Endless Summer

My childhood was a seemingly endless summer. When I look back, all I can remember is suntans and screen door slams. We'd rush out of the front porch of my Nanny's house and the door would swing and slam behind us (much to my Grandfather's annoyance and occasional holler). I rarely remember a time in the winter; these memories also always seem to be paired with melancholy. But the endless summer memories, those are the greatest.

Perhaps that is another reason why my choice of career was so befitting to me. Five to eight weeks off every year to reset, recharge and centre myself. Some summers flash by in a blur or the specifics of how I squandered six solo weeks off in a foreign country, seem hazy. Meanwhile, other summers are pivotal and each day seemed to hold significance.

This summer was one of the latter. The 'Summer of Katie' (as borrowed from Seinfeld) had me rediscover myself after a painful year at my last job left me empty, tired and used up. So, it's with this that I begin my daily blog back up, hoping to get reacquainted with you (the reader) and myself.

But most of all, looking for laughter in the daily grind when I used to see it everywhere. To bring the endless summer spirit into the wintery months and try to hold on to the parts that are important.

Short Woman Syndrome

I think many of the problems I face in my day-to-day life, stem from the fact I think I am much taller and more jacked than I really am. In fact, I am 5 feet tall. That's it. For a while I tried to pass off that I was 5'2 but no one bought it.

My mouth and my demeanour is that of a much more frightening person. More and more, I am realising this fact as it continually gets pointed out to me by my 8 foot tall partner.

So this happened to me the other day:

I was walking across a zebra crossing and for those of you not from England, this means cars legally HAVE to stop. In Canada, those things don't mean shit. In Canada, it basically means, this is a place where pedestrians can cross safely, if there are no cars around and you look both ways and you announce you are going to cross. Well then yes, it's safe.

Well here it's a little different. If I step into that black and white striped aisle, I am free and clear to cross as fast or slow as I want. Cars. Must. Stop.

So I was crossing up to the halfway point when a motorcycle decided he didn't want to come to a complete stop. If he stopped, that would mean he'd have to look even more like a loser, trying to hop up and balance his feet on either side of a aerodynamic, racing scooter that looked like it was from Fast and Furious 24. Great vehicle choice for Central London. Anyway, he wanted to minimally reduce speed while I sprinted across so he wouldn't have to actually wait.

I, being a 10 foot tall person on the inside, slowed down and glared through his tinted visor, directly into his soul. This triggered a showdown which led to hime speeding through the zebra crossing so close behind me that I could feel the wind pass on the back of my neck.

He thought he got away.

That was...until he got the red light 20 metres down the road.

I quickly finished crossing and sprinted - we're talking a full blown, purse over the shoulder, holding my skirt down, eyes closed, hands splayed like Usain Bolt sprint. I caught up to him, who was none the wiser that he was about to get served and shouted at him from the curb, "Hey you! You're a f*cking *sshole!" in the most guttural, threatening voice I could muster and stormed off.

Although I realise this probably wasn't the safest of decisions, it was the most satisfying of ones and I'm pretty sure he shit his leather pants, judging by how high he leapt off his suzuki banana seat.

I'm back baby.

Fizzy water

I normally like to eat and drink things that are bad for me. I'll eat Nutella out of the jar. It's gross and indulgent and I love it.

That's why my latest penchant for Sparkling Water (with caps to show its glory) I fear is not good. In the summer, my mum turned me on to it. She would give me a slice of lemon in a chilled glass with fizzy water. I became obsessed.

Now I drink nearly 2.5 litres of fizzy water a day. I can't get enough and I have no idea if this stuff is bad for me. It hit me nearly a month ago that perhaps this addiction must be bad for me as I love it so much. I began fiercely and frantically googling to see if sparkling water does actually cause dental problems, bloating, weight gain etc as most of the things I like to consume do.

As far as I can tell, it doesn't. The only negative findings I have come across are from witch doctors' blogs that say it brings about the devil and such. SO I think I'm in the clear. I will continue to guzzle as I please.

Feeling Sorry for Myself

Feeling sorry for yourself is a hard and pathetic way to live. It's really easy to get absorbed by it and let it overcome you. I have sunk so low that I feel that the fibres of my bed have melded into my body and we now share the same genetic makeup.

I have spent 5 minutes trying to come up with a name hybrid for me becoming one with my bed. A classic example of too much time on my hands.

I have decided to create my own purpose. I need to set goals to allow me to lead a meaningful life.
Here is what I've come up with so far:

1. Write every day and publish on this blog
2. Read for at least 30 minutes a day
3. Choose one person daily, that I will send something positive to
4. Eat my five a day
5. Exercise for 30 mins daily

I think this is a good start to get more balanced. Wallowing in self-pity and sadness was fun, but now it's time to get on with it.

Exchanging of the Clothes

I'm surprised something so small (yet painful) people have so many opinions on. Apparently there is a right way and a wrong way to do it.

I almost always choose the wrong way. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions on my face. I leave no cards clutched to my chest. If I have a feeling about you, you will know it.

I need some of my items back. I wanted to wear a particular dress last night but had foolishly left it behind. Today is supposed to be D Day. Every person I have spoken to has a view on the best way to retrieve my items and give last bits back to The Viking.

I should:
 - bag everything up and ask him to leave my stuff on the doorstep
 - get a friend to do the exchange
 - use this opportunity to hug and say a proper good bye
 - leave my stuff for dead and cancel the meet up
 - wait until I'm over it to ask for it back
 - do it quickly without many words or physical interaction


I don't know how to physically do any of these things. Instead, I foresee it more as going like...

I invite him in, don't let him leave. Cry. Beg for him to reconsider and end up throwing his stuff out the window.

Sounds like me. No word left unsaid or tear left unshed. I expect it to be painful and unsatisfying. Yet, we must be true to ourselves and be at peace with what we would have wanted to do.

The Key Incident

So The Viking and I got back together after the last post and had a wonderful Christmas together.


Then we broke up again a few days later...for good. Crushing.

I thought I had been coping alright (the usual black hole of sadness) until The Key Incident happened.

I met a friend to cheer me up after the break up and an illness. I knew that I would be returning to an empty, soul-sucking flat and already the anxiety was hitting next level when I reached my front door.

I put the key to the lock.
The key wouldn't go in.

I tried again, being more delicate.
The key wouldn't even wiggle in slightly.

I rammed the key in the lock.
I hurt my hand with the force.
The key refused to turn.
I wiggled the key.
I tried to ever so slightly pull the key out.
I twisted until I thought it would snap.
I cheered on the key to help it feel empowered to open the lock.

I cried.
And cried.
And cried.

I slid to the floor with my fists balled up against the door. I wailed at the key and begged and berated it to turn. Stupid, selfish fucking key! You always do this to me. You always leave me out here alone. Why won't you just be better you fucking key!

I sobbed into my coat until I had dry gasps.

Finally after much commotion and emotional turmoil, I slid the key out of the lock, straight back in, and turned it.

It opened.

I fell into my flat and laid face down in the hallway until I could muster up the strength to close the door and feel complete self-pity that I can't even open a door right.

But all-in-all I think I am coping quite well, thanks.

808s & Heartbreak

What do you do when someone you love ends up going?

I don't think I have ever really been in love or loved someone like I have felt recently, but again life changes and becomes a cruel mistress.


I once again find myself going through a tumultuous time of separation and recovery. So what to do?

Kanye wrote an album about it, but unfortunately I don't have all his talents.

Usual things to keep me alive when even breathing hurts:

- ordering mass amounts of food to be delivered from around the corner to your door (even though you have no appetite)
- pilfering Netflix from the ex until the password is changed

- actively not showering. Like, finding ways of doing things differently so I don't have to get wet. i.e. getting food delivered instead of walking 7 minutes to the shop. Note - I enjoy this way more than a normal human should. I don't smell, don't get me wrong, but I like the physical sign of unhappiness. The way my hair stays like those old Cabbage Patch dolls with bendy hair you could mould into any shape.

- reading the back of cereal boxes/food items as that is the only attention span I have for literacy right now
- crying over the dishes he left in the sink or his dirty laundry in the bottom of the hamper- scream-singing every Tegan and Sara song and even some old Celine's
- pacing (this is far more comforting than I thought it would be. In fact, I'm starting to see the joy of walking up and down the hallway, counting footsteps. And beginning to realise how closely a break up resembles behaviour showcased in the film, A Beautiful Mind.)  


I even tried going out with some friends this weekend but my vibe was so low that I ended up bringing the energy of the entire group to new depths. By the end, I had successful, happy friends questioning their own life choices. What is this all about? Does love exist? Am I really proud of my life? If a tree falls in the woods, does anyone hear it? I eventually just had to just leave before we all ended up drinking some Kool Aid in a circle.  



I have also exhausted my pool of friends to tap into and cry to. There are only so many times that you can say, "but why if we were in love?" before they cut off all communication. Another side note - it's only been two days.... two. So instead of talking about the only thing I want to talk about, I have to talk about really small things so that they continue to engage with me in a pleasant way. I talked about wind drafts in my house for 15 minutes today to just keep hearing human voice and not my own breathing whilst laying facedown on my couch. 

It's also interesting how one's feelings can change so drastically over the course of a day when going through a break up.  

Wake up (now about 5am) - Do I have to open my eyes today? Can my body liquify and just absorb into my mattress?
Morning - I can do this! I can do anything! I am a strong, confident woman who has a great life! I will live life to the fullest and not let this break my stride.
Lunch - I will literally die without him
Afternoon - Maybe if I am super cute and do all the right things, I can trick him into loving me again.
Dinner - I'm totally fine with this, in fact, I agree with it. I will write him to thank him for being the bigger person and doing it for what's best for both of us.
Evening - Bed. Bed without him. Him. Him.  Him. Him. Him. Him. Him. Him. Him. Him. Weep.
Sleep - Sporadic and riddled with dreams of us.  

All in all, it's the things that distract us or tricking us into believing it will be ok that keep us going.  To this day, I still think it was the wrong choice and we should be together. But it is evening now...

Small Bag Vacation

When trolling through the internet looking for cheap flights, people seem to lose their minds. I will agree to do just about anything to save £75 on a flight.

16 hour layover in Tajikistan? Sure! I can experience a different culture's airport and hospitality service!

Only a handbag for a week's trip? Easily done! I never wear more than two outfits on holiday, and I have one pair of shoes that goes with everything! I don't need any liquids/gels, I'll go au-naturel!

All day flight with no in-flight entertainment, next to an infant's section? I LOVE kids! I'll be THEIR entertainment!


However...when it comes time to the flight and packing for the excursion, panic begins to set in.

Speak Tajik? I don't speak Tajik! I'll be like Tom Hanks in The Terminal! I'll get stuck there, unable to ask for help and just waste my years away forced to live in the airport. 

A handbag? I can't wear only wear pair of shoes! I need to have at least one brown and one black pair! A week???? My hair will be a wild beasts if I don't have gels!

I hate babies. 


I am currently packing to go to Italy for 4 days with only a hand bag allowance. Why would I ever think that was ok? It's also in between seasons, so it may be open toe weather or maybe boot. I don't know, I've never been to Milan. Also the dreaded weather check. I've just found out it will be raining later in the week, how do I prepare for a completely different weather change mid-trip with only one bag?

The debate of if I can go without deodorant or underwear should never happen. But then again, how many pairs does one really need? Especially if we go with the old inside-out rule.

Debating what you'll pack is like the ultimate Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs put into practise. I am floating pretty between the Physiology and Safety bottom areas of the pyramid. So I know that on this trip there is no way I will access the Love, Belonging or Esteem parts.

Well I guess that's that. Instagram photos for the first 24 hours and then after my face/hair/clothing/general appearance, starts to decay, you will see less and less of me on social media.

Soap Dish

I've recently moved into a new place in my favourite part of the city. I have one flatmate who is rarely in the country, so I have free roam of the place. I love it.

There are large windows, a deck filled with plants, an open living space and it overlooks a garden. Although all these things are great, it's the small things I enjoy about living in my own place again.

The first thing is the soap dish. We have a bar of soap that rests on a stone-looking dish. After someone washes their hands, it collects with the tiniest amount of excess water. Twice a day, I get to pour the dish out into the sink and I love it.

This probably makes me insane, but I think of it as more of a charming quirk of my personality. I somewhat of an Amelie, just no one has made a french film about me yet.

There are also several, full-length mirrors scattered throughout the flat - even in the shower. This makes it sound somewhat of a sex den but I assure you it's all in good taste. Being able to see myself constantly throughout the day not only feeds my vanity but also has motivated me to become more fit. Nothing says, hit the gym, like a mirror in the shower.

So let's see where this place takes me. So far, so good.

A story for Brenda

It would seem I follow my father's footsteps of difficult relationships and poorly chosen partners. Over the years, many tearful calls have been made to him for the "tough it out" and "suck it up" advice. He barely broke stride after two divorces and even remained optimistic about his own love life. Neither of us saw her coming, though. And neither of us would be the same.

...

I remember fighting with Brenda (my stepmum) as a bratty, resistant teen - and ashamedly into my early twenties as well. Seeing women come and go in my father's life, I couldn't be bothered to get to know her. I was hard, callous and just plain difficult. I would test my luck and push the boundaries. However, I was met with a worthy adversary. 

Unlike others, she didn't get down to my level and push back. She was kind, thoughtful, funny and down to earth but also a fierce matriarch. She didn't take any shit from my dad and or myself. She set the example of how we should treat each other in our family and showed real strength; raising a son of her own, on her own. She knew she could make it alone with him again and we knew that if we didn't sort our lives out, she would. It was powerful to see. She was also one of the first women my mother liked as well (which was a nearly impossible feat).

Over time I saw my father soften and change. Become someone I didn't know he could, and grow into a better person. Some might say it just came with age, but I know the difference. She was unwavering in her strength and ability to keep people in line. I have endless respect for her.

Kindness is a hard trait to master, especially toward someone else's daughter, but I know she is only a phone call away and her advice is always sound. For years the only thing that made me believe in soulmates was the love both my biological parents found in their current partners. And perhaps it is these two examples that led me to finding my own as well.

I'm glad I overcame my stubborn, spoiled behaviour, as I have tapped into a wealth of knowledge, love and support I didn't know was there. 

Happy birthday Brenda, and thank you. X

Maybe I should have some pants on.

Windows aren't walls.

It's taken my entire life to realise this and still as an adult, I forget. At my house back in Canada, when it got dark, I would dance in front of the large "mirror" which was our sliding glass door. Usually with some inappropriate hip hop moves I just learned from B.E.T.

Now living in an apartment, I once again feel invincible behind the large bay windows. No one looks up when on the high street. They can't see me here in my bra, crying to the Les Mis soundtrack.

I am very aware of the people across the road, however. Those stupid idiots don't know I can see them. There is Mr. Naked, who is quite literally, always naked. Then there is Smokey Smokersons, who types on a typewriter all angsty, chuffing away at cigarettes (also topless). There are more, all oblivious that I am creeping across the way, completing Rear Windowing them.

Yet...I am doing the same. Why do I feel like I am in a police interrogation room with one-way glass? It's even worse though, as now we are having work done to the outside of our walls and window edges. There is scaffolding around the entire front and back of our flat. All windows have foreign men hollering about and chipping off sides of our building. Normally I don't see them, as I work all hours of sunlight. This is, however, my week off for half term break. I thought I would love the quiet lie-in, hibernating away my latest heartbreak but instead I am awoken every morning at 8...on the dot.

Today I was wandering around the flat, going from room to room; reading, dancing, singing, munching, when I realised - I should have some pants on. Here I am with most curtains open, wandering about in knickers. I know workers are around me because I can hear the details on their conversations. Someone wants to have Nandos for lunch. Another is p*ssed off that the g*d damn, f*cking blaster keeps jacking back and won't hit clean against the wall.

I didn't put pants on. I just quickly squirrelled about the house, closing every sliver of light out with curtains. Who needs sunlight anyway?

Why it's good to be friends with an ex...if you can.

Recently, I've been forced to spend time with someone who I had some romantic connection with in the past. I wouldn't say ex, but I'd say we dabbled. All too often we hear to stay away from people we once loved and lost because it's hard on our spirit. But if you can get passed it, it can be a great thing.

Don't get me wrong, it is hard though. But why?

I guess we show that person more of us than we do most people. They see exposed bits of our hearts and souls that we spend time covering up. We want to be together and strong, but they know your weaknesses. You are made fully human.

It is also difficult depending on who did the breaking up. If you ended it with them, there might be fear of sending them unclear signals. You don't want to muddy the waters and leave them confused by what you're after.

If they've broken up with you, it can be a fresh wound you are rubbing salt in. Why do they want me in their life but not entirely? What about me isn't good enough to be their partner? Do they still love me romantically? There can be confusion and blurriness that tears you in two directions. We hear being near someone you once loved can prevent you from ever getting over them. But can it really?

Let's say we are to look at this completely practically and logically. First, you need to fully embrace that you are not ever meant to be with this person. The fact is, you're not. If you were meant to be with them, you would be. The breakup wouldn't have happened. When you find the person you want to be with, you'll be with them. Not sitting around wondering if you should or shouldn't.

Once you've swallowed that sadness pill and fully accepted that cold hard truth, you will likely start seeing why it's better for you to be friends. This is helpfully reinforced when you spend time with your ex or talk to them. All the things you didn't like about them reaffirm why you wouldn't want them as a life partner and all the good things remind you why you still want them somewhat in your life.

Great. Fab. They're around now. Maybe on the phone or in person. Now what do you do with that?

Well, you need to solidify the friendship and move away from the blur. The only way I think I saw this shift was when we started talking about new loves and interests. The first time it was brought up, the words were actually cutting. What do you mean you love it when she does _____? I thought you hated that... What do you mean best kiss? F*ck you buddy. But maturity (and job circumstance) made me let it go. The more it's talked about, the more the relationship shifts. It's no longer about you two, but about your friend and their new person or vice versa.

This discussion also can give you insight into your ways as a partner and the reactions or paths you choose to take. When discussing new relationships with an ex that cares about you as a friend, they want your life to be happy. They don't want you to go down a path you went with them and lead to dark days. They can see you. They can tell you when you are being crazy or when you need to stand up for yourself more. They push you to be better than you were with them.

I find for myself, that I repeat the same relationship problems. I get insecure about something and I cling on or I become too cold when I should be caring and supportive. My sarcastic and deadpan undertones can be misinterpreted as disinterest or callousness. However, when you're in it. You're in it. For me, it's tunnel vision. Good guy friends can remind you that those behaviours are self-destructive and good guy friend exes, can speak to it on a more personal level.

This of course is assuming you still care and love your exes on some level. Obviously I have some dirt rat exes that I wouldn't give water to if they were dehydrating in a gutter. These exes I'm talking about should want you to happy and realise that they couldn't do that for you. Not wholly.

When you're in that position of having someone care for you but not want to rejoin your intimate life, there is a freedom in that. You can do the things you might have censored before in your dating realm, all while having someone who truly cares near. I know, it sounds impossible to get there with a person, but you can. Me being forced to do so has made me cherish the actual friendship that remains after the initial fires have been put out.

I'm not sure how it will all play out, so this post could be entirely moot but it's worth a try, or at the very least, a story.

Fiberglass Childhood

Today I got a fibreglass sliver. When I told my friend this happened, I thought immediately it would be followed by some sort of solidarity. "Oh yes Katie! Those are the worst! They never come out! They only instead work deeper and deeper into your body until they become part of your bone structure."

Nope.

Instead I got, "what the f*ck is that?"

I feel like a huge part of my childhood was spent getting and subsequently spending time removing slivers of fibreglass lodged into my fingers and oddly...ass cheeks. I thought this was something that most people experienced. But then as I started to recount my experiences of when I GOT these slivers, I realised they were completely unique to me as most children's grandparents didn't have life-size fibreglass frames of cars in their backyards. The whitest of trash.

As mentioned four words ago, yes, my grandpa did have a fibreglass car in his yard. How it got there and why, I never knew or asked - I just knew I never wanted it to go away. My cousins and I would crawl in and out of it, pretending to drive away from heists etc. all while dodging hornet nests and slivers. We never felt the sharp pangs of skin destruction until after a play date and our adrenaline had settled, then it was game over. I wouldn't be able to sit for days. I would have sharp, cut-like sensations on the back of my legs/ass causing me to whine and hop around in agony. My grandma would give us damp facecloths to soak the wounds and my dad would scratch the area with a credit card, hoping to remove any bits from the surface. It was true though, fibreglass once in, never out. I'm sure that parts of my body are completely indestructible due to their plastic content.

Even as the car continued to degrade and decompose and our wounds became more and more severe, we all hoped the car would stay forever. I remember the day it was gone and I was heartbroken. The car was a cruel mistress, but it provided hours and hours of entertainment. Nearly a masochist lifestyle at 10, but we loved that car. Today the sharp burning in my finger reminded me of these sweet times and I longed for warm summers, short shorts, and burning red back of the thighs.

Zero F*cks Given

Well I've started 2015 with a failure.

One of my resolutions was to write more...more specifically, write 31 blog posts in 31 days. I failed.
But guess what, I don't care.

Not because I don't appreciate my readers or believe in following through with a pledge, but because another one of my resolutions is to care less about things that don't actually matter in the grand scheme of life. To "Shake it off" as T Swift puts it so catchily.

I've decided to not give a f*ck as much as I used to about things that would have made me feel guilty or a little be ashamed before.

Someone said to me a few months ago, everything in moderation including moderation. Clever. And I agree. The now trending line of "zero f*cks given" is fantastic as it reminds us that some things that happen to us are really not that important. Some pledges we make and break with ourselves, just happen because life is constantly fluid. Previously I would have felt immense guilt for bailing on a resolution so early in the year but really, I flew back to London, I started working and I got tired. Dead tired. So I don't give a f*ck that I didn't write because now I can.

I vow we all give a few less f*cks about the small things but give a few more for people that are worth it.

Last Visits

Tomorrow I head back home to London. This weekend has been finishing up any last minute visits. Today I went over to see the lovely and ever beautiful Jaime and her family.

More often than not, women are seen as competitors of each other and fight tooth and nail over the smallest things. Instead of acknowledging other women's talents and beauty, we pick apart even the tiniest details and throw them under the bus.

One person you could not even find flaw with, is my friend Jaime and trust me, I've tried (wink). She is hilarious, talented, loving and absolutely glowing. It's times like these that I wish I lived closer to home because she is an inspiration. After visiting Jaime and her funny family, I left feeling energised and uplifted. She has a way of seeing the funny side of everything and can laugh off the small or even sometimes the big stuff.

Female role models are important for women, both in their youth and as adults. It was great to reconnect with someone that inspires me to lead an entertaining but family-centred life.

I will definitely miss all my friends and family who keep me grounded and remind me of who I am. However, it is time to go back and return to the life I have built.

Book Binge

I love books. Like the actual book itself, not necessarily reading. Don't get me wrong, reading is amazing and I was raised on it. My mum being a librarian, really hammered home the importance of literacy and where a book can take you. But now in my older, more hectic lifestyle, I find it hard to find time to sit in one place let alone read a book.

This has not stopped me from accruing books as if I were ripping through one a week. I still consider myself quite well read, whilst probably actually being one illiterate S.O.B.

There is something about the way they look - hard covers that give a satisfying knock when you drum your fingers on them, beige soft pages, catchy titles, smart cover art - it all draws me in.

This holiday alone I have purchased numerous books, books that I must now lug home in my carry-on back to London.

Each year season month I record a reading list to get through and now more often than not I barely scratch the surface.



This year another one of my resolutions is to read more and watch less.



The first book I'm going to power through is Yes Please by Amy Poehler. Let's see if Leslie Knope can get the ball rolling for 2015. You can see its edge just below Lena Dunham's but above Insurgent (don't judge, you don't know me.)

31 in 31 part deux

The starting of a new year means the starting of once again lying to ourselves about all changes we're going to make for a better life. Usually mine involve some sort of physical fitness challenge (insert background laugh track), a decision to have a positive outlook (fuck that), or a dedication to a new skill i.e. knitting, kite flying, basket weaving or the like.

This year, I've decided that I will make small promises to ensure they can be fulfilled. I find that when I make a daily "to-do" list and I included things like brush teeth, wake up, shower, etc. I feel much more accomplished when I cross them off. It also gets the ball rolling so I might actually tackle an important job such as "paying rent" or "lesson planning" or "grocery shopping."

So I've brought back the 31 in 31 to hopefully keep up my writing routine. I also have brought back the "no shame" promise to myself. Once, I gave up shame for Lent and it was the best 40 days of my life. No more dark mornings or pillow wallowing. It's time to live the dream and be laughing while I do it.

I have a great feeling about 2015 and thanks for sharing the start with me. 

The Marriage Fallacy

There comes a time in a woman's life where they start to feel their biological clock ticking. They start to wonder how it will ever be possible to start a family if they have already reached this age bracket and are still single.

This is not me.

I mean sure, I would love to have children... in fact it happens to be a very high priority in my life. This, however, does not mean I want to marry any man who I go on a date with. In fact, a higher priority in my life is meeting a great partner. Not some idiot who happens to take me to drinks and has never heard of Seinfeld.

From personal experience and the stories of my friends, I have began to notice a pattern. A group of commitment-phobe men that think all women our age want to do, is trap them into a long-term relationship. The break up excuse of "I just can't see myself getting married/settling down now" or "I think you're amazing but not the one" comes out a mere couple dates in.

Well. Let me tell you something.

Maybe I never imagined marrying you. Maybe I wanted to have a few laughs then say see you never. It had actually never even entered my mind to develop a long-term anything with you. Just because the early beginnings of laugh lines on my face might indicate I want to settle down...I never thought about doing that with you.

I take personal offence to the "I don't think I'm ready to get married" with it's shotgun eagerness. To me it paints a picture of women as clinging and pathetic, and who want nothing more than to beg someone to marry her. What happened to the fun? Who mentioned marriage?!

Now if you hadn't been so eager to give me the "no marriage" line, maybe I would have been able to deliver my break up lines...and boy they're a doozy.

I'm not ready to settle down with you because...
- you don't have a career
- you vomit after a heavy night of drinking
- you have more toys in your room than the children I teach
- you're not funny
- your parents are weird
- you can't spell

These are some of the reasons maybe I don't want to commit to you, 21st century man. Don't be so vain as to think the moment I say good night, I'm dreaming of your last name next to mine. More likely I'm thinking about what I'm going to watch when I get home or how you thought bringing your head closer to your plate was the appropriate way to eat pasta.

Your move chief.

A Story for Mum and Sean

Today is the last day of 31 for 31. I loved this experience to help me get back into the enjoyment of writing. I must admit it's been challenging at times, so it will be a relief to not have to post each day. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and sending kind words. I infinitely appreciate your support.

Two people who have been extremely dedicated throughout this process and for which this blog is named after is my Mum and stepdad, Sean. Sometimes I tell embarrassing stories or somewhat shameful ones as, let's admit, they are hilarious. They have been dragged through the mud alongside myself on here and never once batted an eye. In fact, they usually add to the story or private message me praise for the retelling of one of their moments.

The truth is, Mum and Sean have taught me to see life's ridiculous twists and turns as no more than good stories. My ability to storytell comes from a lifetime of hearing their stories. So here's one for each of them. Not an embarrassing one, but one filled with love.

A story for Mum:

I was a brat as a child. Spoiled but super cute - a wicked combination. My mother was an outlet for my cheekiness. In one particular temper tantrum, I destroyed my room (I was about 5) and ripped out every Kleenex from the box and scattered them around my room. We're talking a huge box, Hungarian women buy in bulk. There was not one empty space free from tissue. I remember my Mum just waiting for me to be done my crazy fit to come in my room, hold me while I cried, then told me to calm down. She then helped me pick up every tissue and carefully shove them back into the box without saying a word. No yelling or frustration, just the understanding of the overwhelming nature of life as a five year old. Her endless kindness and consideration for me had her separate the peas and carrots from my fried rice because I hated them, always have a spare peanut butter sandwich in her purse if I didn't like the food being served at someone's house, learning songs from my favourite artists so we could dance in the living room to them, always make sure my favourite eyeliner is stocked in the house in case I run out, and have her use every bit of self-restraint in her to not comment on each post I make and instead private message me with heartfelt praise.

The older I get the more I realise I'm turning out exactly like my mum and that this something to celebrate.

A story for Sean:

Sean has always described me as cat-like. Perhaps it's the sleeping in sun beams, constant badgering around feeding times, and desire to be as close to people on the couch as possible. This general laziness toward life allowed me to form a deep bond with our family cat, Strawberry. When Sean came into our family, Strawbs was a feral beast. He attacked me when I moved too quickly in the house, he scratched things up and he hated human company. Within a few weeks of Sean living with us, Strawbs became a new animal. A born-again pet. He was calm, cuddly, and considerate (he never suffocated me when he slept on my pillows.)

I liken Strawbs transformation to my own. I was somewhat feral as a child (see above temper tantrum) then Sean came into our lives and mellowed me out.
When I was young, it was hard to get me to do things I didn't want to do. The way Sean got through to me is he started writing little notes to me from my favourite stuffed animal, Pinkball. He even wrote some letters or words backwards so I would believe it was truly my bear. Pinkball would ask how my day at school was or pose reading a book to inspire me to read. The amount of effort it took was remarkable. As a teacher of young children now, I'm not even sure I would have that level commitment to a small child's interest. It motivated me to do all the things I didn't want to in the most gentlest and sweetest way.

I remember asking him if he had ever wanted children of his own and he said, you are my daughter. I believe him whole-heartedly. He showed it every time he read me bedtime stories doing all the different voices, or when he learned the Spice Girl moves to Stop Right Now to be one of my back up dancers, or when he used endless patience to explain finances to me so that I could be a financially independent woman, or when I had disappeared for a night with a jerk boyfriend, he scooped me up in his arms and told me he loved me forever and was just glad I was back home.




How lucky I am to have been shaped by two such amazing people. How sad it is that they are so far away from me. But I carry their hearts; I carry them in my heart.




Endless thank yous and I will try to keep posting more regularly.
x
Katie

The Trip

I have recovered from my 24 hour illness. It always surprises me how our bodies can seem so completely broken, as if they will never work properly again then you sleep for five hours and it's like nothing happened. Yesterday, I could barely stand up without holding a wall for support and now today I went for a little hike through the Heath. Even thinking back to my throat abscess, once that baby was popped, the healing began at such a rapid pace.

So today I felt well enough to venture through the city to Hampstead Heath. On my journey there I tried to pass what looked like a very annoying family group. They had spread themselves so wide, no human could force their way past their human road block. This meant I was walking directly behind and next to the mum of the family. The father and the seven year old boy were holding hands in front of us and they had another little boy who was about four, running up ahead.

The dad and the boy started to goof around, bumping into each other and nudging each other playfully while still holding hands. Then, as if in a Charlie Chaplin film, the dad does a huge exaggerated leg placement to mock-trip his child. Only it backfired. Well I guess not really backfired...it just did what a trip is meant to do - cut another human down.

The boy didn't see the Three-Stooges-Style trip and also must have an extremely poor centre of gravity. He fell. Hard. The worst part is that the dad really didn't see the fall coming, so his hand that was holding his son's, couldn't even react fast enough to right the boy. Instead it only tied up the boy's hand, preventing him from being able to put his arms out to try to break his fall. Since I was riding the family's ass trying to get around, I was directly in the thick of it all. It was one of those blessed moments in life where you know that mental image will be with you forever in a bank of clips you can draw from whenever you are having a bleak day and need a good chuckle. The kind of instant replay in your head that always makes you laugh, even if you are in public and will look like an idiot laughing at nothing. But it's not nothing, is it? It's one of the funniest moments you have ever witnessed.

The only thing rivalling the picture in my mind, is the sound imprinted on my auditory memory that came along with the fall. The kid fell like a sack of potatoes. The thud of his dead weight from his lower body cannot even be described. It was the classic fall sound of heavy body meeting concrete. He also fell face-first into the pavement. I had to somewhat stop so-as not to smash into the back of the dad, but I felt it cruel to linger too long looking, especially since I was beaming at this experience and everyone in the family was in hysterics. I don't think I saw any blood when I was staring directly at the kid's face, but maybe it just hadn't come yet.

The mum, who was next to me was swearing at the dad for tripping the boy. The father looked so shocked and guilty for injuring his first born and heir to whatever land he owns. The younger boy had stopped, turned and was looking just as thrilled as I did, certainly he and his poorly coordinated brother do not see eye-to-eye on most things.

I know it might sound cruel to take such joy in the fall of a child, but I assure you if anyone falls around me, I will be just as pleased. This includes if I fall, as I have many a time, it will likely end up being written about on this blog (as it already has been). I'm sure the boy is fine now, and if they have a good sense of humour, they are probably giggling about it at this moment. If they don't have a good sense of humour, then perhaps the dad is on the couch and the mum is calling her divorce lawyer. Either way, I know next time I'm feeling a little low, I will be recalling that mental youtube clip to help cheer me up. Probably made it to top five funniest things I have ever witnessed. Well played dad, well played.