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?