Olgieville

Sometimes I wish I lived in a world inhabited by Mary Poppins, The Barbapappas and only people I really, really liked.  Everyone would be happy and giving and kind.  There would be no hardcore conflicts, but if there were we’d all go down to the Hall of Justice and have the Superfriends sort us out.   No one would really work, well, there would be things to do but only things we wanted do like smell fresh flowers and bake cookies with the Kiebler elves. Everything we said to one another would be sweet and complimentary and relayed in a soft sing-song way.  In fact, we’d sing everything.  And skip.  Actually, scratch that part.  No skipping.  But content strolling.  Yes, better.  We’re not rushing anywhere, which means we’re never late. Ever. 

Anyway, the really interesting, and likely weird, part of my own little Neverland is when I think of how amazing it would be to actually live there, I'm not on any meds. 

What Happens

What happens when things don't turn out as you had hoped ? 

What happens when someone isn't the person you thought they were ?

What happens is you feel like you've been had.  Like all your instincts are off line and out of sync.  Like you have absolutely no fucking clue about anything at all and probably never did.  But, ultimately, what happens is next time 'round, it will take a long, long time to believe and hope like you did before.

Stop

Stop trying so hard to please everyone that you become a shadow of yourself.

Stop pulling yourself in a million directions because you think people are counting on you, when they really should be counting on themselves.

Stop saying yes to everything if it leads you to a place where you can’t remember the last time you said yes and was actually excited to do that thing you said yes to.

Stop to remember you’re only one person.  You’re a good person; a great person; a person people count on, look up to and rely on – but you’re still only one person and you can’t do everything. 

Just stop.

Cheese

Yes, cheese.  Not the insult “you’re trying too hard and are really tacky” cheese, but real, actual, delicious, yummy cheese.

I love cheese.  I’m not sure if this is because I’m Greek and was thus brought up on feta or because it’s just too delicious not to love.  All of it and lots of it – just bring it on.

I’ve met a few people in my day who don’t like cheese.  I'm suspicious.  Isn’t that like saying you don’t like weather? I mean, there are so many different kinds and types, how can you unilaterally not like any of it?  At all? Is it the sharp tang of old cheddar that’s turning you off?  The wonderful stink of blue not to your liking?  Perhaps the gooey creaminess of brie a bit much to handle, especially when baked in the oven with bourbon, brown sugar & pecans?  Wow.  I feel for you.  I mean, I feel really bad for you.  In the same way I feel bad for people who think running is fun.

Bet they don’t like cheese either.  Shame.

Mes Chaussures

I had been coveting a glorious pair of shoes for a very, very long time.  Like, a year long time.  This isn’t really like me because I’m a see it / buy it type of person, but there was something about this certain pair of shoes that just sort of held me back.

Well, as you can easily see from the past tense above, I finally did buy these glorious shoes – at Barney’s, in New York amidst the “ooh’s, aah’s” and “we’re going to kill you if you don’t buy those shoes” of my best gals, with that blasted monumental birthday looming (wow, my life is such a cliché) – and, what can I say:  Holy Fuck I Love My Shoes.

Look, I don’t trot out the Holy Fuck for just anything so trust me when I tell you that these shoes are just IT.  They’re not crazy styles, they’re almost sensible.  Heh, that’s funny.  They are black and shiny and sexy and super high and sleek and, in three words, because I could go on forever, Red Soled Perfection.  I would sleep in these shoes if I wasn’t worried about my sheets.  Now, your sheets on the other hand … AH !  See!  See what these shoes have done!? Who says stuff like that ?!

Anyway, what I love best about these shoes (aside from all the above AND what they do to my calves) is how at once they make me feel all sorts of smart and stupid.  Smart for having carved out a little life for myself where I can drop some serious coin on a pair of shoes without a struggle, and stupid because regardless of this nice little living, I dropped some pretty ridiculous coin on a pair of shoes.  Is this not a perfect dichotomy?  My shoulder perched angel and devil are in continual conversation and they are both absolutely right – I am sometimes smart.  And I am often quite stupid. 

Told you: Red Soled Perfection. 

Who Are You ?

For the last few years I’ve exchanged neighbourly pleasantries with a man who lives down the hall from me.   He’s often with his enormous dog or petite wife.  Nothing odd or weird, just normal neighbour stuff. 

While reading The Globe this past weekend, there he was again but this time he wasn’t with his dog or his wife, he was staring up at me from The Arts section.   

Turns out my nice neighbour is a world renowned artist.  He chats with Madonna and the guys from Metallica and has major showings of his work in prestigious galleries all over the world.  While his work is a bit weird for my “I love flowers” conventional taste, it is really quite cool.  Along with this, he’s also suffered from various forms of mental illness his entire life.  The art heals him, he says. 

I’m not sure which aspect of his life I found more interesting, but reading about him made me think that we really don’t have any idea about anyone, do we?  Now, I’m not saying that the lady sitting next to me on the streetcar is a Nobel Laureate or anything, but I’m sure she’s got some story - just like you do and just like I do. 

Thanks to The Globe, I now know who my neighbour really is.  But, tell me, who are you?

My Slap In The Face

Everyone needs a Slap In The Face. 

As I’m only a supporter of movie violence, this Slap In The Face actually takes the form of a person and, as such, is figurative.  Your Slap In The Face always has your back and because of this is allowed to be brutally honest.  Your Slap In The Face tells you the things you need to hear and not the soft serve pandering of advice we’ve grown accustomed to these days.  They are adeptly able to wade through your specific issue of delusion, often replete with unicorns and fairies, and see it in its truest form (delusions full of unicorns and fairies) and provide you with the requisite Cher to Cage “Snap Out of It” slap.  Then, you regroup and proceed normally through life all the better and wiser for your Slap In The Face. 

I love my Slap In The Face.  She is the actual to my probable; the hard ‘never will be’ to my wistful ‘what if’; the 60 Minutes to my 30 Rock; the Sara Connor to my Mary Poppins; the .. okay, you get the picture.  I wish she lived closer so the figurative slaps could be in person – there is something about a furrowed brow that really makes me snap to attention - but, she doesn’t so she must cyber deal with me.  This also means a hella lot of caps and bolds which I can handle, but only for her.

I am obviously reducing our relationship to a miniscule aspect of what she means to me and for this I know she’ll forgive me.  She knows there’s way much more to her and me and us than this particular role she takes on.  Obviously.  But sometimes, when I really need it – and lately, I seem to be needing it quite a bit - I am ever so grateful that she’s there for me like this.

I love my Slap In The Face.