Day 4

Man, oh, man am I weak.

I thank the good Lord above – and my parents who instilled great feelings of guilt and fear in me – for not allowing me to become addicted to meth (or similar) because if my getting off Facebook is any indication of how I’d be getting off meth (or similar)I’d be in big-ass trouble.

I really feel I’m missing out on everything.  What is going on?  No, seriously, what is going on?  What is everyone up to?  What is everyone doing?  I want to know. I need to know.  Is there anyone out there because it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.  (Hit new low:  quoting Maroon 5).

I mildy resorted (aka demanded) some newsfeed news from a friend of mine and, as all friend must do in these situations, she said no.  She wasn’t going to enable me.  That’s some tough love and, yes, SF, I thank you.  You did the right thing but right now I really hate you. 

WWWAAAA. 

Yup.  That’s me whiny crying.  Attractive, huh?  I think this is what they call the “withdrawal” stage.  I am channelling Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting.  Ah, Ewan.

Don’t you worry.  I’m sticking with this, and valiantly braved my first real test this morning: the Royal Wedding without FB wall posts & updates.  Very, Very Hard.  It felt like I was living in a remote village in Laos and listening to broken satellite radio.  Very, Very Isolating.  But, I survived! And, as I am more stubborn than weak – if that makes sense - I will persevere.  But what I really want to know is, when I quit going to the gym (which is, like, very often) why don’t I have the sudden urge to do a push up?  Why can’t I miss that?

Obviously I need a new addiction.  This is apparently very common, at least Dr Drew from Celebrity Addiction says so.  Thankfully, spring is the perfect time to get one – no, not gardening - I’d rather take up meth (or similar).  I’m going back to some very serious roots and gearing up for the most wonderful time of year: NHL Playoffs.  Now that the most insufferable team in professional sports is out (Oui, Les Habitants, c’est vous!) and my adopted hometown of Vancouver is making their huge play, I am focused.   

NHL Playoffs are a tough time in Toronto.  It’s been 6 years since the Buds have been in the playoffs and a whole lot longer since they made a difference in the playoffs.  I wasn’t born in the Leafs glory days and if they keep things up like they have been no one will have been, but I was certainly alive, kicking and hollering in 1993 when the Leafs went all the way to the Conference Finals.  Tell me you remember this!  They shockingly eliminated Detroit (I’m still fake-apologizing to Stevie Y); served it up to Cujo and The Blues (I love sports – Cujo ‘sucked’ when he was with The Blues but was the best.goalie.ever. when he was traded to Toronto) and, of course, courtesy of #1 (but not in my books) Canadian Gretzky and helmet-coiffed Kerry Fraser’s missed call, lost to The Kings and missed out – no we all missed out – on what would have been the best NHL Final Ever – Leafs & Habs, straight up, no fooling.  This 1993 team was something else – not full of talent, per se, but full of heart (yes, that’s you Dougie Gilmour), with a hot goalie (yes, that’s you Felix Potvin) and led by the original fiery Irishman (yes, that’s you, RIP, Pat Burns). Where is even a reasonable facsimile of this team now? Do they make teams like this anymore?  I firmly believe – as all Leaf fans do, and no it’s not delusional – that if it wasn’t for that missed call the Leafs would have been Stanley Cup Champions that year (Vous le savez, Habitants!).  What a gloriously nostalgic trip down memory lane.  Okay – I’m on it: Playoffs 2011.  With Wayne & Kerry retired I think my new team has a real chance.  And listen, as a girl who has taken a drink from the Stanley Cup - straight up, no fooling - I know what I’m talking about.

I’m really counting on you, Vancouver.  You can help me stem this tide of FB Withdrawal as we walk the path to the Cup together. Don’t let me down.

GO CANUCKS!*

*(I’m really sorry, but that still doesn’t sound as good as GO LEAFS! Sigh.)

The Four Letter Word

I swear.  Not often (although I should probably ask people I talk to how often they think I swear), but I do.  I used to consider it a refuge for poor communicators, but now I have come to appreciate that nothing really accentuates a sentiment like a well placed fuck.

In any event, the four letter word that is most taboo in my vocabulary right now isn’t of the swearing variety, it’s of the mood and feeling variety.

Right now, well for a long right now, my most dangerous 4 letter word is expectation.

On its own, the word is rather amazing: the act or state of looking forward or anticipating.

Who doesn’t love looking forward to things?  Anticipation?  Oh, la!  I’m all over that.

The issue with expectation though, is when you tack it onto people.  When you expect and anticipate things from people and, well, they fall short.  They fall short of your expectations and you become disappointed.  Disappointed in the person and ultimately disappointed in yourself for having these expectations in the first place.

To avoid disappointment, you ‘manage’ or ‘temper’ expectations by not really expecting much of anyone.  Anything you get, any bone you’re thrown, is a bonus.  Or, you shift your expectations depending on who you’re dealing with; it seems logical to not expect the same things from everyone because not everyone’s the same.  Both these options seem pretty crappy to me.     

Are my expectations too high?  Am I expecting too much?  I’m going to say yes.  But I really think no.

I was brought up by some pretty rock solid role models – there was never any waver, never any doubt, about anything.  They were there.  All. The. Time.  The word anchor seems light in relation.  When you grow up like this, this is what you come to, well, expect - that people, the people you chose to have in your life, will be there.  They will be to you what you are to them:  present; engaged; interested; caring; thoughtful; consistent.   No excuses, no slack.  I realise this is tough and so much to ask for, but when you grow up in a house where your Dad’s credo was “leave the bullshit on the side”, you understand where I’m coming from – give it to me straight and get on with it - everyone’s got a problem, but don’t use it as an excuse for your behaviour.

So, that’s what I’m going to do – I’m going to give it to you straight and get on with it:

I’m not managing my expectations anymore, nor am I making “that’s the way they are” excuses for anyone.  I’m getting on with it – if you want to come along, the more the merrier but, please, leave the bullshit on the side.

Hello, My Name Is ... Repeat.

This happens to you, right?  You’re introduced to someone – who you have been introduced to a million times before – and they see, greet, acknowledge you as if for the first time.

What up, chump?

I’m not saying I’m the most interesting person in world and how dare you forget me, but seriously? Are memories the world over really that bad? 

I really enjoy calling people out on this.  I know it’s mean and probably not the socially acceptable thing to do, but I simply can’t help myself.

“Carmen, you remember my friend Olga.”

“Uh, no, it's nice to meet you, Olga.”

“Hi Carmen, we’ve actually met a number of times before – terrific to see you again.”

I have had this particular exchange with this particular Carmen at least 4 times.  I’ve told our mutual friend to simply stop re-introducing us but he refuses as he thinks it’s rude in case either one of us has forgotten our names.

What up, chump? 

We can all deal with forgetting a name, but completely forgetting a person? I don’t think the Carmens of the world really care but I do.  I’d like to think that I remember people I meet, even in passing, and even if I don’t I can find a polite way to wiggle out of the embarrassment of not remembering.  A kind and deferential apology, laced with a bit of humour usually does the trick. “Wow, please forgive me, my memory is really not what it used to be!”  How hard is that? I don’t have a problem laying responsibility where it should lie – in this case - at the foot of the forgetful because it is I, the forgetful, that is on the other side of right.  Complete oblivion leading to newfound re-introductions bewilder me – especially with a soft lead in, I mean, come on.  Obviously people generally don’t pay enough attention.  Obviously people generally forget things.  All cool, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to call you on it.   I know I should probably let it lie, I get that I'm likely being petty, I realize that two social wrongs don't make a right, but you know what - I don't care.  We're not apparitions, we're people.  Remember that.

The Power of The Book. The Facebook.

Hi.  My name is Olga and I'm a Facebook Addict.  It's been 40 minutes since I last 'liked' something.

Sounds rather weird, but it's so totally true.  I spent a few days  tracking how much time I spend on FB and the like and I was shocked.  Actually mortified.  For people like me - the easily distracted types with short attention spans and the propensity to bore easily, FB is God.  Or, The Devil.  Hours of tangential surfing and clicking and commenting and looking.  The Devil.  It's The Devil.

I get that it's all fun and perfect brain relief on stressful days, but for me it's become a huge time suck that's taking me away from all the things I should be doing (I have been reading the same book for 4 months.  This is insane.  It's a great book, from what I remember!) and also distracting me from what I am doing (when at home I watch TV and most movies with my laptop on my lap, half paying attention.  I'm not sure if this is a laptop issue or a social media issue or an ADD issue, but I'm trying to isolate the problem.).

So, let's isolate the problem.  I’m saying goodbye to Facebook for at least 30 days.  Done & Done.  I will miss ye.  I'm already panicked about all the news I'm not getting.  All the witty comments I'm not making.  All the events I've been invited to but don't know about.  All the pictures I can't see.  The running commentaries on television shows - that will be the hardest of all! How will my friends and "friends" survive without my crackerjack status updates?  Hopefully this won't be the start of a downward slide to social retardation.  That would be a shame.  But maybe not if it's also the start of a constantly sparkly clean home, back to normal book reading, doing my real life job and a return to focus.

Who knows, I may find something else to distract me and as long as it’s not needlepoint I’m okay with that – I’ll likely now be writing 10 times a day.  Poor you.  I’m sorry.  But I have to do this for me.

This is a huge challenge.  But I'm likely overstating things.  We can get used to anything.

YES, yes we can.  YES, yes I can.

Assigning A Type

Are you a type?  More specifically, are you a type of friend?

Are you The Sycophant?  The Downer? The Voice of Reason?  The Lazy? The Planner?  The Fair-weather? The Solid?  The Clueless? The Joker? The Cerebral?  The Flake? The Party?

Depending on your mood and what’s needed at any given time, we draw on certain friends to get us through.  Nothing wrong with this, really.  Long hard day at work?  Call The Party!  Need to bounce some life in the balance ideas off someone?  Hello Solid!  If you’re really lucky though, your bestest friends are all of these friends rolled into one, yes, even the not so great parts, and roll with whatever punch you need.  The not so great parts aren’t too bad because it’s the great parts you focus on.  Friends, that’s what they do.

The problem, though, is when you become primarily classed as only one type of friend.  The Joker friend who is really fun but can’t have a serious conversation to save their life.  Or The Downer, who is just so damn glass half empty and negative about everything it’s a wonder they can even celebrate Christmas.  I have issues with The Flakes because your friends shouldn’t need constant reminding that you actually exist.  Either way, from the Joker to the Downer to the Flake, there’s no balance.  I realize my examples are a bit extreme – we all have aspects of our personality that manifest themselves for better or worse at any given time during any given day – but when you’re no longer capable of rolling and casting a wider view, it does become a problem. 

Fixing the problem isn’t all that hard – your bestest friends will always cut you the necessary slack and let you be bummed out (for a time) or ridiculously silly (for a time) or OCD (for a time) or whatever you need (for a time) at any given time – and we have to do this too.  It’s all about listening and being thoughtful and present for those we care about, and those that care about us.  So maybe I’ve talked myself around this completely - it’s not about types at all, but about listening and being there and being thoughtful as a friend for your friends.  Yes, this is better.  We can all be a better type of friend like this.

Quotable - Part Three

"Yeah, I got married at 24 I'm 38 now. Not a good idea. You know, my wife's amazing but so what."

Random knucklehead, working some moves, quite late, Thursday April 21st, 2011.

Yes, the freaks DO come out at night.

Combo Special

I know there are far too many words in the English language already and we really don’t need to be inventing others, but sometimes, sometimes you just have to.  At least I do.  Don’t you ?

My made up words are actually word combos used for full effect when just one word is simply not enough to convey what I’m feeling.  One word simply won’t do.  My favourite word combo illustrates this perfectly:

Shiteous.  Shitty + Hideous = Shiteous.

Saying something is shitty is not only rather crude, but doesn’t truly encapsulate the full on feeling of distaste and nose crinkle you need. Saying it’s hideous really only conveys the appearance of the thing.  Shiteous, though?  It’s brilliant.  A perfect adjective to convey a most inferior, contemptible repulsiveness. 

I obviously needed to counter this with something positive, so here comes …

Hilarical.  Hilarious + Hysterical = Hilarical.

It’s uncontrollable, comedic merriment!  So much better than just “funny” or “uncontrolled”. 

Be careful though.  I had someone say “celebate” to me once and I thought they were combining “celibate” and “celebrate” -  I don’t really feel being celibate is something to celebrate (unless you’re Morrissey and that's just too bad) and perhaps this person didn't either, they had just dropped the ‘r’ from celebrate because I think they were dumb.  You don’t want people thinking you’re dumb when you wordcombo, because it’s not dumb it’s pure genius.  And a little insazy (crazy + insane = insazy). 

I’m telling you, hours of fun.  HOURS.  Try it.

Quotable - Part 2

"Not fair - you know I'm all about animals and teen angst."

                                                M. Brady, Wednesday April 20th 2011, after being called out for being a "hard ass", before admitting to getting a little misty-eyed over Friday Night Lights. Amazing.

Give It A Whirl

Ever been so totally and utterly out of your element your only option - as there's no chance of escape - was to dive right in ? 

A number of years ago I had an entire out of my element weekend (no, I wasn't camping - shut up) and as the after effects are still with me, I can tell you that being out of your element is good.  Very, very good.

Backstory

My sister in law's a bit kookie.  Well, to me anyway.  I'm black and white, she's grey.  I'm organized and planned, she flies by the seat of her pants.  Little things bother me way more than they should, most big things don't stress her a bit.  I love all the ways she's not like me.  A further point of difference is she just believes things, I need to understand them.  The only things I can accept without explanation of 'how' is most forms of technology and The Evil Eye (it's a Greek thing).  Wow.  Just writing that officially qualifies me as an 80 year old person.  I will need to delve into that at some point, but for now, back to my weekend.  My sister in law (SIL) has a huge family and the girls of the family had planned to head up to one of their cottages for a spiritual retreat kind of weekend.   Yes, I know.  Me and a spiritual retreat ? I mean, Why ?  I don’t even like yoga because it’s too earth-crunchy for me.  But really, come on, why not ?  At most I'd be spiritually awakened, at worst a weekend at the cottage.  I am incredibly sceptical, but okay – I will give it a whirl ! I'm a yes person, remember ?!  Spiritual Retreat Here I Come !

The Sweat Lodge

Step One on my quest for spiritual enlightenment was the Sweat Lodge.  So, a Sweat Lodge is very hot.  Let's call it a ceremonial sauna, in a tent.  A hole is dug in the ground and super hot rocks (heated in a fire outside the tent) are brought into the tent and placed in the hole and you sit around the hole and get really hot and sweaty.  You go around the circle and talk about what brought you to the purifying ceremony and what you want to get out of it in a higher learning kind of way.  All the while, you’re getting really hot and really sweaty.  Basically, a Sweat Lodge is the spiritual world's version of Vegas because what goes on in Sweat Lodge stays in Sweat Lodge and I respect that, so I can only tell you that once it was all over I was crying like a baby, I mean, it was crazy.  I think that perhaps heat and sweat have an effect on tear ducts because it was full on sob material for everyone.  So, lots of tears and tons of hot and sweaty.  I think it was rather cathartic and also great for my skin.  Sweat Lodge !  Okay, not a bad start to this weekend of wonder.

Animal Totems

Next up, we must determine our animal totems.  The weekend was based on the spiritual principles of Native Americans, and their tradition provides that people are connected to a totem animal that is with you for life, both in the physical and spiritual world.  Though people may identify with different animal guides throughout their lifetimes, it is this one totem animal that acts as the main guardian spirit.

To be honest, I cannot remember how we figured out our totems but I know we did and I came up with two because it was close.  Freak.  Even in the spiritual world. 

I’m a bit excited about this.  After getting my good cry on at Sweat Lodge, I’m thinking EAGLE, HORSE, SWAN.   How misguided I am.  I get bee and penguin.  Seriously, how pissed was I.  Out of all the animals in the world, I get a bird that can't fly and an annoying bug you run away from.  Thanks totem!

Upon closer inspection, though, I was not only the freak of the spiritual world.  I was freaked out with the spiritual world. 

Aside from the annoying buzzing and potential stinging of a bee, what do you think of when you think of a bee?  Busy.  Busy as a bee.  They buzz from one flower to the next, looking and searching, they get into this and into that and buzz and hover and fly around some more.  What do I do?  I get into this, I get into that.  I plan this, I plan that.  I’m freaking busy.  I’m sure it’s possible for bees to just hang, but they can’t because they need to buzz and fly and look for that pollen.  I’m sure it’s possible for me to just hang too, but that seems boring.  I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for (ah, if only it was as easy as pollen!) but maybe that’s why I’m buzzing to find my pollen.  Freakin’ bee. 

And now, the penguin.  I was told to lose the lame-ass notion of penguin as “bird that can’t fly” and focus on the look of the bird.  Penguins are dressed in a perpetual tuxedo, they look perfect without even trying.  People with penguin totems need things to be perfect all the time – messes, whether physical or emotional, are not for them – and sometimes the appearance of perfection is chosen over the actuality of mess or conflict.  I like things clean, but sometimes throw things in a closet when company’s coming over. I always answer “great!” or “fine!” when someone asks how I am because I figure who cares otherwise and I absolutely have a hard time talking about gross feelings when they’re not all that pleasant.  I’m not entirely sure if having a penguin totem actually means you prefer living on the surface of things or if you are actually a superficial person and I didn’t want to ask.  Did I just answer my own question?  Fuckin’ penguin.

The Rock

So now I am positively freaked out.  I’ve cried like I haven’t in years and have been called out by two of the most benign animals going.  After a feast of Italian yumminess and a very restful night sleep, we’re back at it for Day Two.  Off we go into the forest to find a rock.  We can’t really look for the rock, it needs to find us. I don’t really understand this, aren’t we looking for rocks?  But, after I trip over a rock I figure my rock as has indeed found me.  Once inside, we need to look at the rock and see what it’s telling us.  Apparently, the lines on the rock tell a story about us and our lives and where we’ve been and where we’re going.   I stare.  I stare at the lines.  I stare at the lines and come up with nothing.  After a few minutes, the room starts to pipe up with tales out of Narnia – magical horses and paths that lead to a mystical place.  One of the girls simply saw herself sitting on a beach.  Everyone laughed.  Hello?!  I’d kill for that. I see nothing.  I see lines.  I’m getting frustrated (surprisingly, neither the bee nor penguin are easily frustrated creatures) and beginning to feel like a big spiritual retreat failure.  I think the whole point of being at a spiritual retreat is NOT to get frustrated and annoyed, but, as they say, you can take a horse to water but you can’t make them drink.  I’m trying!  D, SILs sister, who is our leader and all things spiritual and calm, sees this.  She’s a really remarkable woman – the type of person who can simply look at you and all of a sudden you feel okay and calm - the epitome of serene.  I want her to move in with me.  Anyway, she sees me mildly panicked and freaked out and comes over to me and simply says “sometimes, there’s nothing there and that’s fine too”.  Oh, good god – THANK YOU!  I feel calmed and relieved and not a total failure.  Now, maybe she just said that to make me feel better but she’s the leader and she’s allowed.  I’m totally fine with that.

Everafter

It’s been almost 6 years since my out of element spiritual retreat weekend. Lots has happened on the good and bad side of me since then.  I can’t truly say the weekend helped me deal with any of it better, but it did make me acknowledge that for all my structure, predictability, organization and hyperbusiness, I, too, can look at the world wide open.  I haven’t completely forged ahead with a life of awakening and totems and rock drawings, but I can just “hang” a bit better.  I can “not plan”, sort of.  It is possible to let go of all control and direction.  Most important, though, I now know I can totally shut off my scepticism and need to know and just believe in something totally outside of me, if only for a short while. I think this is pretty good.  Actually, I think it’s pretty damn great. 

Dive In.  Say Yes.

There is nothing to lose but your own preconceived notions. 

Give It A Whirl.

Fix It

Interested in testing the mettle of a relationship ?

Embark on some sort of home- type project with someone.

Any project, any someone.

It's here you'll truly see how your teamwork skills, good humour, perfectionist tendencies, stubbornness, leader/follower attributes and all the rest of the real good stuff matches up for good or evil.

At best, you'll both come out roses after sharing a few laughs and head shakes, gazing adoringly at the freshly painted wall or Ikea bookshelf.  At worse, two bruised egos a few extra holes in the wall and lots to talk about (like how you're NEVER ever doing that again).

Try it and do let me know how it goes.

Cover Me

My latest issue of Vanity Fair has been on my kitchen counter for over a week now.

I haven't cracked it open.  Not because I don't want to, but because I simply can't.  I simply can't crack it open because every time I try, the mesmerizing gaze of Rob Lowe makes me stop dead in my tracks and simply stare right back.  His eyes follow me, like my own photo Mona Lisa, around my place and back again to when I'm trying, once again, to turn the cover page and read the blasted magazine.

Rob Lowe was my teenage dream.  Adoration to the max.  Remember Youngblood ?  Rob playing hockey ?  Double dose dreamy.  There were the Brat Pack movies, and the sex tape scandal and that weird nanny trial thing and the TV shows (oh, how I loved you Sam Seaborn) and of course the infamous Snow White Oscar Dance and all the while Rob maintains his crazy non - aging self like he's in some pact with the devil. Rob, adeptly combining a pretty boy face and manly guyness, is our Brad Pitt prototype.  Only he's aging way better (Well maybe better isn't the word - he's not aging AT ALL) and is really, really good at comedy because it seems like he likes to make fun of his pretty boy persona (Californication anyone?).

Oh, Rob ... Please look away so I can read the magazine.  There are likely more pictures of you inside.

Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume Six - Mr Soap & Postscript

I’ve saved my worst date ever for last.  Yes, last.  I’m done with this series.  Who am I to complain ?  I’m sure there are a zillion guys writing about their crummy dates with me – okay, not a zillion, but you get my point – I’m not  perfect, obviously, and I am a bit tired. I feel like Charlotte from Sex in The City when she proclaimed “Where Is He?!” Hopefully, not struck by lightening at the age of 18 is all I can say.  He’s out there, I guess.  Maybe we’ll meet in the ER in our 80s:  I’ve been Code Blued and am on a gurney heading to surgery, he’s being fitted for a walker. It’ll be so sweet and romantic because it’ll just click over A535 and we’re both finally ready.  I’m such a dreamer, but I like being this way, and I’ll get back there.  Eventually.  Until then, I leave you with Mr Soap.

Volume Six – Mr Soap

Where to begin but the beginning:  planning this outing was a labour from the get-go and I realize that it’s mostly my fault.  You see, I make decisions all day long and it is beyond great when someone actually makes a decision for me, most especially in the social realm.  This is counter-intuitive to my personality, so I get it’s confusing but really, when I say “I’m good with anything, you decide” I REALLY MEAN IT.  Tell me where to go.  Tell me what time to meet you.  I am a very adept follower.  I will never, ever say “no Italian” after I tell you I’m good with anything and you say “great, how’s Thai”.  That’s just retarded.  More retarded is planning ping – pong where it’s a never-ending game of “where do you want to go, it doesn’t matter where do you want to go”.  I was engaged in a very drawn out battle of planning ping-pong with Mr Soap and I finally white flagged it, suggesting a place near my office for drinks.  He immediately  rebuked it as “too swish” and promptly suggested some other place, a second from his house, near the Market.  Could you not have mentioned this earlier, Mr Soap, and saved me the double play of retardness and ping – pong ?  Anyway, whatever, we’ve got plans.    

Day of and I’m a bit concerned.  There is one may-jah snow storm going on outside.  Like the kind where the newspeople tell you to stay home and GO Trains are cancelled and it’s just a top grade shit show outside.  I really really just want to take the newspeople’s advice and go home but I’m worried I’ll be perceived as same – day cancellation girl (this is rude) so I extend a very wishy-washy “perhaps it would be best to reschedule” offer to Mr Soap.  He was having none of it.  He’s from London (Ontario) and therefore quite used to this kind of weather (okay, now, I’m no meteorologist but is London ON really a super snow storm training ground type of place?  I’ve really only been there once  – at a crazy frat party at Western which I really don’t remember much of – so I really can’t say but, really, is it?  I have no idea) so we would meet at his suggested place at 6pm, dammit. 

Off I go for my little adventure in the snowstorm to end all snowstorms.  It’s cold and snowy rainy and windy.  Snow is getting into my knee high boots.  My hair is frozen.  The usual 10 minute walk takes me close to half an hour.  By the time I get there, I am brittle and my coat is actually soaking wet.  My hair is matted to my head and I have mascara streaking down my face (confirmed after I screamed when I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror).  All this would have been totally fine and rather funny was I not required to make a decent impression!  I mean honestly!  I did the best I could, but it was definitely not best in show material.  Oh well, I figure I’m more a personality person anyway.

Things start off not so bad but it doesn’t take long for me to realize that Mr Soap is one weird dude.  The factoids of information about him are so fascinating and peculiar I’m riveted and not in a good way.

I told him I didn’t particularly care for spicy food (i.e I don’t like it) but he orders the spiciest entrée on the menu for us to share because the portions are very large and he’s not that hungry.  Oh, one of those guys.  Great.  What about me?  I was just on an Outward Bound Adventure!  Can I please have a full plate of Shanghai Noodles?!  And not ones that are going to set my mouth on fire!  He was obviously the smart one there because all those noodles were his.  Well played, Mr Soap, well played.

There is no wine / beer for Mr Soap because alcohol aggravates him (as a concept?).  Thankfully, I do not have this problem in theory or practice, so load me up.

After he pulls out a small vial of hand lotion (I know, I could stop there) and offering me some (how kind) he goes on to advise that he has eczema on much of his body and needs to be very careful about the products he uses.  Okay.  OKAY.  This is a great deal of personal information to be hitting someone with, isn’t it?  In fairness, eczema isn’t really on the same sexy surprise meter as a tattoo, so perhaps best to full disclosure it before discovering it on your own, but should you tell me NOW, like right NOW?  I mean, when I first saw Mr Soap I could totally see myself kissing him – get over yourself, you do this too - he was really attractive.  But now ?  Now I can only think of what else lies beneath his cute button down and warm looking zipped sweater.  Ew.

Why wonder?  Mr Soap is a one man TMI machine.  So, back to the hand lotion.  Due to the eczema and the product issues, Mr Soap actually makes his own hand lotion.  He also makes his own candles.  This is all sorts of weird. What guy makes hand lotion and candles?  Like, when you were on those public school field trips to Black Creek Pioneer Village the women were inside making candles and churning butter while the men were outside tending to the horses and chopping heads off chickens.  That’s just the way it’s supposed to be.  I don’t think we’ve evolved that much as a species where men are now making candles, at least I don’t want my men that evolved and making candles.  Kill me a chicken, I’ll make you a candle (or, light one), okay? 

Anyway, it’s one bizarro- world tale after another and I can’t get enough.   You know I find weirdos fascinating and now that I know there is no chanceLance of a romantic interlude of any kind whatsoever with Mr Soap I’m in for shits & giggles.  This is so amazing I can’t stand it.   I mean, it’s the crummiest date EVER but as a human species investigation it is top notch.  And it’s not over!

We’re onto other ‘interest’ type topics now and, in truth, mine are rather pedestrian.  I do what everyone else does – I go to movies, I take a few classes, I hang with my friends, I read, I take trips, nothing really revolutionary, nothing ultra peculiar.  Mr Soap?  Well, aside from the candle and hand lotion making he also makes – yes – you know it – SOAP.

Wha?  How?  Why?  I need to know.  I need to know more.  My soap making knowledge is limited to memories of my Yiayia (that’s my grandmother non-Greeks) making it in the village and, of course, Fight Club.  I know it’s a dangerous endeavour – I mean, the lye can actually kill you.  Or sear off your skin.  In any event it’s pretty hardcore.  Mr Soap tells me that as long as he has all the windows in his 500 square foot apartment open and cranks all the floor fans to high, he’s not in any danger.  Well, okay then, those seem like normal and logical precautions when engaging in a hobby, right? This daredevil quality, combined with the soap making itself is making Mr Soap somewhat fascinating to me, and I am on “date” after all.  So I hit Mr Soap with the highest of compliments: “you know, when you tell me you make soap you kinda remind me of Brad Pitt in Fight Club”.  I really meant it.  I mean, Mr Soap was good looking, he was weird and he made soap – that’s closer to Tyler Durden that most guys, isn’t it?  But, of course Mr Soap didn’t get it.  He said:

“Oh no, Olga.  It’s not like that at all, when I make soap I don’t use human fat.”

Jesus Fucking Christ.   The tide has officially turned.  This is no longer an amazing human science experiment, is it?  This is fucked up.  I am on a date with a guy who actually thinks he needs to clarify that he doesn’t use human matter to engage in a weird ass hobby because he has an unfortunate skin condition.  So many thoughts are running through my brain.  Where would you get human fat anyway?  A garbage bin of a liposuction clinic?  Was I a potential donor?  Perhaps he should have ordered me ALL the noodles.  Am I in danger? Should I be afraid? Holy Shit – he WAS Tyler Durden.  Help?!

Nevermind all that.  Mr Soap was a class A weirdo, and as Joe Pesci proclaimed in My Cousin Vinny “I’m Done With This Guy”.   I’m done with the lava heat noodles and the eczema and the candle making and the fans on high and the non human fat soap making and everything.  I’m done with everything.  I trudged through a snowstorm and all I want to do is go home and call my best friend and wail into the phone with frustration about where all the normal guys are.  Soon we’d be laughing about it - how can’t you - but dating shouldn’t really be about developing material to entertain your friends with.  At least not all time.  It also shouldn’t be about disappointments and questions and a cavalcade of knuckleheads and weirdos.  At least not all the time. 

You know Mr Soap called me to go out again.  Of course he did.  The weirdos always do.  Yes, girls, you know they always do.  Which makes me wonder if that’s it – is this what life has in store for me?  Is what I’m giving off bringing this back to me?   Is this all my magnet is capable of attracting?  Sometimes I’m certain yes.  But mostly I hope no. 

Mainly, though, and this is really the postscript of this series, I don’t know why it’s so hard.  Am I making it hard?  Probably.  I mean my list of wants must be completely unattainable:  I’d like a nice, somewhat normal fella to hang  and do stuff with. Someone who is thoughtful in a sweet way, who listens and remembers things.  Who calls me for no other reason but to just shoot the breeze. Who is completely okay with the fact that I’m far from perfect but maybe wants to help me along with some of these things.  Someone who is tough enough to call me on my shit and not back down because we all know I’m pretty obstinate when I want to be.  Who eats things I make and bake, even if they may not be his favourites, simply because I made & baked them.  Someone who wants to kiss me just as much as I want to kiss them.  A fella that gets me, and if he doesn’t wants to try and figure me out.   Someone who will let me take care of him, because that’s what I like to do with people I care about.  Maybe I’ll even let him take care of me a little bit too.  Mainly, though, just a nice somewhat normal fella who makes me smile equally wide when I’m with him, or just thinking about him.   That’s about it, really.  Doesn’t seem like much, but it obviously is because, well, it just is.  I guess I could back down on my list of demands, but this isn’t a hostage negotiation, it’s a life situation and I feel I need to stick to my guns, especially about the kissing part.     

I need clarity.  I need to get my good vibes back.  I must stop the wrenching (and, yes, hilarious) trip down memory lane because it’s bringing me down.  I don’t like being down.  I need to start anew.  But first I just want to take a break. Who knows how long this break will last, hopefully not too long, but you never know about these things.  We’ll see how it all pans out.  In the meantime, I’m done with these Mistahs and all types of other Mistahs and will focus on a summer of fun with my Sistahs.  We’re in this together. 

Always.

Blue Raincoat

Bought a blue raincoat the other day.

Doubtful my blue raincoat will ever become a "famous blue raincoat".

But when I wear my blue raincoat, I DO feel like I could take Manhattan.  Then, I could definitely take Berlin.  If I knew what dancing to the end of love meant, I'd do that too. And all the while Leonard Cohen will be singing to me - he'd be singing those songs, with that voice.

And when Leonard's singing and I'm wearing my blue raincoat, I feel pretty invincible. I also feel pretty, uh, well, how can I say, you know, kinda ... oh ... my ...

I bought a blue raincoat the other day.

The Non-Message Message

When someone calls you and doesn't leave a message are you supposed to call them back because you've seen their number on your call display ?

When someone calls you THA-REE (3, three) times and doesn't leave a message are you supposed to mention this when you call them back and leave a message (because this is the proper thing to do) ?

Why don't people leave messages ?

The only person I accept this socially retarded behaviour from is my Mom because being a mom absolves all sorts of peculiarities (ONLY from your kids, not the world at large) and she calls at least 5 times a day anyway, with riveting questions like "is this week's Good Wife new" and "why are you never home?" or my favourite "I've been calling you at work all morning, why don't you answer the phone?".  Pretty cute.

Anyway, I don't know what to do about this non message message.  If you didn't take the time to leave me a message, should I take the time to return your call ?  But then what if you don't call back ? Why did you call in the first place ?  I don't want to wait to see you to find out !  Was this a random phone shout out for someone to talk to or a serious cry for help ? Did you get your answer elsewhere ?  Have you moved on to the next ? Why are you teasing me with conversation ?!

Do you see ?  Do you see why you need to leave messages ?

Get the message.  Leave a message. 

Stttrreeech

A few moons ago a pal of mine was mildly complaining about her boyfriend.  She had issues with his perceived irresponsibility - he liked to take off with a moment's notice to places like Iraq and Pakistan to see what was going on.  He'd be incommunicado and she'd worry and she wondered how inconsiderate he could be to continually do this without acknowledging all her worry and annoyance.  All this really bugged her, and, as girls are wont to do we discuss and vent.

I could totally see why my friend was annoyed, but she really didn't have a right to be.  You see, what attracted her to him in the first place - what totally knocked her socks off - was his spontaneity.  It was the first thing she'd say when you asked her what she liked about him - granted, not necessarily #1 on everyone's list but hey, birds and feathers find each other, right?  So, here she is, falling for a guy because he's spontaneous and now she's annoyed at him because he's taken his spontaneity to a point where, to her, it became irresponsible.  Not fair.

We all have this in us.  I have a guy at work who gets so incredibly caught up in "the man is out to get us" scenarios he loses focus on the big picture of everything.  This is the same guy who delves into stock analysis research and solves all sorts of problems with such tenacity clients are awed.  I’m awed.  Sure, his doomsday prophecies and constant ranting are incredibly aggravating, but he can’t be determined and focused and tenacious only when it serves the powers of good.  We have to take his personality traits – and how he expands them – all together as one.

Personality expansion is part of who we are, what makes us us.  We all stretch the positive out to something not so positive and, yes, this is the “work” part of human interaction - because we have to work and think about the seed of the thing.  Is there a flip side, a mirror, a stretch that you may not be considering when you dismiss someone or become annoyed at them ?  Usually, yes, sometimes, no - there are absolutely personality traits that are just wrong:  I can’t ever find a positive base for being perpetually mean, bitchy, angry or inconsiderate, sorry, but these people aren’t worth your time anyway, so there’s no need for investigation. 

So next time you think you’ve got someone all figured out on the negative, give a little think to the potential positive – your flighty receptionist is likely super chipper all the time; your worry-wart Mom is for sure super caring and thoughtful; your overbearing boss is probably incredibly diligent and organized.   Doesn’t this seem like a more well rounded approach to life ? 

I think so too.

(Yes, sometimes my optimism can be mistaken for delusional, but hopefully now you’re personality expansion-ing me too. And my friends ?  Engaged – he’s slightly reigned in his “Tours of Terrorism” and she’s still loving his spontaneity.)

Quotable - Part 1

"Thia Olga, arms are made for hugging."   

                  Nicolas, Age 5, to me (Thia Olga).  Saturday April 9, 2011.

"Lay 'em on me, baby."  

                  Thia Olga, Age 40, to Nicolas.  A nanosecond later, Saturday April 9, 2011.


This was the highlight of my weekend.  Of course.

:)

Friday, I'm In Love ! Volume Five - Mr SelfRighteous

Welcome to Friday, I’m in Love!  This Friday series will share my tales, both funny and absurd, but mostly funny, from my real life as a crummy dater.  Or, maybe just my crummy dates.  Either way, these cautionary tales are public service announcements for the heart weary and hopeful – read wisely, carefully.  These “types of dates” are rare breeds indeed, so, please, fellas, don’t be insulted – and also don’t be one of these guys.   Ladies:  interesting times, yes.  On the bright side, I've already spent time with these quirky cats so you don’t have to and you’re welcome.

Volume  Five – Mr SelfRighteous

Love this one.  The date itself wasn’t all that bad, but it did quite a bit to solidify my world view on something – that’s progress!

Mr SelfRighteous was (well, he still is I guess) an architect.  Cool.  Very cool.  People that can build things and are handy really excite me because I break things and don’t have fun with hammers.  I have anti-life skills, so I’m all for the solid life skills of build and make.  We met at The Swan, and chatted for a long while over oysters.  I don’t particularly like oysters but it’s good to be open minded and willing to try things – this is a good life skill, I think.

I’m a big fan of mindless chit chat.  Mr SelfRighteous not so much.  He was super serious and on point.  I appreciate that perhaps he had an agenda to get through, questions about me that needed answering before deciding to move forward or back, but at the end of the day does it really matter where I went to university or where I was born?  I don’t really think so.  The big question I want answered is:  can I talk to you?  and the only way to answer that is to actually do some talking.  Not Q&A talking, but simple common interest, anecdotal talking.  All the other stuff will come out and sort itself out naturally – maybe I’m being naïve, but I think this is ultra important. If you’re right and I’m left and we talk our way to centre, what’s better than that?  Anyway, I was trying to mindlessly chit chat and Mr SelfRighteous was questioning me but it was all pretty okay.

As a self confessed pop culture junkie, it doesn’t take long for a story or commonality to eventually reference its way back to a TV show I’ve watched, movie I’ve seen, book I’ve read, band I’ve heard.  I really love it when someone gets your reference points on this stuff without missing a beat - it’s like the sky has opened up and angels are singing – it is beyond the best.  Just an immediate click, a laugh and subliminal knowledge that you’re on the same page.  Often, this reference point works its way to Seinfeld because, well, it’s Seinfeld.  Come on.   After a very innocuous Seinfeld reference (I believe it was the big salad), my night went from pretty good to life altering.  Here’s how : (HE is in Italics.  ME is in This.)
__
Oh – I’ve never watched Seinfeld. 

Wow.  (This is actually fascinating to me.)  Really?  Never an episode?

No, I don’t have a TV.  (This is equally fascinating to me.)

Really?  No TV?

No, I haven’t owned a TV since 1998.  (This is now science experiment fascinating to me.)

Really?  Since 1998?  That’s a hella long time, tell me about that. (This “tell me” business needs to stop as it’s usually where things go on the serious downslide.)

TV is pretty mindless to me. I enjoy listening to CBC Radio or jazz while reading in the evenings. (Oh. Dear. God.  Kill. Me. Now.  But, well, okay – he’s eccentric.  Until he posed two questions with such loathing and pretentiousness I almost felt my skin crawl.)

You have a TV?

(Dude.  Are you serious?  What type of question is that?  I was a little kid in the 70s when moms thought TV was a babysitter.)  Well, yes, of course I have a TV.

What do you watch on TV?

(Okay, so you want to judge me now?  You’re ON: ) The BBC, Documentaries & The History Channel (fine, mainly lies, but seriously, he deserved it).
__

He was now simply unable to let this go.  My TV ownership and marginally fabricated viewing habits were so low classy and vapid you’d think I told him I believed those velvet dog paintings were high art.  He didn’t say this of course, but there was a tone of condescension that was inescapable.  Look, I know I could sometimes be nicknamed The Superficial, but seriously, it’s a friggin’ TV and yes, I watch some crap and I watch some good stuff but it’s really nothing worth judging because it’s totally normal.  Normal people own TVs.  Normal people watch TV.  Normal people do not judge other people for being normal.  We are not worse, we are not better, we simply are.

But Mr SelfRighteous thought he was better.  He thought he had one on me, what with all my flagrant TV owning and watching.  In truth I don’t watch a ton of TV it just seems like I do because I read Entertainment Weekly and watch The Soup so I get a full round up of everything without having to watch everything (so efficient!), but that’s not the point.  The point is, I’m not making you feel like a weird “where’s your pipe” nutjob because you listen to jazz and CBC Radio in the evening while reading so why are you lording over me and my TV?   I’m not judging you, why are you judging me? 

When did it become normal to be weird? When did we start judging people for being normal?  Why am I now the weirdo?

My life lesson here is pretty simple.  Live and let live.  Embrace eccentricities, but don’t be pretentious about your own.  Be open minded (I ate the fucking oysters) and curious.   We are all weird, we are all normal.  There’s room for everyone – that’s what makes the world the world – and that just makes everything better.  Mr SelfRighteous?  Judging normalcy with an upturned nose?  He’s just making things worse.

The Big Nag

I nag.  I do prefer to use the terms “remind” or “follow up”, but really it’s nagging.

I hate it.  More than nagging though, I hate when people put me in a position of nagging  (remind / follow up) because they simply don’t get back to me about specific things that have been spoken about or asked after or pseudo planned.  Relax.  I am capable of being patient and always give everyone else the benefit of the doubt, because everyone’s so busy and spread so thin and sometimes forgetful, but really, are people giving me the benefit of the doubt by not respecting my time and effort and activity?  No, no, they are not. I’m busy too.  I’m spread thin too.  I forget things sometimes too.  I manage, why can’t you?!

The only way I can stop the nag is to stop the ask.  Can I do this?  You bet I can. 

Emotional Wreck

We spend time thinking about why we do things, but not much time thinking about why we don’t do things.  This little curiosity was turned on its ear the other day. Where?  Improv class of course! 

We’re doing emotion work now.  I’m really not a fan. Not because I feel fake conjuring up emotions at the blink of an eye – we’re pretending after all, but because it’s hard and really exhausting.  Mostly, though, it’s because there will be a day when I’m called upon to drum up an emotion I’m uncomfortable with and always avoid in real life.  Teach said so.  He’s watching to see what we haven’t done.  Teach is annoying.

We spend our whole lives making ourselves who we are, or, rather, the person we want others to see and this impenetrable person isn’t you all the time.  I’m not saying we’re really two people or a world class fakes, it’s just that sometimes you hide your real you in certain situations, around certain people, because you are uncomfortable exposing this Achilles Heel of emotions for fear of judgement, repercussion or shock. You suppress a little bit for the public eye and, in your own time, on your own terms, you expose the real you.   I don’t think this is altogether peculiar and I’m certain everyone does it.  It’s hard to come to terms with, and most absolutely let people see, that you are not strong, you are weak; you are not confident, you are unsure or whatever emotion you protect from real life exposure because you don’t want it part of your impenetrable you.  This reality, for me, anyway, is going to get some action soon and I’m petrified.  I don’t want this side of me exposed, few people see it.  I don’t like me like that.  But, perhaps, the best place to bring it to light is in a room of pseudo – strangers in a forum of make believe.  Maybe then it’ll be easier to let my guard down and, while not turning into a massive sap, help me be more honest with who I am on the inside, sometimes, and on the outside, most of the time.

Honestly, IMPROV!  If knew you were going to be such a mindfuck I would have just gone to therapy.

# 6

For a movie buff I don't watch many movies.  Let me clarify :  I don't watch many movies again. Once is typically enough for me, and it's absolutely at the theatre. Home views are reserved for old-time classics,  movie party nights, sick days or someone else's place as I'm too easily distracted to properly focus on a film when I'm sitting on my sofa.

In light of this, while I have many favourite movies, I only own 5.  I won't make you guess, blogs aren't all that interactive ...

The Princess Bride (Just last week I told my boss (my boss!) to stop talking when he told me he didn't like this one.  How is that even possible?)
Dead Poet's Society (Inspiring Robin Williams, the promise of Ethan Hawke and a tremendous coming of age movie that gets me everytime.  EVERYtime.)
Cinema Paradiso (A movie about love and the love of movies, in Italian.  What's not to love?)
Love, Actually (I have a Love, Actually Viewing Party every year at Christmas, you should too.  Actually, don't,  just come to mine.)
Gladiator (Surprised?  Don't be, it's amazing.)

It's a perfect little collection, well, to me, so obviously adding another to the mix is a huge commitment, a huge statement.  When you only own a handful of movies, they need to say something, to mean something.  Well, this week, I added a number six.

My #6 is based on an Elmore Leonard novel and,as directed by Steven Soderbergh, is not only gritty, but fun and completely satisfying on every aspect of the pleasure meter.  It stars two of my favourites in "never been better never will be better" performances.  Entertainment Weekly (my Bible) voted it as the sexiest film on their "50 Sexiest Movies Ever" list.  It bobs and weaves, it's smart and funny, it IS dead sexy, it's simply Out of Sight.

By way of a simple description, a bank robber (George) escapes from prison, attempts to rob a tycoon (Al Brooks), and seduces the female marshal (JLo) out to capture him. But it's Elmore Leonard and Steven Soderbergh so you know there's way more than that going on. 

Along with all the cops and robbers stuff, there's of course the crazy chemistry between George & JLo, as Jack & Karen, who provide requisite sizzle.  We're first introduced to them together as they meet cute while trapped in the trunk of a car.  It's a pretty low key scene, but has just enough of everything to keep you going. Jack & Karen meet again, this time Karen is incapable of turning Jack in when she spots him in an elevator making his escape.  He waves at her - waves at her! - and she's as transfixed in gaze, as he is with hers. She doesn't turn him in - how can she?   You know there's more to come from these two and eventually - finally - we see it all in the bar scene.  This bar scene is crazy - Jack & Karen want it so bad but know as they are they can't have it, so they put their respective lives on hold - just for the night - and allow themselves a ‘time out’ to get it.  The scene is so seductive and the way it's intercut with how the night plays out later on is honestly too much.  Too much.  Aside from all this steam, though, is a clever clever caper film, that travels to frigid Detroit and sweltering Miami (are there two more opposite cities in the US?) with a stellar supporting cast (Ving Rhames/Don Cheadle/Al Brooks/Dennis Farina/Catherine Keener/Steve Zahn/Michael Keaton) that is just so incredibly cool.  Things aren't wrapped up to movie - perfection, it's a bit outrageous, unruffled and almost zany.  It is a most clever,sexy caper film.

There you have #6.

Luck

I’ve never considered myself to be a particularly lucky person.  There has been no lottery win.  No discovery of a four leaf clover.  No Lucky Charm (aside from the magically delicious and nutritionally suspicious kind), nothing really falls into my lap without some work or effort.   

Over the last little while though, I’m wondering if this is what luck is – is luck really a random wave of good fortune that taps you on the head every so often to make your life easier for a time, or is it something more?

It’s more – so much more, and I had my watershed moment about it on one glorious September morning when I sent out an email requesting some company on my monumental birthday trip to NYC, and within half an hour 5 friends had booked their flights.  30 minutes, 5 friends.  Done & Done.  This may not seem so incredible, but think of how hard it is for you to make any sort of planned commitment these days – lots of hemming, a bit of hawing, some we’ll sees and let me check my schedules later and by the end of it you don’t feel like going anymore.   I realize this wasn’t all about me – NYC, at Christmastime to boot, is a powerful lure indeed – but the quickness of this YES I’M IN attitude had me thinking that I am one lucky girl.

I am lucky because I have friends that I consider family, and family that I would choose as friends.  Lucky because I know that whatever hardship may befall me in life, I will never ever have to deal with it alone because I am embraced with arms, in hearts and surrounded by people I love.  Regardless of my waves of grumpiness, self-centeredness, foul mood-ness, I am met with patience and humour.  I have the most amazing people in my life that I can depend on in good and bad times, all the time, anytime. This is amazing to me.  This is lucky to me.

Take your lottery.  Keep the clover.  No Lucky Charms for me.   I will work twice as hard for everything I have with pleasure because that’s all gravy – where it matters and when it counts, I am the luckiest girl in the world.

“a friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature” - ralph waldo emerson