It Was Time

Last week I mentioned this is big monumental birthday I had late last year.  This big day brings about certain discoveries for many, and I’m no different.  Aside from the folds (remember those?!), I’ve realized that I no longer have the bounce back I used to (whether it’s recovering from a boozy night or training for a 10km), I’ll never win an Oscar and … I need a mammogram.

This probably isn’t where you thought I was going, so I’ll make my observations quick (just like my mammogram, which took all of 7 minutes) and painless (not just like my mammogram, which still took all of 7 minutes):

I kneed bread more gently;

At the clinic my breasts are not breasts or boobs or a chest they are ... fatty tissue;

I’m pretty sure if my fatty tissues were bigger it wouldn’t have been so uncomfortable and awkward and ouchy.  (Ah, the irony).

There must be a better way;

I kneed bread more gently (yes, I know I said this already but honestly.  HONESTLY a person is attached to those!).

The good news is, my fatty tissues, according to the thankfully upbeat lab technician, are “textbook”.  For some odd reason, I found that observation quite complimentary on many levels.

Anyway - yeay! I love being medically boring.

And, still, ouch.  But, really - Yeay for ouchy boring!

What’s next?  I’m ready.

Shut Up

No, no, not you, kind reader, I am not telling you to shut up - please, I would never !  The person I'm telling to shut up is ME !

I know I talk an awful lot and that's not necessarily the issue here.  The problem I'm having, the reason I need to shut up is, well ...

Hello, My Name is Olga and I'm a Constant Interrupter.  It's been about 2 hours since I last sabotaged a conversation.

I am rarely cognizant of actually doing it.  And it's certainly not done on purpose.  It's all pretty innocent : someone says something, I get excited and then just barge right in with an anecdote or "yes me too, blah blah blah" tale of my own.  Sometimes, I do get lucky and catch myself in the act - I actually lift myself almost out of my seat to start and then deflate back to normal when I realize what I'm about to do.  It's a turnabout convulsion.  Yes, not all that elegant but a bit nicer than derailing yet another conversation. 

It's really, completely and truly not because I think whatever I'm saying is so much more important / interesting / funny than what I'm being told.  NO !  I also know that I tend to interrupt more in fun time chats than more serious ones (thank god I'm not completely insensitive), so maybe it's as simple as just getting overexcited within the beauty of conversation.  The exchange of experiences, commonalities, news, funny stories and ideas totally charges me up and I just can't stand a lull -  God forbid you stop to take a breath ! - in a conversation.  I know this doesn't make it better and I also know I really must make it stop. 

So, I vow to get better at this ! I will become more aware of myself in conversation !  I  promise to pause before interrupting - I will literally bite my tongue if I have to !  You ?  You can tap me gently on the knee.  Perhaps you'd indulge me by not stopping to breathe.  But what would really be great, what would really get me to stop this rude habit is if you just tell me to shut up. 

Yes, exactly like that :  Shut Up, Olga. 

Saturday Mornings ...

Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning

This is my time.  My wake up when I want - and this could be 7am or 11am or, like today, 10am BB in hand, in exactly the same position I dropped into bed in last night, whatever, don't ask but I know for damn sure it's not to the sound of an unsympathetic buzzer at 555am - do what I want little moment in time.  I make a big pot of coffee, the smell of which permeates the entire place, read the Globe cover to cover (okay, okay ... I skim read some and read read the rest) and drink that entire pot of coffee.

Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning

I don't want to talk to anyone on Saturday Mornings.  I've been talking to everyone all week.  Maybe I'll reply to your text or BBM, but please don't call me.  Let me catch up on my PVR addictions.  Allow me the simple pleasure of being in my well worn, likely have a hole in them pyjamas  until absolutely necessary.  Let me relish in being non put together.

Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning

I'm not a complete sloth on Saturday mornings.  I brush my teeth!  And I also water my plants, do the laundry, wash dishes and all the other necessary household crap that just needs to get done ... but I meander and dawdle while I do all these things, so the combined effect of my Saturday morning groove and the meandering dawdling way in which I do them is oddly relaxing.  

Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning

It is completely quiet on Saturday mornings.  Aside from when I'm zipping through the PVR, you could hear a pin drop in here. I love silence on Saturday mornings.  It aids and abets my relaxed groove.  I will admit to sometimes talking to myself on Saturday mornings (okay, other times too) but as the conversations are one sided and never argumentative, they somehow relax me too.

Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning

I'm not a complete and utter recluse on Saturday mornings, if you ask me to do something you know I'll go and have a damn fun time while doing this thing, but if I had my way I'd spend every Saturday morning just like this one :  puttering around my house in my non matching pyjamas, reading the paper, drinking coffee and watering my plants. 

Yes, I'm a weirdo, but I still wish you to Leave Me The Hell Alone on Saturday Morning.

Hard Talking

I received a book at a management course I went to years ago called “Difficult Conversations”.  It’s basically about opening dialogue with employees on tough issues – lack of performance, attitude problems, stealing, what have you.  To me, these conversations aren’t that hard:  we all have a job to do so if there’s a gap, let’s eliminate it.  Admittedly, I work in an industry that isn’t incredibly touchy feely:  lots of guys and most of them are classic Type As.  While they don’t necessarily appreciate ‘being told’, they are, for the most part direct and action oriented and they want direct and action oriented: what’s the problem; how do I fix it; let’s drive on.  There are no feelings or deep thoughts and emotions.  No one takes anything personally. It’s all pretty refreshing.  And so easy.  Lucky me. 

Unfortunately, the ease at which I have these conversations at work is in direct opposition to how I have them in my real life.  I can’t.  I don’t.  I’m not sure if it’s because I simply don’t want to potentially hurt the other person’s feelings, or if I’m afraid they’re going to hurt mine.  I avoid and stew and talk to all sorts of other people about the problem, but never ever to the actual person.  These problems aren’t life altering by any means – although come to think of it, maybe that would be easier:  dealing with the supposed pal who slept with my boyfriend seems like a pretty easy chat to me – but they get to the core of my personal value system.  I don’t like how I’m being treated (or not treated), talked to (or not talked to) or regarded (or not regarded).  Ouch.  Potential for a huge insides ouch.  The worst kind of ouch.

So, what do I do?   Do I alter my own expectations and just simply take what’s being given?   This could work, if it were possible.  Downgrading my own expectations has the potential to boil my world down to mediocre, shifting relationships.  I don’t like that.  I don’t want that.  I want to get what I give.  

As I see it, there are two options:  distance myself from these people (EASY!) or, deal with it head on (HARD!).  I know what I want to do, I know what I should do and I think the only thing holding me back from doing the HARD SHOULD DO thing is a fear that once I have voiced my issue, it will be met with cold silence, ambivalence or, worse yet, indignation.  That the thing bothering me is dumb or needy or wacked or silly or a bunch of other things that aren’t good.  That this thing has exposed something about me that doesn’t quite jive, that I’m too much work and not all that much fun.  That I’m a major downer.  The end result of this conversation could very well be that the person I’m talking to may turn their back on me.  And this scares me too.

I guess the first person I should be having this ‘difficult conversation’ with is myself, and not in some ‘self-empowerment let’s go rub some crystals together and be one in the universe’s light’ kind of way.  But in a way that convinces me that I do deserve to be treated / talked to / regarded just as I treat / talk / regard others.  Coupled with that, of course, is for me to realize that I should probably throw some credit to who I’m having this hard talk with.  They’ll get it, how can’t they?  They’ll understand, won’t they?  They’ll care, right?  Sometimes, maybe, people don’t know things unless you tell them.   What I do know is there is really only one way to find all this out. 

This seems so easy.  I wish it was that easy.  But I guess that dumb book is called ‘Difficult Conversations’ for a reason.

Your Knapsack

I hate your knapsack.

I hate the way it sags.  I hate the way it's jam packed with what must be pure crap, or leaky food.  I hate the way it's adorned with patches that signify, what, exactly?  I hate the way you think you're being so ergonomic, or even cool, by actually using it but you're sagging too - I see it, major, major sag.

But, most of all, I hate the way your knapsack morphs itself, seemingly unbeknownst to you, into a ginormous external hunchback so each and every time you turn, step back or move in anyway whatsoever you completely knock me out because your knapsack has removed your power to denote your own personal space parameters. 

So get a clue and take off your damn knapsack.  I hate your knapsack.

Love, Me

So, um, hi.  Or, hello.  Yes, hello!

This is bit weird as you don't actually know me.  Well, scratch that, you really don't know me at all.  We work in the same office building and I see you from time to time, usually riding the elevator.  We spoke, once, sometime ago.  It was fleeting, but you laughed at my joke and well, it was all over after that for me.  I don't know much about you aside from the fact that you work on either floor 43 or 45 (I'm sorry about that.  I'm usually a way better detail person, but I'm just always too distracted by YOU to pay attention to where you leave me.)  You're taller than me in my highest heels, which I was fortuitiously wearing on one of my favourite elevator rides (yeay !  tall !).  You deplore Alex Ovechkin (OMG - ME TOO!), drink Starbucks coffee (OMG - ME TOO !)  have the kindest eyes (sigh) and a really great smile (super sigh). 

I'm not sure if you recall what I look back on as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life ? When I was standing in the concourse waiting for a friend ? You walked by, alone (you're usually with a group - so popular!) and we caught eyes, well, sorta ? I think you were looking over to see what nutjob was reciting the alphabet as my "Hi" turned into a weak "H" .. "I" in your wake ?  Well, it was me - I was that nutjob !  But I'm really not (much of) a nutjob.  You are obviously made of powerful stuff, turning me into a crazy speechless nutjob.  AnywayS, just thought I'd let you know that next time I'm going to try my most hardest to use my words and say 'hi' for real.  So, uh, yeah.  See ya on the elevator.  Or the concourse.  Hopefully soon.  That would be so great.  Really great.

Love, Me.

:)

Jesus Christ and Holy Crap what the hell is happening to my face?!

Let me explain:  I have these smile folds that run from the corner of my nose to the corner of my mouth. These things are apparently called nasolabial folds and they are extremely common when you, uh, age. Your skin loses its elasticity and – oh my god – who cares what they are and why I have them, the point is I have them and they are awful.  SO AWFUL.  They make me look sad (like blue, not pathetic) and forlorn and a touch angry, but mainly just really, really sad.

I first discovered one last summer when I was renewing my passport.  We can’t smile in our photos, of course, which is really the universe’s way of reminding us we can’t be on vacation all the time, and that’s fine but smiles mask all sorts of face sins.  Like these damn folds.  Thankfully, the onset of a lovely holiday quickly overtook my initial feelings on the matter.  

Well, time does go by and I swear, the day after my big monumental birthday there was another one on the other side of my face.  Come on!  Happy Birthday to you, sad forlorn person! 

For the past month or so I’ve been trying to look on the bright side – if I didn’t smile and laugh so much I likely wouldn’t have these stupid things, but is this really something to be punished for?  Is this the price I have to pay for being happy most of the time? 

Unfortunately my natural options are limited:  Home Depot has not transitioned their line of polyfilla type products for personal face use; I can’t laugh / smile continually as this could be inappropriate in certain situations (“So sorry to hear about Uncle Leo”).  I’m not ready to deal with unnatural options – I’m only 40 (CRAP! Committed to the World Wide Web, now it must be real) for crying out loud! 

So, I’m going to do what any normal person would do (no, normal people do not go Zen and thus, neither do I):  I’m going to ignore them and make for damn sure that I smile and laugh whenever possible.  Shouldn’t be too hard, that’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

Is this not the hardest word in the English language to say?

I don’t mean the soft serve, pussy foot “I don’t think that’s possible”, or “Let me check and get back to you”.  I mean the straight up, without chaser or hope:

NO.

So jarring.  So official.  So definitive. So NO.

So. Damn. Good.  It actually does feel rather liberating to say ‘no’ because it rarely leaves room for follow up.  There’s no turning back.  No waffle.  A no is a no is a no.  I’m not being harsh here - you’re not hurting anyone’s feelings.  You’re being straight and honest and as long as you’ve come to your ‘no’ in good faith you’re golden as far as I can see. 

Why cloud the notion of your specific lack of agreeability (which, by the way, is totally fine – why the constant need to please these days ?!) by wrapping your 'no' in a glut of “maybe’s” and “we’ll see’s” and “I’ll checks”?  In saying no you’ve gained my respect for not only being upfront, but also removing my need to chase down the real meaning of your pansy maybe.  THANK YOU.

So get efficient and get tough.  Just say no.  I know you can do it. 

Honour Among Thieves

You've all heard this saying, right ?  That even corrupt or bad people sometimes have a sense of honour or integrity even if it is skewed.  So if two unsavoury types show up at the same time to rob a pizza joint they'll play rock/paper/scissors to figure out who goes in first.  Or, they split the loot.  Sweet. 

So, if we have honour among thieves, why can't we have honour among daters ?

The honour of treating each other like normal human beings who actually treat each other like human beings.  Who return phone calls, act considerately and don't make the whole thing one big guessing game.  Surprisingly (or not, depending on how long you've been in this "game") this borders on revolutionary thinking.   If you ask me I'd rather fall into a coma right after meeting someone decent and awaken at year 2 of a solid relationship.  Admittedly this is wishful sci-fi thinking, so let's deal with the cards we have.  It's likely I'm not your cup of tea (and kudos to you for figuring this out after a drive by coffee date!).  It's also quite possible I'm not a great date.  But, you know what ?  I know for certain I'm a damn good human being.  So, treat me like one.  Last I heard, reported cases of missing persons in the city have not skyrocketed.  Mysterious deaths are not on the rise.  These are the only two excuses for not returning a phone call / email or taking (asking! soliciting!) a number and not dialing it.  I know, harsh, harsh, harsh.  Mean, mean, mean.  Hardly! Hardly!  Hardly!  It's called common courtesy.  Remember that? 

Aside from retreating into a cave (and I did wrestle with that after seeing Blue Valentine),  it's impossible to avoid this type of rude boy behaviour.  I do chastise my guy friends when they are dumb enough to admit they've done this.  So, I've helped someone.  I hope.  The weird thing is, I never want to get used to this type of crap.  I never want to think it's okay.  I don't want to shrug it off.  I will not let it quash my romcom dreams.  I always want it to make me mad when it happens to me and completely outraged when it happens to my friends.  And it isn't because you were the necessarily the guy for me and you should have given me a chance, dammit !.  It's because as soon as it fails to bug me and as soon as I fall into an apathetic blah about it, I, have lowered myself to a place well below the earth's core where humans do not tread.  A place where we no longer acknowledge each other for what we are :  human beings with feelings who deserve to be treated with honour and respect. 

Even the guys at the pizza joint can do that.  Why can't you?

Frenchies

A number of years ago I signed up for French classes at the Alliance Francaise.  Over the course of about 4 years, my command of French improved somewhat, but this actually turned out to be an added bonus.  What really came out of these classes for me was the birth of The Frenchies.

I don't know about you, but I find it's pretty hard to make real, lasting friendships the older you get in life.  Everyone's busy, you have work friends, high school friends, university friends and well, enough friends.  Bringing new people into your circle is tough too - why upset the apple cart ?  This is why The Frenchies are so special to me.  We came together as we are just now as adults, bonding over the passe compose, and it's like we've known each other since forever.

The six of us are corporates and creatives, marrieds and singles, parents and non.  We've been through moves and breakups and marriages and babies and loss and illness.  Countless dinners, bottles of wine and blocks of cheese (French class, remember ?) have spawned evenings of neverending conversation that are marked by laughter and a desire to learn more.  A non - pretentious salon ! We're silly and sarcastic and revel in each other's idiosyncrasies. We laugh at each other and then just laugh.  We all talk all the time.  About everything and nothing.   We're all yes people, so we've had our fair share of adventures and have a long list of more to plan.  There isn't much I wouldn't do with this crew.  There isn't much I wouldn't do for this crew.  I love this crew.

Sometimes the stars align and you meet people you can't imagine living without.   People who value how rare this is and don't take it for granted.  People who are there for you, just as you are for them.  People like The Frenchies.

J'aime Les Frenchies!
Vive Les Frenchies !

Gavin

I am inspired by those who find strength amidst insurmountable circumstances.  

I am beyond inspired by Gavin Pardey, who, at the age of 2 is bravely fighting brain cancer, and his parents, Erica & Craig who never lose hope in their little fighter. They are home now, finally, and for them I have registered to be a bone marrow donor at www.onematch.ca. You should too. 

To read more about Gavin, check out: http://abeanslife.com/.

 

I Love The TTC

We all know the TTC is not a world class transportation system.  It stinks in all ways possible. No need to go into the whys and hows here, way too much time has already been expended on that.

The TTC is what it is (I love that phrase for its apathetic perfection) as a transportation system and that's obviously not why I love it.  I love the TTC because it allows me to engage in my most favourite pastime of all time, every single day.  I love people watching. And the TTC is FULL of people.  Scrunched up, unhappy, normal, not so normal, hot, package laden, old, young, annoyed, content, loud people.  And me.  It's great.  So, so great.

On a boring people watching day, it's just a bunch of people reading, but even this is interesting to me :  what's everyone reading?  How oddly amazing that the little old lady with the grocery buggy is actually reading Kafka.  The book cover contingent offers added intrigue :  are they hiding Nora Roberts or Dostoevsky ? Nevermind.  I love it when a book has taken over the mainstream and is being read by everyone  - Harry Potter, The Kite Runner, The DaVinci Code ... we should have started a book club.

My most exciting days revolve around watching the eaters.  I eat on the TTC sometimes, sure, but not food that requires utensils.  That seems bold and smelly and precarious in a "we're in constant motion how can you balance and please don't spill your spaghettti on me" kind of way.  Yes, really, spaghetti! A friend told me about a guy she saw who ate two full bags of Dad's Oatmeal cookies while on the subway.  The capacity astounds me.  It's also a shame he didn't share. Favourite of all time was the guy with a Starbucks coffee cup.  Without. A. Lid.  Why flirt with that kind of danger?

I love the iPod wearers as they're often so generous with their sound.  It is so kind of them to transform a personal music player into music for the masses.  I just wish I could figure out exactly what they're listening to.  It does help when they sing aloud.  And groove.  Love this lots.

It's doubtful the goofballs running the TTC had this value added feature in mind when they devised their "better way" slogan oh so many years ago, but I think if they tapped into this a bit when devising future ad campaigns they'd be onto something huge.  It's not a transportation system at all, it's an enterainment vehicle! LITERALLY !

Put in those terms, I bet you could love the TTC too.

Stupid Skirt

I have a skirt I absolutely love.  It's just the perfect length and has a bit of a flounce and is just so perfect.  Except for the fact that it doesn't fit.  This perfectly stupid skirt of mine hasn't fit in a good long while and everytime I see it hanging in my closet I get annoyed and frustrated and all those crummy things that a stupid skirt should really not have the power to do.

I know, I know, I know.  It's not about the stupid skirt.  It's about me and being okay being me not fitting into that skirt.  Somehow, I just think it would be easier to buckle down (yet again) and say 'no' to all the things I want (brownies! ice cream! pie!) and 'yes' to all the things I hate (squats) so I can fit into that stupid skirt rather than come to terms with the fact that I'll never wear that skirt again.  That I will never shop at Jacob.  That I will never, ever be the smallest person in the room.  That for all my outward confidence I am  insecure on the inside about this most of the time.  I guess all those things are okay.  Everyone has their thing, I suppose, but I've been struggling with this my whole life and I honestly don't want to struggle with it for my entire life. 

I wish I had this all figured out.  I wish I could just throw away that stupid skirt and make all these thoughts and feelings go away but I know symbolic gestures are not going to work here.  I have to work here.  And that's the hard part, because regardless of the lack of pie and infusion of squats it all comes back to me and being okay just being me, whether I'm wearing my stupid skirt or not.

WTF Me

Stop being the person I think you are.

I don't want you to exceed my expectations, I want you to mess up my expectations.  Rob Lowe on Californication me.

Ask me before I ask you ;
Take it before I give it ;
Say sorry when you trample me on the subway ;
Take responsibility for something that is not your fault because at this moment, on this phone call, you are the one person who can actually help me ;
Don't leave me hanging for a thank you ;
Tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear ;
Solve the problem before asking me to fix it ;
No it when I'm certain you're going to yes it ;
Yes it when I'm positive you're going to no it.

Shake me up. Keep me guessing. Surprise me. WTF Me.

Don't worry.  I'm reading this too.

I Can't Read

Okay, hold up.  Obviously I know how to read, I just can't read.

Seems like ages since I've been able to pick up a book and just lose myself in it.   Am I being Facebook'd, BBM'd, Text'd and Email'd to death ?  Is my attention span going the way of that annoying (yet highly informative) CP24 screen where it's just mandatory to focus on everything all at once ?

I don't like this.  I don't like the TVs in elevators giving me a new word for the day (I have enough words, thank you).  Can't we just stand there ?  Can't I just daydream about not being in an elevator heading up to work ?  There's too much going on all the time.  I'm being overstimulated.  My brain is being compartmentalized to such a degree I don't give anything much attention because I'm giving everything a little attention.   It's exhausting.  I actually think I'm having a hard time reading because my brain wants to do more than just simply read.

Too bad, brain, I'm taking you back to basics.  I love reading way too much to let you get the best of me.   

Sexy Jesus, Ricky Gervais and Why I LOVE Award Shows

What a raucous evening.  Thanks to that crazy bastard Ricky Gervais, this year's GGs (okay, newbie, it's the Golden Globes) was likely the best award show I've ever seen.  Add some great friends, a live West Coast Blackberry Messenger feed with SFW and free flowing wine to the equation and I don't think I've snort - laughed so hard in weeks.

My night was off to a great start when Christian Bale, still hotly rocking that Sexy Jesus look (which I am finding incredibly appealing, maybe too appealing?), won for The Fighter.  I keep forgetting he's Welsh.  Sexy Welsh Jesus.  Yes.   His speech was terrific, but I do feel anyone from the Commonwealth has an upper hand here, especially when accents are involved.

In truth, though, I don't necessarily watch award shows to see who will win.  I'm not vested.  I have my preferences, sure, but how can you really care ?  I like the aspect of winners and losers - the whole "I"m so honoured to be nominated" business is such pure crap it's funny.  One winner, four losers - next !  Love it.  I watch because where else can you say something remotely critical about the impossibly talented and beautiful Natalie Portman ?  Her dress looked like a used Valentine's Day Card.  Poor thing.  In that vein, Halle Berry must stop showing us her underwear - we get it, you're not one of us.  We bow to you.  Now, put some clothes on.  

In other random musings, I loved how the camera screwed up homewrecker Julia Stiles "nominee shot" when her name was called out for Dexter.  Karma !   And honestly, is anyone more oddly amazing than Tilda Swinton ?  A televisual film ?  Brilliant.  I do think she made Jennifer Love Hewitt's career by just simply calling out her name - how can you top that, Jen ? Can someone make a movie about David Bowie and cast Tilda Swinton ?  Would anything be more perfect ?  I really wish that after the rotten year Sandra Bullock had she would have found a more benevolent hair stylist - those bangs !  Those bangs !   I feel that Aaron Sorkin should save hyberbole like "David Fincher you're a National Treasure" for his scripts.  A national treasure ?  For reals ? I don't know if my heart is big enough for all the love I have for Colin Firth.  But then, I look at Jon Hamm and think, yes, yes, it is big enough for everyone.  It's great to see how two incredibly talented actors can get a tongue in cheek intro so completely RIGHT (thank you, Robert Downey Jr) and so completely WRONG (wow, Matt Damon, you're not funny).  I thought it was impossible for a man to look bad in a suit, then I caught a glimpse of that guy from Hung.  Perhaps it would have been a better idea for him to honour the evening appropriately and wear a tie of somesort? He looked like a (hot) mess, with an emphasis on mess.

So, I guess, I really love award shows because they allow me to get my catty bitch on.  Rage on, catty bitch ... the Oscars are just around the corner.

Seriously, Dude, REACHING OUT ?

We've all had our fair share of crummy dates and over time I have learned to appreciate my own for what they truly are:  perfect kick starts to endless conversions full of laughs and wine.  Good times.  Maybe not at the moment, but soon thereafter, oh yeah,  GREAT TIMES.

Last summer, after a string of particularly crummy dates, I hit the motherload.  The crummy date as no date.  In other words, the no-show.  Me. Bistro 990 waiting and waiting.  I ordered wine.  And then more wine.  And then I said, between gulps of wine,  screw you, asshole - I'm at Bistro 990, bring me the mussels!   Anyway,  the evening ended up as well as it could :  the lovely folks at Bistro took pity on me and comped my entire feel good fiesta;  I called saviour J on the way home and venomously tore this dude to shreds over a double dose of deliciousness at Ed's Real Scoop and I promised myself not to give this guy a second thought.  That went .. not great.  But, eventually,  you pick it up dust it off and live to tell another tale ..

Well, today, an email:  "Hey - thinking about you and thought I'd reach out and say hi".  I'd love to think that it took him 7 long months to properly punish himself for his behaviour (I'm thinking Paul Bettany in The Da Vinci Code) but realistically, he's obviously just dumb.  I wish I could do something painful to him, but I'm just not that vindictive and he's clearly not worth the jail time.  Mostly, though, I wish this email didn't take me back to that crappy place I was at last summer, throughout that night (wine, mussels and ice cream aside) and the probably too long time afterwards where I felt completely useless and unwanted and lost and, yes, alone.

So, dude, you'd like to reach out ?  Well, reach out to this : Fuck you.
  

Stop Thinking

This is something new to me.

You see, I recently signed up for an Improv class and the first thing we were told to do was to "stop thinking", or put another way, to "stop being perfect".  Listen, I don't have an issue with ceasing to be perfect as I haven't quite started yet, but not thinking ?  Huh ?

Too much thinking kills improv as you lose the moment, the impulse, the gut reaction and, ultimately,  (often) the laugh.   If you think (ha!) about it, too much thinking in life can kill the moment too.  We've all over - analysed a situation to the point of non existence, turned our minds around to the other side of a feeling or desire because maybe we were worried of consequence or reaction or, more often, we were just afraid. 

I like what improv is teaching me about this - to be in the moment, to focus on your current situation and just do / say / feel what comes to mind at that instant, in that second.  Undoubtedly, this is going to get me in quite a bit of trouble but you know what ?  I don't care.   No one said I was perfect.

Own Your Guilty Pleasure

I'm Greek.  I have a Greek mother.  I know guilt.

Guilt makes you do things you might not want to do.  Guilt makes you feel bad when you try to take a stand and not do that thing you didn't want to do.  Guilt comes at you like a freight train when you actually don't do that thing you didn't want to do.

Why would I want to feel guilty about something I actually do?  Something I actually like?  Something that pleases me?  

It's over! From this moment on I am owning my (formerly guilty) pleasures.  I don't care how unhip and nerdy they are.  The more embarrassing, the better.  They will no longer be whispered or hidden - they will be freed and enjoyed alongside all the other seemingly acceptable things I like and do.  All my pleasures will unite in non-judgmental happiness.

Seems like a good time to share some of these (formerly guilty) pleasures, yes?  No surprise, most are entertainment related.  I guess it's here where people can really let their cool shine, me, not so much.  I don't need to discover the next new hot band because that's what my cooler friends are for (and I'm too busy still listening to Depeche Mode).  Anyway, here goes:

I really dig 80s power rock.  Like Def Leppard and Whitesnake;

I have recently discovered a little crush on Josh Groban (admittedly, his recent singing of Kanye West tweets has moved him into the pleasure mainstream for many);

I LOVE EASY ROCK.  The more lame-ass the love song, the better;

(I can usually be seen in my car banshee singing, as is my style, to the above - also a (formerly guilty) pleasure.)

I PVR Hawaii Five O and suffer through some really dumb plots waiting for Alex O'Loughlin to take his shirt off;

I love a good figure skating competition;

I love buying dishtowels.  I'm not really sure why;

I religiously watch Brothers & Sisters and cry like a baby at every episode without fail;

I love Grape Crush.  Why is it so hard to find?

I am an awards show junkie;

I love Jennifer Lopez.  The actress;

I have never met a musical I didn't adore;

I spent my university years pleasure reading Danielle Steel, and I liked it.  Alot.

The list is clearly not exhaustive, but you get the idea.

I feel terrific - liberated and free!  Try it.  OWN YOUR GUILTY PLEASURE.  Take comfort in your lack of cool and save your guilt for something else.  Like your mom.

Today Is The Day ...

... I out myself as a world class hypocrite.  Okay, perhaps hypocrite is a bit harsh. And likely "world class" is a bit overreaching, but you get the picture. It's so much easier to dismiss something you don't know anything about than to actually try it / see it / learn it and form an opinion.  Who doesn't do this?  Who doesn't do this ALL THE TIME?    So, yes, I've dismissed Blogs.  And here I am with my very own Blog (by force or dare is of no matter).  I'm not sure what you can expect, as I'm not quite sure myself.  Let's comfort ourselves in being lost together.  I'll  get it out, you'll take it in.  There will be observations of the daily life variety, judgements of the highly opinionated kind, eye rolling of the highest order and - above all - laughing at and with.  I'm excited and curious ... you?