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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Saturday, September 09, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, September 08, 2006
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.
...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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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?
Huh?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
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.’
-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.’
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
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.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 11, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Blogging up the job market
http://www.newyorker.com/fact/content/articles/060807fa_fact1
And I went to Journalism school for three years because...?
And I went to Journalism school for three years because...?
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