Let It Roll

Is this not the worst best advice?   

Let it Roll

I have a highly developed loonytunes thought process.  Coincidentally, a few of my friends do too.  When presented with any sort of somewhat perplexing conversation worthy personal-type situation, we overthink and overanalyze and assume the worst and hope for the best and go so crazy in our own heads it’s surprising steam doesn’t come out of our ears.  I think I’m the worst of us, but really, this is no competition I’m striving to win.  More often than not, we look for problems where they don’t exist because, really, how boring is ‘everything is okay’.  This is what happens to people that have no real life worries: they make some up. Anyway, when we present each other with our little manufactured issues, which lately seems to be all the freakin’ time, we are so clear headed it’s scary. 

About a week ago, after bantering back and forth on the usual issues, I told J to “let it roll”. I actually think I shrugged when I said it.  “Look, things sound really good, just let it roll and see what happens.”  I wasn’t being passive or uncaring,  I really really meant it.  Stop looking for problems, stop trying to get into someone else’s head, stop feeding your own neurosis by wondering about possibilities and the future and just deal with the here and now – just let it roll.  First, he looked at me as if I was Jesus.  Then, he looked at me as if I was crazy.  Do I let it roll?   Are you out of your mind?!? I mean, please.  Me?!

But this is how we are with each other: we give each other the best advice ever, that we follow ourselves, never. 

Well, not anymore!

Let it Roll, J!  Let it Roll, O!

In truth, thus far, I am faring rather poorly.  In my estimation, J is still just as bad.  This will be a tough one, we know how hard habits are hard to break (except for going to the gym), but for the sake of our own sanity, we must be patient.  We must persevere.  We must prepare for battle. We are ready to stop the crazy.  We are going to Let It Roll.  

Just Amputate

Okay, seriously.  Can someone please amputate my toe? 

This stupid toe (baby, right foot) is impeding me from enjoying summer in the ways girls like to enjoy summer:  through their shoes.  All my shoes hurt.  My toe hurts.  It’s now bandaged and medicated.  I mean, honestly – a freakin’ toe?

To give you some backstory, I didn’t do anything to this toe to make it hurt, for it to make my life so painful, for it to make my shoes so lonely, unloved and unwearable.  I didn’t bump into anything.  It wasn’t run over.  Nothing fell on it.  I just tried to love my feet, and by extension my toes, by wearing some really really nice shoes.  Now these really, really nice shoes have turned on me, well, my toe specifically and I’m in a motherlode of pain.  My toe is bandaged and medicated and I’m mainly wearing flats.  FLATS!   This is not ideal workaday footwear for me.  AT ALL!

It’s all my fault, I know.  My mother is convinced I’m going to be in a wheelchair by age 50 with the shoes I wear, but come on!  If we don’t have shoes, what do we have?!  Nothing!  We have nothing!  I currently have 18 pair (holy shit) under my desk and I cannot tell you how many more at home.  I don’t think this is unreasonable.  Okay, FINE, maybe I have a slight problem but as I’m admitting it, it’s no longer a problem.  Problems are only problems when we keep them secret.  Like drug addiction or philandering.  But, let’s focus: the problem is not my shoes, it’s my toe.  If I didn’t have this toe all my shoes would fit perfectly and I would not be bandaged  at this very moment.  I would not be worried about seeing my Mom and have her look all disappointed at me and my bandaged toe (yes, I know I am 40 and should be over the look of Mom-disappointment but I’m not because she’s just so damn good at it) as she tells me that I’m going to be in a wheelchair by the age of 50 if I don’t stop killing myself in my "crazy" shoes.  I could lie to her, but she knows.  She always knows. 

So to solve all these problems I just need to get rid of this toe.  I’m certain I wouldn’t even miss it.  My feet are as wide as shovels, I don’t need the toe for balance.  What else could you possibly need a baby toe for?  It’s useless!  Like wisdom teeth! We’ve evolved!  I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to get this done, but I’m working on it.    

Off with the toe! 

Mr Mayor

Mayor Tom Ford.

Don’t even try to tell me you haven’t done this.  With apologies to all Toms and Robs,  the names are totally interchangeable:  Tom Rob; Rob Tom; TomRob; Robtom; Romtob.

And honestly, who wouldn’t want Mayor Tom Ford?  Can you imagine?

Sexy beast Tom Ford, staring in from those smoking Grey Vetiver cologne ads (because no mere mortal could possibly emulate what it is like to smell like Tom Ford than Tom Ford), making me feel hotly uncomfortable and bedroomy. I know, I KNOW.  Completely and utterly not my type - I mean, he’s just so obvious about it - but I'm sure half the straight men out there, equally awed and hotly bothered by Tom, will tell you the same thing (but likely not out loud). Omnisexual, that’s our Tom Ford.  Those lascivious eyes just draw you in and I really can’t explain it.  I can’t find my words.  All I know is, well, Hello Mr Mayor.

We know he'd have half the city killed for style infractions (I can only hope I'd be spared based on a sole pair of Louboutins, two designer handbags and hair that ‘moves’) and force us to return to formalities of yesteryear.  You see, Tom Ford wishes to be known as Mr Ford now. Only sexy beasts can get away with this.  Mr.Ford can.  At your service,  Mr Mayor Tom Ford!

That Bloor Street Beautification Project would not have taken a near-decade to complete and you’d be damn sure we’d have ended up with more than wider sidewalks and luscious planters.  Mr Mayor Tom Ford would have only guaranteed luscious.  Bike lanes?  Perhaps, but only with regulatory fashion forward headgear and baskets carrying high end groceries, me thinks.  Living in the city would be high styles, fashions and beautiful people all the time. Like your perfect version of Hollywood Glamour Los Angeles without the freeway traffic and Chateau Marmont.  Fine, perhaps a bit homogenous, but honestly, I’d forego some grit and diversity for a law against exposing your feet before your first pedicure of the season! 

The next Toronto Mayoral Election is set for 2014.  By then the Gravy Train will have stopped at all applicable stations and we’ll be ready for something a little more cosmopolitan, a bit sultry, and, well, kinda hot. I’m all for a write in vote, but we have much work to do. You know he can re-invent us just like he re-invented Gucci – exciting times these will be!  Do what you can, people, do what you can! You want Toronto on the map? Fuck the Olympics!  We need Mr Mayor Tom Ford!

In Honour Of ...

We see most of the people in our lives as how they relate to us – your friend is your friend, brother your brother, mom your mom, and so on down the line.  These people, though, are also other things to other people, completely unrelated to what they are to you.  It seems obvious, of course, but it’s not really one of those things you think about.  I was struck by this a number of years ago, people relating to someone very dear to me in ways that for whatever reason hadn’t truly occurred to me before - My Dad was my Dad, The End (to me).  But he was also someone’s boss, best friend, husband, brother, mentor.  The layers of these relationships made him who he was, completely independent of being My Dad, but to me, just always My Dad.  

I’m trying to look at the important people in my life a bit differently now.  Well, maybe not differently, but more whole.  To see their other selves independent of what their relationship is to me.  

Today is my brother’s birthday.  Sunday is Father’s Day.  My brother isn’t just my pesky little brother, he’s also a Dad.

To be fair, there’s nothing really little (or pesky) about my younger brother.  He’s a towering 6’4” with a gregarious personality to match.  It is a rare day if you hear  anyone say anything remotely negative about him  – he’s just one of those guys. Perfectly easy going and jovial most of the time, beyond stubborn and annoyingly forgetful some of the time (in my opinion).   Growing up with someone universally loved like this was somewhat annoying as I’m often prickly and sometimes moody, but I found my own way being somewhat smart and responsible and all the things he was sort of good at but not really all that great at.  I thought I figured us out in high school - classifying him as getting the looks in the family while I got the brains. Then he whipped my ass in a game of Trivial Pursuit and I had to rethink my whole life.  He’s just one of those guys.  I really feel that the relationship you have with your siblings is the one of the truest you can have with anyone:  not only do they see you at your ultimate best and complete worst without chance of escape, but only they know what it was like growing up in your particular house with your particular parents.  Our relationship is ‘quintessential sibling’ – we annoy each other, make each other laugh, have each other’s backs, argue, and sometimes talk with just looking at each other.  So that’s my brother as my brother.  Pretty great.  My brother as a Dad?  Even greater.

 My nephews (age 5) are at the age now where they are completely obsessed with him.  It is the cutest thing: they follow him everywhere and can’t be pried away from his aura with the promise of anything.  My niece (just about 7), of course, has him wrapped around her little finger but this is what girls are supposed to do with their Dads.  It’ll only get worse / better, I know that for sure.  He plays with them, of course, and disciplines them and talks to them and guides them and watches over them and basically lives for them. Taking this to the next level, my brother becomes master ringleader at all our huge family functions.  The kids range in age from 14 to 3 and in their eyes my brother is a magical wizard - they are mesmerized by him! He’s so tall they literally look up to him and he’s so expressive and completely full of fun.  It is amazing to watch.  He’s good at it because he loves it and it shows in spades - he loves kids and loves being a Dad.  I wondered for a fleeting moment how this happened.  How did my somewhat annoyingly perfect brother become this amazing Dad?    

Of course I know.  And of course it kills me that the person somewhat responsible for making my brother the Dad he is isn’t here to see it – to be parent proud at one of his greatest life accomplishments and experience the true joys of life through generations growing together.  It’s okay.  It’s how life goes, I guess.  I suppose we must just consider ourselves fortunate that within my brother is the spirit of the man that helped shape him into the wonderful Dad he is today.  In some ways, Father’s Day is somewhat easier for me to deal with when I think of it like that.   Somewhat.

Happy Birthday, Brother.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Attack Of The Intern

Summer in the city means many things to many people – patios, heat, vacations – but to me it means Summer Interns.  The chance to kill some poor kid with all the boring filing and administrative crap you’ve been putting off for an entire year, all summer, for free.  I know, I’m a meanie but truly, this is what Bay Street
is all about.

My interns this year are pretty amazing.  No one’s falling asleep in the storage closet or wearing wife beaters to the office (true. stories) but they are keeping me on my toes in the most annoying way.  Why, you ask?  Because they are so friggin’ EAGER!  Show me!  Teach me!  Tell me!  Look at me! I barely manage to turn the corner and return to my desk after going to the washroom before my gal stops and begs me for something to do, or rate the thing she just worked on.  Sister, please, relax! I am a benevolent master and have no issues with you fucking the dog for a short while, honestly.  This constant attention thing is a bit much too.  Basically, in my office, if you’re not being told you’re doing a bad job it means you’re doing an awesome job.  Really.  That’s how it is.  This younger set needs a bit more and I get it, but come on just give it a rest - I don’t have gold stars or smiley faces at my disposal (although you know I could totally get into this) so just be confident in the fact that no one is yelling at you.  Most of her downtime is spent studying for her LSAT.  Honestly, can’t you just prepare for your real life full time job and surf the Internet or something? 

I really shouldn’t complain about her eager – to – please – ness.  She’s enthusiastic, uber-keen and super smart.  She’s also the cutest little muffin you’ve ever seen.  Today, she’s rocking a look I swear I’ve seen Jennifer Aniston wear on a carpet:  black leather shorts, tights and booties complimented with a gorgeous tuxedo jacket.  Hot Damn.  She looks so great I’m not going to bother telling her it’s completely inappropriate for my office.  I can’t pull that look off in my imagination!  So jealous. 

I’d love to say more, but I really need to wrap it up - I see her walking over and I need to find her something to do.  I feel she’ll be very disappointed to learn I was “creative writing” when I should be doing the ultra important business type job she dreams of doing one day.   Poor thing, if only she knew.  I will save her that life lesson until at least next summer.

Sleeep

If there was such a thing as a Sleep Olympics I would be crowned uncontested Gold Medal Champion.  I am a championship sleeper – I can fall asleep anywhere, honestly.  I mean, right now I can close my eyes and fall into a deep slumber.  It’s something.  Sometimes great: power nap!  Sometimes not: I fell asleep when talking to someone on a train once.  This is obviously embarrassing and no real indication of the conversation at hand, the motion of anything is incredibly hypnotic to me so best you know that in case it happens in your presence. This time, really, it’s me not you. 

Combined with my ability to fall asleep at a moment’s notice is the deepness of my sleep.  It’s deeeep.  I often wake up in the same position I fell asleep in, which is really handy because I only have to make one side of my bed.  I rarely, if ever, remember my dreams so when I do I get extremely excited and feel like the universe is sending me a message. Unfortunately the dream/universe/message I’ve been getting lately has been rather unsettling. I mean, True Blood – styles.  So, here it is:  I’m outside at a BBQ type function which is taking place on a riverbank of some sort.  There are actual BBQs, and tables with plates and cutlery and napkins on them but no other people, just big mean looking dogs or wolves.  The mean looking dog/wolves are drooling blood and they’ve been eat/killing each other and tipping over the BBQs.  I’m not in any actual danger, but I’m aware that things are not quite right.  Then, I wake up. 

Seriously.  This is the dream I’ve now had about 3 times in the last few months.  I’ve tried to figure out what it means but even a trusty Google Search can’t help with this one – it’s too much for Google! Independently, sure, there’s lots on dogs and wolves and rivers and blood and killing but ALL TOGETHER?  I mean, is this some sort of advanced PhD thesis on the dreams of the deeply troubled or what?  I initially thought it was because I’m openly judgemental of vegans but it can’t be that, can it?  Do you think someone is out to get me?  That’s possible, but honestly, who?  You!?  NO! I’m not totally freaking out about it, but I’m a bit concerned.  Well, only concerned when I let my brain go a little overboard with it.  Like now. 

Can someone help?  Interpret this dream in a way that doesn’t mean I’m crazy and we’ll have our own BBQ – well, actually hang on - I can’t have a BBQ.  I don’t own a BBQ.  Oh my.  Have I figured this out?  Are the dog wolves ME, hungrily lusting for some BBQ?  It seems rather extreme, but not all together impossible.  I do love me some BBQ and I miss me some BBQ living in my little box.  HELP: Can someone please invite me over for some grilled meat, please, pretty please and soon?  I’ll bring brownies and I promise not to fall asleep while you talk to me and we put an end to this madness and I get back to my nights of ignorant snoozing. 

Mmm … BBQ ... Mmm ... Sleep.

Oh, How I Love You, BBM

I've broken a barrier.  I'm in love with technology.  EEK!  Not any technology mind you, no, I'm in love with the most revolutionary communication tool since the invention of the telephone.

Blackberry Messenger

If for nothing else but the definitive one two punch of  confirming message delivery (d) AND message read (r).  I mean, heaven, right ?

There is no wonder, no confusion, nothing is ever lost in the ether. You got it, you've read it, so you reply.  Or, you've been in an accident, which is unfortunate but absolutely absolves you of your tardiness.

Admittedly, maybe not the best for the uber-impatient like me - I mean if you read my message and it's a simple question, what is taking you so long to reply?? - but it certainly stacks things up a bit clearer and leaves no room for error.  As if it couldn't get any better, BBM tells you when there's no signal for you (red box thing) or your recipient (blank) - more heaven, right ?

So, sure, your iPhone may look cooler than my Blackberry and that iPad may kick the Playbook's ass (although are you really using all those apps?) but I'll happily forego a round of Angry Birds (because I suck) and constellation identification (which I'm sure are lies anyway) for my handy d and r, thank you very much. Combined with my little Qwerty keyboard, it's really true love.  All in the palm of my hand.

Quotable - Part 6

“Just so you know, I’m taking a pass on her.”

                        Saturday June 4^th, 2011 – 2 Cats.

What a fellow told his buddy - about me, while I was standing right there - after I asked him if he would mind buying my friend a drink alongside the one he was offering to buy for me.  

On With The Show!

First Improv show* last night – I know, crazy right?!

On stage where anything can happen, thankfully nothing monumentally horrible did last night.  I think it’s mainly because one of our classmates didn’t show – he’s basically in Improv to legitimize his true calling as a world class pervert.  Talk about (cock) blocking.

So there we were, a merry band of amateur improvers using all the lessons we’ve been trying not to forget since January – No Thinking! Everything for the Why! Yes – And!  Don’t Negotiate!  No Questions! Feel Things! Listen! – we did a few skits got a few laughs and then watched as the more experienced crew took over.  

How was it?  FUN!  EXHILARATING! NOT COMPLETLEY EMBARRASSING!  People actually laughed (at intentionally funny things), I had a few zingers (what?me!I know!) and I think our skits were pretty good. Now, relax, I’m not turning into some late  blooming prima donna off to become the next Tina Fey (confession:  have dreamt of same) but I like this; I really, really do and for a world – class quitter like me that’s really saying something.  

More than that, though, this whole improv experiment tells me that even though I’m not life’s greatest risk taker and I get caught up in the little things and the planning and the impatience of needing to know all the time, I’m open to throwing myself into an environment that is polar opposite to all the things that typically define me.  And when I’m there I’m totally okay with it.  

Thank you, Improv.

*By show I mean a 30 minute workshop, so really, not such a big deal.

The Dress Down

I think I’ve found my new top pet peeve, or at least another to add to the list. 

Introducing, The Dress Down.

The dress down is that up / down look people (okay, FINE, girls) give you when you’re talking to them (I’m happy to provide a visual demonstration if you’re not getting it).  I believe it’s the female equivalent of the male “looking at your boobs”.    

So you’re talking to someone – new or known – and they’re not looking at you, they’re checking out what you’re wearing. 

I get dressed down all the time.  By the same two people.  At work.   I mean, WHY?  I may not be able to do many, many things but I think that maybe I can kinda sorta pull an outfit together that looks professional and nice and moderately stylish (if your style is not trendy or bohemian).  But, no, these two head honcho-type ladies give me The Dress Down every time they see me because I am blessed with them working on my floor.  What are you looking for?  A flagrant fashion foul?  A break in dress code?  Guilty!  I am not wearing hose & close-toed shoes in summer, nor is my own staff.  Write me up, lady, but don’t insult me.  I’m no Runway to Realway fashion plate but I match.  Nothing is ripped, stained, overtly ugly or inappropriate.  What are you doing?!  Leave me alone!  Stop dressing me down, bitch. 

Yes, I said it.  It is totally a bitch move and I hate it.  At least when guys stare at your boobs they don’t have any of their own to look at.  I doubt my shift dress is as fascinating to these ladies.  I know they’re looking for something wrong and mock-able.  I wish they’d go find the ammo for these requisite catty conversations elsewhere because every time this happens I’m reminded that regardless of how far women have come in society (we can vote!) and the workplace (we’re in charge!) we’re never, ever far away from the shenanigans of the high school washroom.  Pathetic, right?  Yes, it totally is.

Emotional Rescue

I've written about the emotion work we're doing in Improv, how on a dime we're to turn happy / sad / angry / lustful in a scene to play for laughs or simply feeling.

This is rather hard, but not too bad - they're manufactured emotions after all. The reason behind exploring emotions is without them in a scene, nobody's vested. It's one big "who cares?" from the players right down to the audience - without feelings and emotions there is no caring, nothing matters so why are we watching?

We all suppress emotions, especially those tough, painful ones that may leave us vulnerable or somehow different than we were before. Without them, though, we become apathetic creatures guided by indifference.  No one cares, nothing matters, so why are we living? 

Our emotions drive us to what matters and what is worth caring about viscerally and honestly.  We need to honour them so we can care, matter and live.  What comes out of this internal dialogue may not be what you want but it could be what you (eventually) need.

Listen to yourself.

Quotable - Part 5

"Stop passing yourself off as a rockstar when you're actually a roadie."

                           M. Osborn, FCP Concourse, Tuesday May 31st, 2011.