, but not by much.

Random

No wonder women are so paranoid.

Yesterday, while I was walking through the Hall Building to get to my class (did I say walking? I meant being aggressively shuffled between 6,000 people yapping on cell phones), I overheard several snippets of conversation men were having with friends. They were disturbing.

‘Yo man, like I’m hanging out with Laura later, but like, her sister is gonna be crazy mad if she finds out.’

‘Dude, it was so locked down, like totally.’

‘Bro, I was like, babysitting, you know? She’s total underage. It’s wicked.’

On another, unrelated note, I have to give a heartfelt thanks to gmail, for single-handedly boosting my self-esteem in a way I never dreamed possible.

I got this, lovely note this afternoon from a friend:

Thanks Heather...

I want you to take two mins., smile and tell yourself you're great.
You really are.

I know you're having rough day.

This too shall pass.

Nice, no?

Apparently the folks (or robots, spiders, whathaveyou) thought differently, for the sponsored links beside this e-mail read as follows:

Why he manipulates you

How to get a lover

Learn the secret psychology to getting a man hooked for good

Sigh.

World Press Photo

You should go.

Date this

This dating business. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. Somehow, feeling like I’m going to throw up while trying to coax a meal down my throat feels more like torture than fun. Trying to make small talk, while keeping a smile plastered to my face, one that doesn’t betray the fact that I can no longer feel my legs for the umpteen glasses of wine I’ve drunk in an effort to find something to do in between awkward silences, is not my idea of a brilliant way to spend a Saturday evening.

And what are first dates, anyway? Does he really care what the name of my best friend is? Where I went to high school? Do I really care where he went on vacation last summer? Do I really feel the need to press for details about his wisdom teeth removal? I hate the superficiality of dating. I hate trying to get to know someone who I am fully aware is not acting like himself, because he is likely just as nervous as I am. I hate that I make someone nervous.

I think first dates shouldn’t involve the two people in question actually spending time together at all. They should involve a two-way mirror phenomenon, so that you can observe the behaviour of your potential date in a setting where nerves, awkward cheque-paying scenarios, door-holding fumbles and frantic searches for something to wear, are entirely eliminated. And the futile wish for a sick bag taped to the underbelly of the dinner table wouldn’t even be on the radar.

This girl

And this girl...

...Has been known to remove several items of clothing while packing for vacation in order to accomodate the space needed to jam in a bathroom scale.
And this girl
...has on more than one occasion been guilty of truly believing a particular song was in fact, the soundtrack to her very own life.
And this girl
...has deliberatly hurt a man.
And this girl
...has deliberately hurt a friend.
And this girl
...only felt bad on one of those occasions.
And this girl
...has lied to make someone feel better.
And this girl
...lies often -to make herself feel better.
And this girl
...has a deep-seeded distrust for men who fall in love with her.
And this girl
...is secretly afraid of the ones who don't.
And this girl
...dreams of one day living in a cramped apartment somewhere on the outskirts of New York, with only cloth-bound books and a cat to keep her company.
And this girl
...knows she will likely end up embracing suburbia and Oprah's Book Club.
And this girl
...remembers the nicest compliment ever paid to her -and will never divulge what it was.
And this girl
...'s biggest fear is of being ordinary.
And this girl
...'s second biggest fear is that this makes her a snob.
And this girl
...feels strangely validated when she hears obscure, literary references and she knows what they mean.
And this girl
...isn't sure what this says about her, but is pretty certain it's nothing good.
And this girl
...thinks men who wear plaid shirts and corduroy jackets and square glasses, are interesting, purely out of definition.
And this girl
…drinks soy milk, does terrible yoga postures, and goes to the gym.
And this girl
…hates all three.
And this girl
…uses Sugartwin in her coffee, and eats brownies for breakfast.
And this girl
...is forever changing the way she defines her love for her life.
And this girl
...knows there should be some consistency there.
And this girl
...will probably, despite all her pushing and shoving, not change.

What it looked like

It was a good summer, wasn't it?

An open letter

Hey –do you remember apple pie and glasses of room temperature milk, spurts that would come out of our noses as I would stab my fork into the last bite of cinnamon –covered pastry sitting on your plate, just as you went for it, and we would both laugh so hard your mother would come into the kitchen, fully ready to administer the Heimlich maneuver she was certain would become necessary at any given moment? Remember mini-putt, and how I would jump in front of the little pink-speckled ball, making sure you’d miss your shot? Remember how I’d make sure to show our scorecards to the acne-covered 16-year-old-boy working behind the counter as we handed in your clubs? Remember Ally McBeal, how you said you hated it, but would hum the theme song under your breath as I would fall asleep? I never called you on that.

Remember me honking your car horn as we’d sit in traffic and then ducking in my seat, saving all the angry faces and upturned fingers for you to contend with? Remember eating Timbits until we felt sick, and then going for ice cream right after? Remember playing thumb wars during your best friend’s wedding ceremony? I won. Both times.

Remember me blowing off studying for my final to go for a late night walk with you, in the dead of winter, and we pushed each other into snow banks? Remember your neighbor coming outside in her terrycloth housecoat to tell us to be quiet?

Remember when you told me you loved me in Italian, even though you knew full well I had no idea what Ti Amo meant? Remember how that became my favorite phrase ever?

Remember how we dunked each other in the pool in Barbados, spraying water and shrieking with laugher, much to the dismay of the wrinkled, Botox-ed, bottled-blond women floating serenely by us on their air mattresses?

Remember going out for a ridiculously expensive dinner to celebrate my new job, knowing the waiter fully realized we couldn’t afford it? Remember driving out to watch our new place being built, walking around in the mud with flashlights, peering into the construction, giggling and saying, ‘that’s where the couch will go, that’s where we’ll sleep?’ Remember holding hands as we walked back to the car, not saying a word, because really, everything had been said already?

Remember when you got food poisoning and you threw up for three days straight? Remember me going back to Subway’s that very night, full of righteous indignation for the high-school student whose sloppy work ethics made you sick in a way I couldn’t bear to see? Remember me being in the hospital with a ruptured appendix and you sleeping in the tiny bed with me until the nurse came in and asked us to stop our ‘inappropriate’ behaviour?

Remember when I had a blinding headache and you spent a full hour massaging my skull? I had tears running down my face because your hand made it hurt so much more, but I thought it was so sweet, and I didn’t want to tell you.

Remember dancing in your basement to the Cowboy Junkies? Remember us falling asleep, entwined as though we didn’t want to acknowledge that we were in fact two separate entities, and then waking up at 5 a.m. and me tripping over the newspaper on your doorstep, eager to get away before your parents realized I had stayed over?

Remember how we smiled when the salesgirl at the Gap told us we were the best-looking couple she’d ever seen?

Remember the ‘missing person’ report I made of you and taped to our front door when you were working so much and I never saw you? Remember how our kitten would pee on our new bedspread every night without fail, but when we locked him out of the room, his meowing would make you cry and you would last about five minutes and run out to get him? Remember me getting up at 3 a.m. for four nights in a row to change the sheets while you sat and cuddled with him?

Remember me coming back from Vancouver, and you picking me up at the airport and asking me what was wrong? Remember me not knowing? Remember your face, ashen, yet angry, sheepish, yet stone, telling me to leave? Remember me not looking back? Remember?

Remember?

I do.

Millennium dread?

I swear this will be the absolute last time I write something disparaging about the CBC's choice of programming. But yesterday afternoon, our national broadcaster devoted an entire 20 minutes to a female, Vancouver-based writers's moans about the existential, millennium dread that swept across the city in the year 2000, in the face of sweeping technology's collide with raccoons that are claiming back nature.

Huh?

Time?

"You know, it's time that we grow old and do some shit."
-Broken Social Scene

Yeah, probably.

ABC's revisited

Seriously, what IS with news readers arbitrarily changing the pronunciation of middle eastern country names? Did you know that Afghanistan is no longer pronounced as Af-gan-i-stan, but should now be enunciated as Af-gahn-i-staaaahn? Or so says CBC. For real, what's up? We've gone from Airrak, to Eerak, to Iraak, from Eeran to Airan, and now they're messing with Afghanistan. Do news services simply feel pressured to consistently come up with new and inventive ways to present information and come to the conclusion that by throwing in a fake accent here and there, or putting emphasis on syllables that have no business calling out for attention, that listeners are more likely to tune in? Cause uh, p.s. it's just annoying. And it sounds stupid.

Where East meets Dead End

Sometimes I wonder what it might look like if a cartographer were to map out the love lives of Montrealers in a format something similar to Google Earth.

If we could identify ourselves, our little stick-people selves, running after someone who doesn’t love us, running from someone who does.

I can picture the man tasked with the job, a grey bearded gentleman with a potbelly and a tweed jacket with elbow patches, looking down on us, laughing with disdain. Because truly, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

And yet, how much more logical would it be if there were some overbearing, governing force, who could reach in with capable, steady hands, and turn a stick-person in another direction, face him forward, away from the pain and heartache he’s veering towards, dead on. Set him on a path paved with happiness, blissful, ignorant contentment, away from the desperation and heartache he convinced himself made sense at the time.

I’ll bet the map would inevitably take on a distinctly circular pattern. And we could look down on it and point sympathetic fingers as we watched Suzy chase after John, and accusing ones as we glared at John running after Jen.

And then tuck all ten digits safely into our pockets as we start off on our very own sprint towards the woman or man who will in turn duck and dodge us, only to set off on his or her own, destructive path.

A little to the left

“These are not my people. I should never have come here.”
-Martha Wainwright

Do you ever catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a surprisingly clean building window, or flip through a stack of photographs, happen upon one of yourself and think, ‘man, that’s me?’ And the question you’re asking yourself is not in reference to anything related to physical appearance, but rather to how far you’ve traveled from what you know yourself to be?

I remember an old boyfriend would sometimes look at me wistfully and drawl in breathy tones, ‘Oh Heather, what a woman you will one day be.’ In my naivety at the time I didn’t think to snap back and ask him what the hell happened to be particularly wrong with me at that very moment, but it’s beside the point. And to his credit, which I will now permit him, I don’t think he meant it that way. What I do think he implied was that he could see how my life would likely play out, and the heartache, struggling, pushing and reinventing I would go through in order to get there.

But I guess this is the question. When are we there? Am I there? Are you there? How do we know when we’ve arrived? Is there a cover fee? Is there a coat check? Will there be a big welcoming party where pink-power-shirt-wearing-and-Red-Bull-guzzling young executive men with solid stock portfolios, greasy-hair artists with untouchable creative ideals, social worker women with a line of troubled, doe-eyed children trailing behind them greet me with wide open grins, pat me on the back, and welcome me to the club? And will we all rejoice in our collective sense of belonging to the ‘we’ve made it’ sect?

Sometimes my lines feel a little blurry. A little undefined. Like they’re subject to the charcoal pencils and erasers that are the influences of other people. Maybe this is me buying into the stereotype of women being people pleasers and paying full price for the privilege. But there are moments where I feel invisible I’ve moved so far away from what I know myself to be. And it’s hard not to want to go crawling back to the past. To the times that felt comfortable, to the people who expected nothing more, nothing less than whom they had learned of me to be.

Because sometimes, all this pushing, all this trying to define, trying to grow, challenge, change, alter, shape, learn, acknowledge, it just makes me tired. And at times like these, I find myself half-heartedly looking for the entrance gates to that ‘we’ve made it club.’

Cooking 101

Hey, does anyone remember that show "You can't do that on television" -or some derivative combination of those words, and the pale of green goo that would get dumped on a contestant's head if he mistakenly uttered the word 'no'?

Well guess what? If you spend an hour and a half chopping onions and peeling carrots to go into your green lentil soup, and then with a toss of your hair and a wad of cherry lip balm spread across your lips, you saunter out the door to go and meet your friend for coffee, unwittingly LEAVING THE STOVE ON, only to return to an overwhelming smell of oregano that hits you in the face like a brick when you walk back in the door two hours later, voila! You will have a pot with contents that exactly resemble the slime that would ooze down the heads of the poor actors on that ridiculous show.

Now you know.

Keeping me in the dark

I’m wondering, what the statutes and limitations are on being a decent human being. If I’m essentially a decent person, am I allowed one major, earth-shattering screw up? What about two? What if they’re related, does that count?

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the details of my life that no one is privy to were suddenly and shockingly exposed. Details like my licking the peanut butter knife and melting honey and cornflakes in my microwave and calling it dinner. Details like telling a friend I didn’t feel like seeing that I had a meeting when really I spent the night soaking in my bathtub reading. Details like me just shutting off my phone sometimes when someone calls that I just don’t have the energy to talk to. Details like me calling back three hours later saying, ‘I’m so sooorry I missed your call, I was at the gym when you phoned.’ Details like me eliciting sympathy when I know I don’t deserve it, giving it when I don’t feel it.

So I guess it begs the question. Are those who look like fairly decent, honest and trustworthy people on the outside, simply better schooled at hiding their flaws? And do we really care to find out anyway? Sometimes I think I’d rather live in the dark when it comes to these types of things. And I sure as hell won’t be handing out flashlights to my inner life anytime soon.

Tapping in

Can anyone shed some light on what the big idea is with the CBC's Wire Tap program? I feel like there has got to be some sort of larger, creative ideal going on there that some programmer is aspiring to, but I seem to be missing the point. Because to me, it sounds like a bunch of ridiculous blather.

The Golden Rule of School

He has kind, pale blue, watery eyes and an affable smile. He’s gentle, soft-spoken, unassuming and thoughtful. He’s pensive, reflective, intellectually curious and mindful.

He’s the competition.

I had my last summer class last night. A few of us scrambled over to the photocopier in the Hall Building afterwards, trading notes from missed classes back and forth. John* and I got to talking about why we were taking this class, as it had come up before that we both already hold undergraduate degrees and as such, this course is not a necessity for graduation.

Our stories, as they unfolded, were conspicuously similar. We had both applied to the same Master’s program and were both initially denied entrance. We had both visited with the same graduate director, meetings from which we both, albeit unknowingly, walked away with the exact same advice. We’re both taking the same class in the fall; we’re both applying again in November.

‘They take ten people!’ I sputtered, nervous and anxious in the face of such stark competition. He could be number 10, taking up the last, coveted spot, I told myself. And yet, I found myself rambling on and on about how I had been told to ask this particular professor for a reference letter, how I had been advised to take this course as opposed to that one. As I passed on these words of wisdom that have disturbed my sleep and ruled my free time for the past few months, I realized that this, this is why I am not, and will never be, competitive.

When I was in high school, for some reason that remains unknown to me until this day, I made the basketball team. I was a horrible player. What?! You expect me to get in someone’s WAY? I have to BLOCK someone? What if I hurt their feelings? What if their parents are watching and I make them miss their shot? How are they going to feel then? I once got yanked off the court for being too ‘friendly’ with the other team.

“Heather, get your pink-ribboned head over here NOW,” Mr. Baxter shouted, seething, his vein-cluttered eyes popping. “Stop yapping with the other team. We’re trying to BEAT them, in case you haven’t realized!”

I was dumbfounded. I had just made friends with a girl who was going to be attending the same CEGEP as me next year. This was great! Who cared about the stupid game? What did it matter who actually won the thing?

I thought about this last night as I was talking to John*. Sure, his Liberal-Arts-College-Ottawa-lobbyist-totally-kick-ass-smart background might earn him a spot in this Master’s program. If it does, he’ll deserve it. And, if my advice helps a little, well then, so be it. I would want him to do the same thing for me.

And so, as he lightly touched my elbow, looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘good luck Heather, I really hope we both get in,’ I knew he meant it, and I knew I had probably made a friend. And that makes me feel a lot better than being a death-eating, competitive monster.

Eye of the tiger

Things that make me feel awkward #243

Being the only person in a large cardio room at the gym and then having an attractive man hop onto the stairmaster immediately next to me just in time for all 20 flat-screen televisions on the wall directly in front of us to flicker and default to a station featuring two large tigers having noisy, aggressive sex.

I mean, there's just no easy way out of that one, really.

The Voice

I was sitting out on my balcony one afternoon, nursing a sore throat with cappuccino swirl frozen yogourt when I first heard her voice. A throaty, deep and mystic voice, the words poured from her mouth into the cordless with seamless ease, blending and mixing into drawls and bubbling laughter.

Until she had an argument with Tom.

Screaming and yelling, the voice now brimming with fury and tears, she barked into the phone as though every ounce, every fibre of her being depended on it. The conversation jumped from vicious accusations of betrayal, financial difficulties, broken down cars and lying, cheating mechanics, step children and ailing, wheelchair-bound parents.

The woman screamed for Tom's lying, for the father that betrayed her. For the friend who turned her back, for the car that wouldn't turn over, for the mechanic who set his price too high. She yelled for the injustice done to her at work, for the empty fridge that mocked her, for the cupboards that would remain bare until the end of the month. She shrieked for her unreturned love, for leaky faucets and floor fans with a rattle. She cried for her life and her hatred of it.

Although the woman's screams were enough to rattle the cappuccino-covered spoon in my flowered mug, the desperation that was edging into her voice was enough for anyone who happened to overhear her to know who the winner of that fight was.

She knew it. She knew that as she launched into a spitting monologue laced with every profanity the English language would permit her that she was losing. That she had already lost.

'Don't fucking laugh at me.'

I went inside, rinsed off my spoon, and turned on the radio. And if I said I didn't shed a tear for that woman, you could call me a liar.

Shed a little light

Last night, I spent two and a half hours discussing whether or not there should in fact be windows in apartment bathrooms and it was time extremely well spent.

Six women and I, crowded around a table spread with countless architectural drawings, shortbread cookie crumbs, sweet & low wrappers and coffee cups, to discuss the details of the apartment complex that will soon serve as a second stage house for female victims of domestic violence and their children.

I truly believe that it takes a group of women to be sensitive to details such as a windowless bathroom, and the sentiments that darkness will inevitably invoke in the woman who wakes up each morning to shower within it.

It was my second board of directors meeting with this group, and I am proud to be working with them. I am proud to know each of these six women, and to take part in their fight for the details, their fight to make hard lives a little bit softer, a little bit brighter.

And so here’s the thing

I’ve always had a really hard time trying to come up with headlines for things. I seriously contemplated my deserving of a spot in Concordia’s Journalism school when it came to my feature writing class. I could bang out the actual story no problem. Ask me to name the thing? Forget it. I became a nail-biting wreck.

It logically follows then, that I had a ridiculously hard time trying to name this site. Everyone seems to have such clever, witty and though-provoking ideas, and I was drawing such a blank. Or, such a grey. A lot of things really are grey to me, and I find that as the older I get, the less sure I am of many things, situations and people –even the ones I thought I had all figured out.

Since I was a teenager, I kept a sort of mental tally, developed and refined first with friends over bowls of buttered popcorn and plastic cups of Diet Coke, later over glasses of wine in smoky bars. The list included things I truly believed I knew for sure, about myself, about others, and my inevitable collide with those ‘others.’ Top on the list: infidelity. Would never accept it. This was agreed upon with vigorous nods from friends, waving cigarette-clutching and slightly drunken hands, declaring, ‘oh my God NEVER.’ Second: violence from a partner. Non-negotiable. ‘I’d be out of there SO fast…I’d make his head spin…I’d knock him back one…I’d tell all his friends…I’D tell his mother.’ Right. Check. The list went on to include things such as never getting involved with a married man, never sacrificing career for a man, etc, etc.

Now, as I look back and remember those heady days of declaration, I feel somewhat humbled. Who was I, who were we, to pass judgement on what the future would hold for us, and ultimately what our responses would be to those instances? As I recall that list, I shamefully admit that I’ve had to cross some of those items off, because I didn’t initially live up to my own expectations. There was always a ‘but’ always a ‘it’s different this time,’ always an excuse, a justification, a rationalization to make it be ok –to paint the grey over with a gloss of pure white.

It is all grey to me. I feel grey to me. And yet, I think that maybe what this really means is that as I start to discard some of my fast-held convictions, I’m replacing them with acceptance, for myself, for the friend who went back and went back again, for the family member who crossed my weakened and faltering boundary, for the man who said he just wasn’t strong enough.

After all, to be human is to err, and then to do it again, harder, faster and stronger than the first time.

Blogging up the job market

http://www.newyorker.com/fact/content/articles/060807fa_fact1

And I went to Journalism school for three years because...?

Only you

I read an article a few weeks ago about loneliness, and it made me really sad.

Not necessarily because I felt I could identify with it on a daily basis, but because I have experienced in the past, and certainly will again, the sickening pang of fear upon the realization that sometimes it’s me and only me, and am up I to the challenge?

Dealing with those feelings, fleeting though they were, was challenging, and the intensity of the sensation of relief that washed over me when I talked sense into myself and picked up the phone to reach out to a friend or family member was tremendous. But it made me think: what if that feeling never went away? What if that sinking, pervasive and all-encompassing sense of aloneness was perpetual, a constant companion, something you had to carry around with you like a heavy handbag, or ten extra pounds you want to lose and can’t?

I got to thinking about this on Saturday night while I was out celebrating a friend’s birthday. (Leave it to me to start worrying about being lonely as I’m throwing back glasses of red wine as if they were water, in the accompaniment of five good friends). However, there was a man at the bar we were at, mid-forties, with a Philip Seymour Hoffman air about him. Top-heavy, balding, poorly dressed, and very much alone.

The man bopped about the bar, dancing as if he were the only one in the room, which from his perspective, may very well have been true. He started off hopeful. Imitating some of his younger, more attractive male counterparts, he tried grabbing the hands of a few women, hoping they would go along, would just start dancing with him. Time and time again the technique proved disastrous, until one older, bolder woman placed both hands on his Point Zero-covered chest and gave him a good, hard shove. Deterred but not entirely discouraged, he started dancing alone. He would alternate swaying movements with fast-spinning, both-arms-out movements, banging into couples, bachelor party members, single women and men alike, oblivious. Or was he?

Watching this, I remembered reading somewhere that for a person to maintain a healthy emotional equilibrium, he must come into physical contact with at least three people a day. Animals could be substituted.

Imagine not having anyone in your life to touch, no one to hug you, hold your hand, pat you on the back, and so you leave your 1 ½ and you set out for Peel Street and you pay your $7 cover charge, buy yourself a drink because there is no one else who will do that for you and you close your eyes and spin to an overly jazzed-up rendition of ‘Spank’ and hope to reach out, touch, feel, connect?

Keeping the space

I hate MySpace. I hate everything about the concept of MySpace. A hot, festering cesspool of teenage boredom, antipathy and ignorance, to me, MySpace embodies everything I have grown to despise about pop culture.

After reading this article, I loathe it even more. http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.07/murdoch_pr.html

Did you know that anyone and everyone who signs up for an account is automatically befriended by someone named Tom? Fake friends, folks. Who was the marketing mogul behind this genial decision? What was the thought process behind the creation of a generic 'Tom'? Is MySpace looking to singlehandedly save the self-esteem of shy teenage girls and creatine-consuming boys, ensuring that each and every user has at least one friend in their file?

Gross.

What I want

And I want to drink eight glasses of water a day.

I want to grow my own organic vegetables and have all the right political opinions. The kind that make people look at me with squinty eyes. I want to shun reality television and watch only foreign films. I want to be able to walk by the Gap and wrinkle my nose and think ‘no thanks’ while I make my way over to shops with names like “Milk.”

I want authenticity, honesty, just the right combination of naivety, cynicism, optimism, and hope. I want to read the New Yorker, Colours and Harpers without feeling proud of myself.

I want to stay up late drinking red wine with a man who wears square glasses and chain smokes and doesn’t own a hairbrush and doesn’t have a real job and will talk to me about the book he’s been writing for twelve years without checking my watch and counting the hours of sleep I’ll get before I have to be at work.

I want to stop making excuses.

I want to stop wanting.

I want to write terrible poetry and think it’s great. I want to be funny. I want to be thought-provoking. I want to own a pair of dancing shoes and use them. I want someone to fall madly, sadly and desperately in love with me. I want to keep someone awake at night. I want to break someone’s heart. Except I don’t.

I want to not to care what others think. I want to be a raging bitch. I want to stop saying I’m sorry. I want to stop feeling sorry. I want to tell her I hate her, I want to tell him I think he positively sucks. And then hug them both so hard I can feel their heartbeats. I want to be ten again with scraped knees and red, messy wild hair. And a flat stomach and not know what it means to have a flat stomach.

I want to stop changing my mind.

I want validation and not want to want it. I want to move away and I want to stay right where I am. I want the answers. I want to feel ok with not having any of the answers. I want not to be afraid of being on my own, I want to not be afraid of being me. I want to stop feeling ridiculous.

I want to want to eat tofu.

I want to tell my high school boyfriend I miss him. I want to be sixteen again and drunk on screw-top wine and convinced I’m going to be great.

I want to cry. I want to stop crying. I want to finish the book I’ve been reading for three weeks. I want it to stop being hard. I want to live in a basement apartment and listen to Sarah Harmer’s ‘Basement Apartment’ and not feel the irony. I want someone to bring me home strawberries and not the Californian kind.

I want my head to stop hurting, I want all of this wanting to stop eating up my energy at a furious rate. I want to refuel on M&M’s.

I want to throw out my vacuum and not care about antibacterial soap, anti-aging cream, birth control and antioxidants. I want not to know that one day I will be forty, with two kids and a dog I am indifferent to and will laugh at my twenty-five-year-old ramblings and indulgences. I want to dust by pursing my lips and blowing and not care.

I want to stop instinctively smiling at babies and wanting to cuddle them. I want to wear clothes that make me look fat and not care about split ends. I want to be a bad friend, and know my friends will love me anyways.

I want to fall into a deep, lovely sleep and wake up laughing.

Truly, truly I do

It's all grey to me

The amount of press releases that find their way into my inbox during the week is just incredible. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t suffer pangs and twinges of guilt as I swiftly remove the bulk of them from the little wooden box only to swivel around and dump them directly into my recycling container. I mean, some of these companies go to what appears to be a significant amount of trouble to communicate their products in fairly inventive ways, and unfortunately, the amount of space available in our magazine isn’t able to accommodate them all. I’ve seen CDs, slide shows, hard copy photos, full colour brochures, invitations, the list is endless. But, one of the many I received this morning caught my attention, and as such, I’m using it in our September issue. The woman who penned the thing signed it, “Very truly yours.”

Now, I don’t even know this woman. I wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a crowd of two people. But hey -she’s very truly mine, and I think a distinction needs to be made here between the connotation of truly, or sincerely, or kind regards, and VERY TRULY. It almost makes me feel like she’s made me a candidate for her first born child, or something.

Very truly yours,

Heather

Living the Goodlife

So, after much deliberation and a fair bit of money spent on hand weights, stability balls, yoga mats and running shoes, I've decided to stop kidding myself and join a new gym. In my defense, I have been pretty good about working out at home, but the endless stream of Adidas-clad people I can see filing in and out of Goodlife Gym with what I consider disturbing regularity from my balcony (usually while I am wearing something flannel and spooning ice cream into my mouth) is starting to get to me.

Sigh.

Gym: You win. I'm coming back. But I'm not happy about it.

It's for you!

As I was standing in line for the Britcom show last night at Just for Laughs, I was privy to a conversation being had by a rather large group of 40-something women. In between bits of boisterous laughter, complaints about teenager daughters, the colours of this season's golf pants and the pros and cons of home-cooked meals verses takeout, one of the members of the group warned her comrades that it was time to shut off their cell phones, so as not to disrupt others during the show.

On cue, charms, theme songs, beeps and flashing lights went off, as these women disconnected from their husbands, babysitters, and daughters named Courtney. However, delving into the World Without Cellphone proved problematic for one of the women.

"I don't know HOW to shut off my cell!" she cackled, staring at her pink, sparkly Razor confusedly.

Um, is no one else concerned about the possibility that Montreal is a city that houses people who are incapable of performing the strikingly simple act of closing a cellular telephone? Has no other occasion in this woman's life proven to be important enough as to provide the impetus for learning how to perform this task? Is no one else frightened by this?

Let's just say that my friend and I made certain to find seats far, far away from "Mrs. I-don't-know-how-to-shut-off-my-phone." I'm just speculating here, but I don't think it would be that much of a stretch to assume that someone who has never, ever shut off their phone, has a spectacularly irritating ring on their cell. A digital version of 'Stop in the name of love,'or 'Hey Jude' comes to mind...

Baby on the brain

In all, a good weekend. A weekend spent with good friends, old friends, in the company of lots of alcohol, (perhaps too much alcohol if the size of my headache this morning serves as any indication), sunshine, swimming pools, laughter, and good food.

I’ve noticed lately, that many get-togethers with my friends have, increasingly, included the company of children. Small ones. Shouts of ‘don’t touch that!’ or ‘isn’t she absolutely adorable,’ and discussions centering on diaper rashes, the pros and cons of breast-feeding and nap times have infiltrated our late night talks about men, the predominance, or total lack of them, in our lives.

Yes, some of my friends have made the cross-over into the realm of parenthood. While I sit safely on this side of that overwhelming jump to the ultimate in responsibility, it is impossible not to wonder what it must be like to have another, tiny human being completely dependent upon you. As I watched one of the tiny toddlers in question run across the lawn to his mother’s wide open and waiting arms this weekend, the look on my friend’s face was one of pure, raw love for this little person. The details of her personal life, and the dynamics of her relationship with the father of this child are difficult at the least, tragic at the worst, and yet, the pleasure she derives from mothering this little guy warms my heart every time I see them together.


But as the weekend drew to a close, and I came back to my apartment, consumed with concerns about my laundry, the salmon I have marinating in my fridge, and the looming deadline for the story I have to write, I realized that I’m just not ready to sacrifice my independence for another person yet. I feel I still have such a tremendous amount of growing up to do, and the thought of knowing that a daughter or son would be dependent on my every move, every decision, terrifies me. And so for now, I will live vicariously through my friends, increasing in number, with children of their own. I can give bottles, take for walks, sing to sleep, wipe tears and clean sticky fingers, and know, that at the end of the day, these children will be safe from my foils and fumbles, my mistakes, small, large, and glaring. That they have mothers ready for their responsibility and care, and that it will be a pleasure and a gift for me, to watch them grow into the people their parents help shape them to be.

Minus one

And then five became four...

These are the girls who have carried me through thick and thin, who have been my nearest and dearest since before I could barely walk. Here are the four of us, celebrating the first wedding in our group.

The Wedding Guide

My feet look akin to little bloated Polish sausages, my hair is missing a few key bobby pins, I'm wearing half my meal and my mascara has mysteriously travelled from my eyelashes to my cheeks, but the wedding is over, and it was beautiful.

Here is a note to all single women looking to survive a wedding of one of your best friends. I've here compiled a brief list of the essentials. Be sure to include as many as possible, if not all these items.

1) It's cliché and I apologize for it, but at least a few kleenex. I'm not a big crier, truly I'm not, but let me tell you -when you see your friend coming down that aisle on the arm of the man who used to drive you home from sleepovers cut short because you were homesick, it would take a cold, cold heart not to shed a few tears.

2) A practiced, I-could-kill-you-with-my-eyes stare for all of the well-meaning, slightly overweight, entirely over-permed women who will inquire with saccarine sweetness when you're getting married. Or even worse, if you have children yet.

3) Band-aids. Ladies, one of the only things that's going to make the night worthwhile for you is busting some serious moves on that dance floor and your feet will need some extra care after the inevitable in-between-courses rendition of Brown Eyed Girl.

4) Tylenol. You're going to drink. A lot. And after about 11 p.m. you're going to trade in that red wine glass for some serious hard alcohol. Your head with thank you for it.

5) Single guy friends who love to dance.

6) Single guy friends who hate to dance and will be willing to sit with you as you shovel yet another chocolate-covered strawberry down your throat, telling him in between bites all the fabulous plans you have for your life now that you don't have to share it with anyone. It also helps if said single guy friend will actually believe you, or fiend belief as you relay this information.

7) Lovely, fuzzy pyjamas to come home to. Maybe top off with a nightcap, to congratulate yourself on a job really, really well done.

I’ll take the trees

I get razzed sometimes for living on the West Island, but as I went for a walk in my new neighborhood last night, I realized why I like living where I do so much.

There is a maple tree on one of the streets near me that is so massive, its owners have attached all these wild-looking cables to keep its branches from flopping over. It takes up practically the entire lawn, and I can just picture the kids who live there hiding underneath that incredible tree when it rains, the thousands of green leaves shielding their baseball-capped heads from getting wet.

The lawn is a little overgrown, a few dandelions dot the front yard, and yet instead of invoking judgments of laziness, these bright yellow weeds and long grass seem to say to passersby, ‘sorry, I was too busy enjoying a beautiful afternoon in the pool, with my friends and family to bother about lawn care.’ And I like this.

I also like the fact that I am about 142 steps from a little corner store that sells fat-free (come on, 97% is as good as) Haggen Daaz vanilla frozen yogurt. Yes, it’s $6 a pop, but when it’s that good, who’s counting?

What it should look like

Yesterday, Eileen and I went to the waterslides, something I haven’t done in at least eight years. So, we packed up a cooler, slathered on the sunscreen and headed out to Super Aqua Club.

At one point, as we were waiting to get on one of the slides, I noticed a little girl standing in an adjacent line, and I turned and said to Eileen, ‘don’t you ever wish you were seven again?’ to which she replied, ‘what, so I could wear a bikini with my tummy hanging out, and not have a care in the world?’

I think it sounds pretty good.

And then it changes

I was recently voted in to join a board of directors for a women's shelter. I had my first meeting at the home yesterday. As I walked through the communal kitchen, as I navigated my way through bruised faces and sunken eyes, crying babies and open jars of mashed pears, it made me feel more than a bit silly for yesterday's post.

Being married is not the goal. Helping other women, young old, wealthy and strikingly poor, work their way out of painful and destructive relationships is a much better one, and a much better place to direct one's energy.

A wedding story

One of my closest friends is getting married next Saturday afternoon. My bridesmaid dress, shoes and jewelry are all ready to go, and if the sunshine cooperates this weekend, as it’s scheduled to do, I should have something resembling a suntan to go with the ensemble. So, on the outside, I will look the part. But on the inside, I know I will be standing at the alter, watching this girl, this woman I’ve known since I was 8, embark on a whole new life, a life away from me.

No, she’s not moving. She will be living in the same house she and her fiancé bought nearly two years ago now. And, being the friend she is, I know there will always be a well-worn spot on her couch for me (although I now have to share this space with a little Boston Terrier, but I think we’re getting used to each other). We will still have movie nights, we will still sit out on her deck until all hours of the night drinking cheap rosé wine and munching on low-fat wheat thins smothered in garlicky humus. The only thing that will be different is the pervasive and sinking realization that she has reached the next stage in her life, while I continue to feel like I’m still trying to grasp the basics.

Oh, I know. Being married should not stand as a hallmark of achievement for a woman. I realize and on some primary, instinctual level, even believe this to a certain degree. I’m content with the things I’ve done in my life. I’ve been fortunate enough to do some interesting travel, I have a university degree, a good job that I love. I have fantastic friends, a supportive family. I know that many of the things I’ve done, I likely would not have were I already married. And yet, it’s the uncertainty. The not knowing whether or not I will end up with a husband, house and kids, or a condo, cat and houseplants. And it’s scary. I would be telling a tall tale if I said this didn’t frighten me, and on particularly bad nights, keep me awake.

We single women tout the same lines, sing the same song, recycle the same assurances to one another as though these bits of hand-me-down wisdom were anchors in a severe rain storm. “You’ll meet someone when you least expect it, you’re better off by yourself anyway, you need to be alone, you’re too good for him, he wasn’t right for you…neither was he.” Yet, as we marry off our friends, one by one, our faith in these beliefs, if they can be called that, wanes. We watch our friends build happy and fulfilling lives with their partners and magically, their creativity isn’t suddenly and shockingly stifled, they don’t lose sight of themselves or their goals, they don’t even really change all that much, except they don’t always feel a need to be out in some bar on a Saturday night. And to watch this, time and time again, chips away at the single woman’s confidence that she’s better off alone. Maybe she’s not.

Perhaps it’s the experience of having a very-long term relationship crumble around my knees. Maybe it’s hearing, ‘Heather, you’re such a swell gal, oh, oh, excuse me but… there’s something on the bottom of my shoe, could you pass me a Kleenex or something…man, it’s on there like GLUE….it seems to be…oh, it’s…it’s stuck…what IS that? Oh, oh wait a minute now….oh, Heather that’s your HEART, oh, I’m sorry…please forgive me.’ one too many times. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m going to my friend’s wedding alone. What I do know, however, is that it can be difficult for a woman in her twenties to feel good about being single, especially when there are so many positive examples of wonderful relationships right under your nose.

And so, next Saturday, at 3 p.m. I will walk down the aisle, in my yellow satin dress and stand beside my friend as she enters married life. And I will be happy, really and truly happy for her. But when the wine starts flowing and my feet start to swell from my high-heeled shoes, when I’ve eaten so much wedding cake that my dress feels tighter than it should and the couples with kids are long gone, I might take a minute and feel a little sad for myself when I realize that when I go home, it won’t be to pack for my honeymoon. It will be to go home alone.

I’m getting a cat.

Metropolis mayhem

I went to the Martha Wainwright concert at the Jazz Fest last weekend. There are not many artists I’m willing to herd myself into a crowd of sweaty, slightly drunken fans for, but Martha is one of them.

So, I’m standing in my little carved-out space at the Metropolis, and the opening act, this whistling-violin-guitar playing guy Andrew Bird comes on. Now, this guy can really belt out a tune with his whistling antics. It was impressive. What was NOT as impressive, was the man standing beside (practically on top?) of me. The-backpack-toting-I’ve-already-had -about -15+ beers-and-it’s-only-7:30-and-yes-you-had-better-well-hope-I-don’t-have-a-mean-case-of-dandruff-because-there-is-going-to-be-a-lot-of-mad-head-shaking-going-on-in-this-corner man to my immediate left was problematic from the get-go.

First off, he made what I will, in all fairness label a strong attempt at mimicking the whistling from Andrew Bird. However, as is the case with anyone who doesn’t know a song off by heart, it’s impossible to sing directly in synch with the lyrics, because you don’t KNOW THEM YET. So buddy next to me is whistling notes totally off cue, and it’s maddening. When Martha does finally come on stage, it becomes immediately apparent that the real show is going on right beside me.

Buddy is screaming his head off. He’s throwing his hands around, the backpack smashing into his neighbours, the dandruff flying wildly. No one is looking at the stage, everyone is looking at my bosom buddy. And yet, his friends, the five or so people with him, are apparently oblivious, and every half hour or so tap him gently on the shoulder and say, ‘Wannanother beer, Steve?’ (I truly deserve serious accolades for the heroic restraint I demonstrated in not ripping that plastic cup from his hand when the tally crept upwards of 20).

But, it made me realize something. No matter how crazy someone is, no matter how much he drinks, yells, or how little he washes his hair, that someone will still have friends who love him. That even though each of those friends was delivered a blow to the stomach from the backpack, and one even got a fist to the head when Steve-O felt the need to show hearty appreciation for a song, they never let him know just how irritating he was. They shrugged their shoulders when met with angry, frustrated glances from other concert-goers, and tapped Steve affectionately on the shoulder when he took a sip of his beer. But most of all, they made sure he had a good time, Steve-style.

Now. If that’s not friendship, I ask you, what is?

One in every bunch

So, I'm taking a summer class. To say I embarked on this venture with the sole, noble intention of gaining further insight into Quebec's political system would be a lie. I have vain hopes of getting myself into a grad program and I need the credits.

But why, oh why, does there have to be one of THOSE GUYS in the class? You know the kind I'm refering to -the guy who sits in the front row, waving his arm around wildly in the air, the guy who won't let the professor finish a complete sentence without offering up his own, twisted interpretation? The guy so hopped up on coffee that the hand in the air twitches with nervous anticipation, and as the minutes tick by and his hand grows numb with all the frantic flapping, he starts to bounce up and down rapidly in his seat, driving all other students to complete and utter distraction?

A message to that guy: Students don't pay to listen to you. Please, put your hand down, and for the love of all things sacred, stay the hell away from anything caffeinated.

Why the airline industry has sunk to a new low

Asian airlines are lobbying for standing room only tickets on some of their flights.

Despite that this clearly flies in the face of the safety regulations we’ve all learned to abhor (How many times do I have to watch an overly made-up flight attendant show me how to fasten the seatbelt I’ve already been wearing for a half hour, I mean really), it implies an almost vile, capitalist mentality. Apparently, SRO passengers will be strapped to a padded wall for the duration of the voyage, like cattle. The $5 pillows and lack of edible food on flights was enough. But this? Where, oh where do we draw the line? Will the next cost-cutting measure see passengers forced to pedal the plane, invoking reminiscences of old Flinstones cartoons?

And don’t even get me started on the ‘density reformation program’ North American airlines are embarking upon.

Weighing In

Reason #647 I love being a girl:

Last night, after a late night movie with a friend, I walked into my apartment, tossed down my keys, and grabbed the one remaining chocolate cupcake I had wrapped up in tinfoil on my counter.

Then, as any slightly weight-conscious woman would do, I proceeded to my bathroom scale. As I munched away, waiting for the verdict to flash its digital confirmation, a large wad of Duncan Hines creamy vanilla icing fell and landed squarely on my big toe.

What I weigh will remain between me, my scale and the cupcake. But let's suffice to say I need to stay away from anything chocolate for a while.

Rob & I

Graduation

My youngest brother graduated from high school last night. Family members are invited to the hotel for cocktails and mingling, which was when this photo was taken.

Being in a relatively crowded room with 100+ teenagers is not usually something I would embrace with open arms, but last night was different. There seems to have been a shift in mentality, in the perception of self on behalf of young people. I remember my high school graduation, eight years ago (insert shudder here), and how all my friends and I nervously tugged at our dresses, twirled our hair on fingers, slouched our shoulders, and plastered band-aids to feet entirely unaccustomed to high-heeled shoes. But the kids graduating last night carried themselves with a such a supreme level of confidence, something I don't think I've even achieved in my mid-twenties.

We hear so much about the challenges with 'kids today,' teenagers that have grown up with the internet and all its negative implications, kids with absentee parents and attitudes that make their teacher's heads spin. But to have seen these kids, these young women and men, as they leave their high school years behind them, full of hope and belief in themselves, I thought to myself, 'for today, for tonight, there are no problems with kids today. These kids are alright.'