He Is Under My Skin, Dammit.

There are those who you love. Those who love you. The lucky few who fall firmly into both groups. And then there are those people, the rare- and heartbreakingly lovely people who seem to find a way to seep under your skin and take up residence somewhere close to your heart. Like a memory you won’t forget and can’t convince yourself you should, these people have a lure that makes them impossible to say goodbye to- even when you’ve tried.

I have such a person. A fantastically brilliant, maddening, charming and utterly frustrating person that has a brownstone near my main artery. A person who’s punctuation inspires me to remember to put in my apostrophes. A person who reminds me that there is someone else out there who would choose vanilla over chocolate. A person who reminds me men aren’t all that bad. Due to reasons of fate, logic and personal sanity, it makes sense for us not to be friends. And we aren’t. Anymore. We are a weird hybrid of wary acquaintances and eager strangers- wanting to talk but never knowing what to say.

The hard part was learning that’s how it should be.

I’ve finally discovered that when someone has managed a way under your skin, has set up within striking distance of your heart and hunkered down for some time, you can’t really evict them. You don’t have a choice anymore. Everything they’ve ever said, or yelled or whispered- is stuck with you.- fixed in you. You cannot push ’delete’ as I has once hoped. When it’s impossible to say goodbye, wish them well, find a way to mean it and keep going. It doesn’t get less confusing but it does get less painful.

And if you are very, very lucky you will find that one day when you least expect it -it doesn’t hurt at all.

And that’s how it should be

My Secrets

I've been keeping a lot of secrets lately and I think this would be a great way to unleash them. I'm not here to admit or confess who these are about so don't bother asking. You know who you are.

We actually stole it more than once.

It would be easier if I loved you, but I don’t. So stop trying to make me.

It would be easier if I didn’t love you, but I do.

You are not allergic, you just don’t like it. There is a difference.

An ultimatum will not work, it shocks me that you think it would.

I wish you wouldn’t do things that make it impossible for me to like you.

I think of that talk everyday single day.

You tell me too much.

I avoid you because I know I keep letting you down.

Sometimes I wish you would just let me down- it would level the playing field.

I don’t get you anymore and it makes me sad.

You are the funniest, weirdest and most original person ever and I’m completely jealous of your brain.

I wish I knew how to be closer to you.

I like you when you're you.

You keep pronouncing it wrong and I don’t know how to correct you without looking like a jerk.

Valentine's Day

I’m tired. Not in the “I just ran a marathon and feel so ALIVE but yet so tired I need a good nap and a bottle of gatorade” way but in the “I woke up today counting all the things I had to do before I could go back to sleep” sort of way.

It feels like it’s a bad sign when the idea of a life exhausts you.

Maybe it’s the month. Valentines Day sends a jolt of love soaked fuel to coupled people. Since I am single, I used my energy in deflecting all the conversations of love, lust and “I can’t believe how much we are meant to be together” talk. Right now, I feel I have nothing to add to any conversation that includes the word love. My body is starting to physically convulse when I see yet another happy couple shopping at Safeway. It’s not pretty and I’m not proud. Maybe I’m suffering from PMS Of Valentine's Day.

Or maybe it’s the weather. I’m a scarf whore but I’m getting tired of the 26 layers of long sleeves and fleece zip ups and warm socks that I must don before leaving the house. I’m tired of walking slowly, planning every step in advance, searching the sidewalk for a glorious patch of raw pavement not glazed with ice. I’m tired of thicky icy roads that become a deathtrap when your car has tires that are more bald than Britney was. I drive nervously, hunched over my steering wheel like a grandmother and feel my neck muscles get angry.

It could be my job. Even thought I haven't been there in a week. I love my job. I love working with kids and putting on plays and listening intently as they describe the color of icing they had on their birthday cake. But sometimes pretending that each of their new discoveries is as exciting to you as to them can leave me searching for tylenol. I’m not talking about learning how to read a challenging word, or memorizing a difficult monologue- that’s the good stuff that’s easy to get excited for. But showering excitement every class over new shoes or pet iguanas can be difficult and draining. Realizing that sometimes you just don’t care about Roddy the iguana can make a girl feel bad.

Or maybe it’s nothing so easily defined in one group- maybe it’s a cluster of little things. Thinking of unreturned phone calls, unanswered questions, not understanding how to file my taxes, searching for my favorite pair of cashmere mittens I lost , or sweating under a looming deadline I set for myself in regards to a project I started for fun. Maybe I’m tired because I keep making the same mistake- missing the same people I told myself I do not miss. Maybe I’m tired because I don’t understand what’s happening on Lost or because today it feels like I’m the only person at work having a bad hair day. Maybe it’s all of those things, or none of them. Or maybe I just need a nap.

Valentines Day is approaching. Actually, I feel like it charging towards me in a blur of pink and red cellophane. I first noticed this the second week of January while at the mall searching for new mittens. Rows and rows of pink and red boxed chocolates, (enough to throw a diabetic into a seizure with a single glance), stuffed toys clutching hearts with stitched cliches and bouquets of roses were all crammed together in a shiny, blurry wonderland of love. It sort of made me nauseous.

As a kid I loved Valentines Day. I’m a craft dork, so the idea of using special scissors and thick construction paper to make cards for everyone I loved seemed not only fun but insanely exciting. I liked the idea of knowing there was one day a year it was expected to say exactly how you felt, the fact the world was smeared in pink and the discovery of who liked you by how they signed their name on their Valentine to you -From? Love? Always?.

I’ve kept valentines that meant something to me and as I look at them I realize that none are from recent boyfriends or guys I met after I got my drivers licence. They are all from a time before spell check and self doubt. My favorite one I received in grade three from a boy with messy blonde hair. It has glue smears on the front and the inside reads (in messy boy printing) “ I’m not 100% shure, but I think I might like you. I will let you know”. I miss that.

Now I feel like Valentine’s Day is the a holiday that truly divides mankind into two groups each unwilling to concede that the other group may be onto something. (Forget the war, it’s Valentine’s Day that’s splitting the world apart) There is the group who loves, loves, loves Valentines Day (and are unsurprisingly spending the day with someone they love, love, love) and the group who hates the holiday and views it as “just another opportunity by large corporations to make you feel like you need to buy shit you don’t need to show people you care” as one friend so eloquently put it. Of course, these are extremes I’ve noticed over the years so in a fit of Elle Woods inspired productivity; I went to the streets and asked the people. (Okay, so I mass emailed, it’s cold outside.) Here is what I found…

My theory of the two opposing groups holds steady- sort of. The majority of coupled girls love the holiday. Not for the opportunity to show someone you love them (“I don’t need a day to tell my boyfriend I love him”) but because you like getting presents (“when else is it mandatory that I get flowers?”). I’m not going to lie, as a single girl I found this to be a disappointing discovery. You’ve found him! You shouldn’t just expect flowers, you should go bowling and drink diet soda with straws! Seriously though, I may be single but I’ve dated enough to know that expecting things from a man to ground you in happiness will never lead to anything good. (Also, I’m now considering the fact that I may still be single because I think bowling and drinking diet soda constitutes romance.)

Coupled guys have other ideas. The majority doesn’t like the pressure it puts them under (“I hate knowing that she’s imagined something better than whatever I end up doing”). Fair enough. I love my gender but after talking to what some of the coupled girls are expecting… this Valentines, I would be wary too. Heads up ladies, none of you are getting proposed to on a glacier with a string orchestra in the background- at least none that I know of.

Single guys hate it because they think “that much attention to a holiday focused on flowers is stupid”. One insightful (and refreshingly honest) guy admitted that he didn’t like it Valentines Day because it made not being in love feel like he was failing.

Single girls seem to feel it’s necessary to show the world (and themselves) that they are not just okay but are thriving this holiday season by going out in large packs. High-heeled, low cut shirt armies that take over clubs and recount all the reasons they are glad they are single (#1 being you won’t be disappointed when your boyfriend forgets it’s Valentines Day). Some recounted these nights made them feel better, confirming they are not alone. Others admitted they felt worse and woke up with a hangover plus a few phone numbers of guys they would never have considered taking if they weren’t trying so hard to feel like they were happy alone.

In short, I guess no one is guaranteed a perfect Valentines Day regardless of your dating status. My friend Stephen pointed out that Valentines is a lot like New Years. A lot of expectations with no guarantees it’s going to result in love, love, love. I suppose the best any of us can hope for is a construction paper Valentine from someone who tells you exactly how they feel- even if they are not 100% sure.

Happy Valentine's Day to all :)

PS thats BS

You know when you know something.

You know it.

Every fiber of your being knows it.

Yet, you don't want to realize it, admit it to yourself yet.

But you know it.

Know that the, whatever it might be that you don't want to admit to yourself or realize or be honest with yourself about whatever, it's true.

You listen to the bullshit as it's being vomited up to you in conversation. You listen, but you don't hear it. You can almost see the vomit of the words floating through the air.

Still, you choose not to know it. It's not really affecting you one way or another, so what difference does it really make?

Then, one day out of nowhere you're hit with the vomit of bullshit.

WHAM! Right in the middle of your gut. The kind of jolt that even takes you by surprise. You weren't expecting the ball let alone the jolt. Where did that come from?

Hit with a ball of bullshit.

Your not really surprised by the ball of vomit and bullshit that you've been hit with, but it still makes you break into a cold sweat. Not a big one. Just enough to give you a chill that no one would notice but you.

Then you can't deny it.

Your gut hurts from the blow.

Your covered in it.

All you can do is stand up, strip naked, step into a hot shower, and wash yourself off.

And make a note that you won't believe the lies again.

Dumb blonde

Sometimes I am known to be a bit ditzy. Not all the time. Sometimes. Like sending something to Linden Street when it hasn't been Linden street in years. Not only am I embarrassed, but I'm dissappointed. I think with some proper apologies I will hope to be in good graces again. This is horrible.