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.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Monday, March 31, 2014
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
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
Sunday, March 30, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Girls
Before I launch into today's post, it's important to develop context. I have been vomiting from some sort of food poisoning since 7:30 this morning. It's been a rough day. This has however, allowed me to watch the entire third season of Girls in one continuous sitting - with the exception of bathroom breaks to empty the contents of my stomach.
I want to support the making of the show Girls because I do believe it shows women in a very raw, unabashed light. Where some of the cast look like very real women and their lifestyles are supposed to be a closer reflection of real women living in the city during their 20s. During the first two seasons, I could really stand behind this and I felt like I could connect a bit more to these archetypes, but now not so much.
This season, although compelling and intriguing in it's storyline, I felt portrayed the main female characters as self-centred, narcissistic, selfish jerks. The relationships they had with each other never showed any love, support or compassion. There was no sympathy for one another and any conversation they had focussed solely on themselves and how they were doing at that moment in time.
Whatever, I get it. Who as a girl (and I'm sure guys), hasn't had completely selfish periods in their lives? They sometimes talk to their friends only to use them as sound-boards for their shit and can rarely ask questions about the other's life. But I feel Girls was deeper than that. They weren't trying to show that these were the phases in their lives, but more so that all of these women were actually too self-involved overall to care about other people.
The problem I have with this is this show is supposedly representing raw (read - real) women. When the show first came out, it was so unique and adored because it was meant to be seen as honest and a breath of fresh air. This was cutting edge television and almost a movement for women in Hollywood. Whereas Sex and the City showed glamorous women, living well beyond their means in a very rich and famous way, Girls was women working in cafes.
So when I watch an entire season of what I would classify as bitches being bitchy, I think it reflects poorly on women. Are real women so dense that when their father mentions he's just had an operation, they sweep over it to talk about their latest piece of news? Do real women not ever call their friends who are going through hard times, just to check and see if they are ok? Do they listen to their close friend tell them they've not been able to graduate because they've failed a class, then chirp in with a stupid anecdote about their boyfriend in college? I hope the f*ck not.
Like I mentioned before, ya there are times when I've been self-centred. In fact, one of my closest loves called me out on it a few months ago but we move past it. It is not the foundation of all of our relationships and at the heart of my interactions with other women.
When you see quizzes online about Which Girls character are you? I feel that young women or any women, see these characters as archetypes we can cling to or tie our lives with. For years and years, women related to the women of Sex and the City. I was a Samantha in university and now more of a Carrie. When I thought I knew I was a Samantha, my life followed a very similar pattern to hers. I wasn't afraid of being bold and crass because I had a famous role model who was still adored by women everywhere. Is Girls following a similar pattern? Will our lives mimic those of the self-involved jerks?
I guess I am just annoyed that I wanted to see women who were portrayed honestly but also not completely negatively. I am surprised that women spearhead this show when they seem so anti-female at times. Anyway, that's my rant for the night; perhaps it was the sickness that made me hope for something more Disney to pull me out of my pit. I did still enjoy the storyline of all that happened but just wished the show was more of something I could look up to.
I want to support the making of the show Girls because I do believe it shows women in a very raw, unabashed light. Where some of the cast look like very real women and their lifestyles are supposed to be a closer reflection of real women living in the city during their 20s. During the first two seasons, I could really stand behind this and I felt like I could connect a bit more to these archetypes, but now not so much.
This season, although compelling and intriguing in it's storyline, I felt portrayed the main female characters as self-centred, narcissistic, selfish jerks. The relationships they had with each other never showed any love, support or compassion. There was no sympathy for one another and any conversation they had focussed solely on themselves and how they were doing at that moment in time.
Whatever, I get it. Who as a girl (and I'm sure guys), hasn't had completely selfish periods in their lives? They sometimes talk to their friends only to use them as sound-boards for their shit and can rarely ask questions about the other's life. But I feel Girls was deeper than that. They weren't trying to show that these were the phases in their lives, but more so that all of these women were actually too self-involved overall to care about other people.
The problem I have with this is this show is supposedly representing raw (read - real) women. When the show first came out, it was so unique and adored because it was meant to be seen as honest and a breath of fresh air. This was cutting edge television and almost a movement for women in Hollywood. Whereas Sex and the City showed glamorous women, living well beyond their means in a very rich and famous way, Girls was women working in cafes.
So when I watch an entire season of what I would classify as bitches being bitchy, I think it reflects poorly on women. Are real women so dense that when their father mentions he's just had an operation, they sweep over it to talk about their latest piece of news? Do real women not ever call their friends who are going through hard times, just to check and see if they are ok? Do they listen to their close friend tell them they've not been able to graduate because they've failed a class, then chirp in with a stupid anecdote about their boyfriend in college? I hope the f*ck not.
Like I mentioned before, ya there are times when I've been self-centred. In fact, one of my closest loves called me out on it a few months ago but we move past it. It is not the foundation of all of our relationships and at the heart of my interactions with other women.
When you see quizzes online about Which Girls character are you? I feel that young women or any women, see these characters as archetypes we can cling to or tie our lives with. For years and years, women related to the women of Sex and the City. I was a Samantha in university and now more of a Carrie. When I thought I knew I was a Samantha, my life followed a very similar pattern to hers. I wasn't afraid of being bold and crass because I had a famous role model who was still adored by women everywhere. Is Girls following a similar pattern? Will our lives mimic those of the self-involved jerks?
I guess I am just annoyed that I wanted to see women who were portrayed honestly but also not completely negatively. I am surprised that women spearhead this show when they seem so anti-female at times. Anyway, that's my rant for the night; perhaps it was the sickness that made me hope for something more Disney to pull me out of my pit. I did still enjoy the storyline of all that happened but just wished the show was more of something I could look up to.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Looking back and moving forward
It's hard to believe but this time last year I was packing up all my things and preparing to move in with the 278 guys. A move that really changed my life for the better completely. When I think back to this exact day last year, I think I was in one of the lowest points in my life. Today, a year later, I woke up with a smile on my face that wouldn't leave my lips all day.
It's funny the places life takes you. Two years ago to the day, I would never have imagined I would have been moving to WH. Then last year, I never would have thought I'd be in a better, more secure place than I ever have been.
I wonder where life will take me next year but I don't really care. Knowing you have been so low and can come out of that place less than a year later gives me faith that everything will be alright no matter what. Without sounding too much like a Hallmark card, my life has shown me I can truly get through anything.
But happiness, like sadness, can be temporary. So it is important that you relish in the times when you are truly happy. When I'm upset about things, I obsess and replay them in my mind - a mental pushing of a bruise. Something stings, so I go over and over it to try to numb the pain. Well if I can do that with upset, then I definitely should do it was joy. I don't tend to fixate on the excitement or pleasure, but look for loop holes or escape routes. This is the year I am going to let myself be happy and take things in stride.
My stepdad once had a discussion with me about my nightmares. Iused to have a major fear demons aka The Ring girl *shudder. He tried to logic me out of it. He said that if I could believe that there was that level of evil in the world, surely the universe would have a counter-force. If I could believe in the bad to such a degree, there must be something equally as pure or good. So if I was imagining something scary creeping in my room, I could just imagine an angel or good spirit there ready to stop it or battle it. He did end the conversation with, it's all made up crap anyway and there is no good or bad spirits hanging around, so I the point is somewhat moot now...but the concept to me also applies to sadness versus happiness.
If you can allow yourself to wallow in the sad or upsetting bits of your life, then why shouldn't you indulge the happy as well? Replay all the moments that give you butterflies from the night before and allow that smile to creep across your face when riding the train. If you are being neurotic about the hard times, equally fixate on the pleasant and allow yourself to fully feel it.
So we'll see where the next year takes me, but I do know I'll be letting myself enjoy more of it when I can.
It's funny the places life takes you. Two years ago to the day, I would never have imagined I would have been moving to WH. Then last year, I never would have thought I'd be in a better, more secure place than I ever have been.
I wonder where life will take me next year but I don't really care. Knowing you have been so low and can come out of that place less than a year later gives me faith that everything will be alright no matter what. Without sounding too much like a Hallmark card, my life has shown me I can truly get through anything.
But happiness, like sadness, can be temporary. So it is important that you relish in the times when you are truly happy. When I'm upset about things, I obsess and replay them in my mind - a mental pushing of a bruise. Something stings, so I go over and over it to try to numb the pain. Well if I can do that with upset, then I definitely should do it was joy. I don't tend to fixate on the excitement or pleasure, but look for loop holes or escape routes. This is the year I am going to let myself be happy and take things in stride.
My stepdad once had a discussion with me about my nightmares. I
If you can allow yourself to wallow in the sad or upsetting bits of your life, then why shouldn't you indulge the happy as well? Replay all the moments that give you butterflies from the night before and allow that smile to creep across your face when riding the train. If you are being neurotic about the hard times, equally fixate on the pleasant and allow yourself to fully feel it.
So we'll see where the next year takes me, but I do know I'll be letting myself enjoy more of it when I can.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
You're Lame
When I was in high school I dated possibly THE worst person to ever live. I don't say this because I'm bitter, I actually wish him well now and have absolutely no hard feelings. Honestly, I do. All that remains now are the cold hard facts that he was a terrible excuse for a human.
Now looking back, I have some pretty humorous stories from it. It helps to have a circle of friends that remind you about the hilarity of craziness. I was speaking to a close friend right before this post and she reminded me of one particular outrageous tale. I use tale lightly, as this story is not even a slight exaggeration. Nothing has been twisted in my hands. Facts.
I was either 17 or 18 years old and Lord Voldemort lived on the edge of the city. Now we lived in a twin city, and he didn't live on the edge of my city but the other one...the farther one. I won't go into his evil nature, but we did have a very tumultuous relationship and it exploded one day I was at his place. A place where I had to cab to (20 dollars...a lot for a lady on Gap wages) because my parents hated him so much that they were beginning to refuse to drive me to see him. A place that was the only house for a 25 minute walk in any direction and approximately a 4 hour walk from my parent's house.
After this explosion (the only way to accurately describe out arguments), I decided I couldn't take any more of him and took off with my things down the road. I think he might have even locked me out of his house at this point.
I have mentioned this before but I really have no understanding of distance, time or mental arithmetic. My brain just cannot comprehend these basic skills. It's alright though, we can't be good at everything... So I thought the walk would take me maybe...an hour. Look above at the actual timings. I'm not proud in the lapse in judgement.
As I began to walk, the gravity of my hopeless journey, troubled relationship, and genuine misery with the whole situation took hold. This was a time before everyone was hooked up to their phones like life support. I luckily did have a flip phone though and began desperately dialing my parents. No answer. Screening their calls? Possibly... I called all of the people in my life that were obliged to love me and therefore take pity on me and drive me to safety. Not a single one of them could get me and I'm talking, I come from a "broken home" there are many obligated family members.
Now, as you can imagine I am walking down country roads, in flip-flops and the doom of a much longer walk is in front of me. I become panicked and weepy. I curse my life. I might have even stooped as low as to kick the dirt and scream up to the sky. I continue to walk. And walk. It begins to rain. And rain. I'm just reaching the edge of civilisation yet still hours from my house.
Finally I get in touch with my best friends. And this is why they are the best, they dropped everything to pile into a car and pick me up from my own personal hell. I had to continue walking until they would reach me. It would take a while.
I walked another hour and in this time I did begin to become desperately sad again. I, not quite a religious person but still on the edge of a Roman Catholic upbringing, asked my distant buddy God why the f*ck he was punishing me and why was my life was so shit? At this exact moment I had my internal monologue, I heard my phone buzz in my pocket. I take out the phone, flip it open and read the text that just came through.
No word of a lie, it reads, as in a message from our good Lord and saviour... "you're lame." An answer to all my woes and the reason my life had become a pile of shit, I was lame.
It was of course, not from Him but from his arch-enemy instead. This was the straw that broke my back. I wept in the streets, stationary, until my friends found me on the side of the road and broke me out of my mood from laughing uncontrollably at the state I was in. Saved my life, and probably my lower back from walking in flippy-floppies.
It was months and possibly even years before they ever let me live down this wild state I was in and the misfortune of the "you're lame" text. In fact, out of the blue it was brought up today by my dear old friend. Although this time in my life was probably my lowest point, I'd say it isn't so bad if I got stories like this out of it.
Now looking back, I have some pretty humorous stories from it. It helps to have a circle of friends that remind you about the hilarity of craziness. I was speaking to a close friend right before this post and she reminded me of one particular outrageous tale. I use tale lightly, as this story is not even a slight exaggeration. Nothing has been twisted in my hands. Facts.
I was either 17 or 18 years old and Lord Voldemort lived on the edge of the city. Now we lived in a twin city, and he didn't live on the edge of my city but the other one...the farther one. I won't go into his evil nature, but we did have a very tumultuous relationship and it exploded one day I was at his place. A place where I had to cab to (20 dollars...a lot for a lady on Gap wages) because my parents hated him so much that they were beginning to refuse to drive me to see him. A place that was the only house for a 25 minute walk in any direction and approximately a 4 hour walk from my parent's house.
After this explosion (the only way to accurately describe out arguments), I decided I couldn't take any more of him and took off with my things down the road. I think he might have even locked me out of his house at this point.
I have mentioned this before but I really have no understanding of distance, time or mental arithmetic. My brain just cannot comprehend these basic skills. It's alright though, we can't be good at everything... So I thought the walk would take me maybe...an hour. Look above at the actual timings. I'm not proud in the lapse in judgement.
As I began to walk, the gravity of my hopeless journey, troubled relationship, and genuine misery with the whole situation took hold. This was a time before everyone was hooked up to their phones like life support. I luckily did have a flip phone though and began desperately dialing my parents. No answer. Screening their calls? Possibly... I called all of the people in my life that were obliged to love me and therefore take pity on me and drive me to safety. Not a single one of them could get me and I'm talking, I come from a "broken home" there are many obligated family members.
Now, as you can imagine I am walking down country roads, in flip-flops and the doom of a much longer walk is in front of me. I become panicked and weepy. I curse my life. I might have even stooped as low as to kick the dirt and scream up to the sky. I continue to walk. And walk. It begins to rain. And rain. I'm just reaching the edge of civilisation yet still hours from my house.
Finally I get in touch with my best friends. And this is why they are the best, they dropped everything to pile into a car and pick me up from my own personal hell. I had to continue walking until they would reach me. It would take a while.
I walked another hour and in this time I did begin to become desperately sad again. I, not quite a religious person but still on the edge of a Roman Catholic upbringing, asked my distant buddy God why the f*ck he was punishing me and why was my life was so shit? At this exact moment I had my internal monologue, I heard my phone buzz in my pocket. I take out the phone, flip it open and read the text that just came through.
No word of a lie, it reads, as in a message from our good Lord and saviour... "you're lame." An answer to all my woes and the reason my life had become a pile of shit, I was lame.
It was of course, not from Him but from his arch-enemy instead. This was the straw that broke my back. I wept in the streets, stationary, until my friends found me on the side of the road and broke me out of my mood from laughing uncontrollably at the state I was in. Saved my life, and probably my lower back from walking in flippy-floppies.
It was months and possibly even years before they ever let me live down this wild state I was in and the misfortune of the "you're lame" text. In fact, out of the blue it was brought up today by my dear old friend. Although this time in my life was probably my lowest point, I'd say it isn't so bad if I got stories like this out of it.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Book Clubs
I have been a part of many book clubs in England, probably more than social groups I've joined. It's strange the mix of people who like to read books, then get together and talk about those books.
I think I'm pretty normal when it comes to life skills, but maybe people are looking around at me the same way I'm looking at them when we blather on about prose and allusions. My favourite book club I joined was back in Forest Hill, as I've mentioned in previous writings if you ever want to scroll back that far. I was the youngest by about 100 years (I wish I was exaggerating) but I absolutely adored the people. I was surrounded by powerful, intelligent women who were mesmerising to listen to. There was also an extremely flamboyant man who had a nicer scarf collection than I did, and I observed his colour combinations for inspiration. That group stretched my reading comfort zone and introduced me to authors and styles I would never normally go for. They also showered me with love and affection because my skin hadn't yet sagged into leather bag status and I had all my real teeth.
This other group I'm in...not so much. Although it is nice to gab about a book and see what others think, I don't typically enjoy just flipping to pages I liked and reading them out. I like to dig a little deeper. I feel that sometimes my discussions with this group are on par with that of a guided reading session with my year ones. "Who can find the page where the lead character says she likes cheese?" "Who can make a connection to similar book?" "Who liked the part when the author wrote, 'she bounced in the sunshine?' "
Kill me.
The people who go to these things too are just so bizarre. Usually they are socially awkward, with books being their only friends. It is strange to find a group of people who enjoy books so much, and yet...have not that much to say about them.
Each time I go to this club, I swear I'll never go to the next one. Then I read something interesting in the new book and want to see if anyone at "the club" thought something about it. They never do...but there is always hope. At least I sound smart rattling on and chirping away. If for nothing else, it reminds me that I can read at a higher level than Paddington Bear.
I think I'm pretty normal when it comes to life skills, but maybe people are looking around at me the same way I'm looking at them when we blather on about prose and allusions. My favourite book club I joined was back in Forest Hill, as I've mentioned in previous writings if you ever want to scroll back that far. I was the youngest by about 100 years (I wish I was exaggerating) but I absolutely adored the people. I was surrounded by powerful, intelligent women who were mesmerising to listen to. There was also an extremely flamboyant man who had a nicer scarf collection than I did, and I observed his colour combinations for inspiration. That group stretched my reading comfort zone and introduced me to authors and styles I would never normally go for. They also showered me with love and affection because my skin hadn't yet sagged into leather bag status and I had all my real teeth.
This other group I'm in...not so much. Although it is nice to gab about a book and see what others think, I don't typically enjoy just flipping to pages I liked and reading them out. I like to dig a little deeper. I feel that sometimes my discussions with this group are on par with that of a guided reading session with my year ones. "Who can find the page where the lead character says she likes cheese?" "Who can make a connection to similar book?" "Who liked the part when the author wrote, 'she bounced in the sunshine?' "
Kill me.
The people who go to these things too are just so bizarre. Usually they are socially awkward, with books being their only friends. It is strange to find a group of people who enjoy books so much, and yet...have not that much to say about them.
Each time I go to this club, I swear I'll never go to the next one. Then I read something interesting in the new book and want to see if anyone at "the club" thought something about it. They never do...but there is always hope. At least I sound smart rattling on and chirping away. If for nothing else, it reminds me that I can read at a higher level than Paddington Bear.
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