Sometimes I think I'm the luckiest girl in the world. Haven asked me to be the Maid of Honor in her wedding instead of a bridesmaid. How exciting! We weren't always this close. However, she's the first I call when the shit hits the fan these days. And lately, she's been completely upset and life is bit of a roller coaster ride for her. We've been crying and laughing together and we're planning her big day together.
She's an amazing mother and sister and I am a lucky girl because not only do I have Haven, I have Rebecca too!
I am blessed.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
My Students are Worth It!
Blue area rug that I lugged into the school while making noises that one usually only hears behind closed doors late at night after *4 shots of tequila- $19
Bins of throw pillows, each carefully picked for plumpness, coziness and all around ‘I want to curl up and read a book with you’ feeling- $64
Bins of throw pillows, each carefully picked for plumpness, coziness and all around ‘I want to curl up and read a book with you’ feeling- $64
Number of hours spent painting-16
Wire shelving units that appeared easy to construct but resulted in me cursing so much I would have made a sailor blush and almost resulted in the loss of my pinkie finger- $58
Approximate number of hours it took to sort each book into categories- mystery, adventure, scientific fiction, people & places, space & science, arts & math, comics, do it yourself, reference, animals, research, biographies and make appropriate labels for each group. Complete with pictures of the author so kids have an idea who the face is behind the book they are reading- 6 hours
Approximate number of hours it took to “level” each book in my reading library, ensuring that kids have a better opportunity to pick books that they will feel comfortable reading-9 hours
Cost for the books in our class library, 80% of which were bought at Bank Street Books and Green Valley Book Fair so that I could save some greenbacks and my students could revel in that ‘old, musty thrift store book smell’- $987.43
Amount of times I’ve started thinking of all the shoes I could have bought with $987.43 before stopping and feeding myself some cheap pep talk about children’s literacy being more important than stylish footwear which then resulted in me rolling my eyes at myself and saying ‘tell it to your feet, mama needs a new pair of shoes‘, which then further fueled the moral vs. stylish footwear dilemma I wrestle with on the daily- 483,403,502
Watching my students enjoy our literacy corner- priceless
(Number of times I rolled my eyes while writing this post, fully aware of how cliché ridden and cheesy it was- infinite. BUT I’M STILL EXCITED!)
Sunday, August 29, 2010
As if my Summer couldn't get any worse....
My friend Michelle's boyfriend was killed in a car accident on Friday morning. His brother who also was with him, was killed as well. Such a sad time for everyone. It's hard to lose a loved one, it's even harder when you have to lose two at the same time--I can't imagine the devastation the family must feel.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Trying to Educate the Lindsane of the World!
Dear Sir, Madam, or Offending Garment du Jour:
You are hereby on notice that I have started to, er, notice you befouling various celebrities. I sweetly insist that you cease & desist your body-stumping, childish ways before the general public is seduced by your inexplicable charms.
Darlings, this is like one of those delightful SAT questions; Jumpsuits are to 2010 fashion as Lindsay Lohan is to self tanner. *Aprops to the original jumpsuit era, let's pick C, Just Say No.
You are hereby on notice that I have started to, er, notice you befouling various celebrities. I sweetly insist that you cease & desist your body-stumping, childish ways before the general public is seduced by your inexplicable charms.
Darlings, this is like one of those delightful SAT questions; Jumpsuits are to 2010 fashion as Lindsay Lohan is to self tanner. *Aprops to the original jumpsuit era, let's pick C, Just Say No.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
We Can't Settle.
A lot of times we settle. We settle for something less than we deserve. We tend to let things slide and shrug them off. We make excuses and compromise all too often. We lose sight of what we deserve and how well we should be treated. Every girl deserves to be treated as if she's the last one standing. To have a door open for them, the guy treat them to dinner, to ask how your day went, to come to you, to try to make you happy, to call you when you don't expect it, and to be with someone who wants to do all of those things for you.
To all of my girlfriends and best friends--never forget your worth or how much you deserve. And believe me, there are plenty of guys who are out there waiting to do all of these things...sadly these days...they are few and far between. We can't settle for anything less than wonderful because we are worth it.
To all of my girlfriends and best friends--never forget your worth or how much you deserve. And believe me, there are plenty of guys who are out there waiting to do all of these things...sadly these days...they are few and far between. We can't settle for anything less than wonderful because we are worth it.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Class
"Boys, repeat after me, I will not text after 11 pm, I will not engage in flirtexting, and I will not under any circumstances expect the girl to split the bill on the first date. Now just the girls, I will not drunk dial, I will not allow a boy to have his cake and eat it too (you'll understand when you're older), and I will walk away and never look back when he says 'I'm not ready' (again, trust me on this one)."
My lesson plans according to Michelle :)
My lesson plans according to Michelle :)
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Delete
As someone who battles with her computer on almost a daily basis (okay that’s a stretch, but I just don’t really understand it a lot of the time) there is one function that a computer has that I have always respected. That function my friends, is delete.
My computer deletes without feeling, without debate. It asks me only once if I am sure, and then it does the job. It doesn’t ask me “Do you think you will regret deleting this file?”, “are you sure this isn’t a mistake?” or “Isn’t this the best copy you’ve made, shouldn’t you keep it?”, my computer coolly and objectively deletes with one swift swipe of the enter key. There are no tears, long conversations anazlying the matter, or sleepless nights. My computer just deletes and moves on.
Other than the time I accidentally deleted my entire hard drive (oh what a life I lead!), I’ve never been really good at deleting anything. I still have my first baby tooth, my class president crown from grade two and my one and only Spice girl CD. I have kept matchbooks with numbers I would never call, pictures of people I don’t remember and every napkin I’ve ever scratched an ingenious thought on (most of these thoughts occur at 2am when I’m drunk on genius and tequila) . Deleting possessions, removing them from my cluttered life has never been my strong suit.
People are even worse.
The ability to delete has become one of interest only recently. I had always accepted that I was unable to delete, to remove, to erase people in my life. I mean, if I can’t discard the president’s crown from grade 2 (I totally rocked the competition though), how could I possibly find the boldness to delete a person? Like I said, I had accepted this fate until a funny thing happened…
Within the last couple of weeks I have witnessed to examples of exactly how to delete. Two of my loveliest friends, each in a different way were able to find their delete button and discard the emotions, attachments and questions that were clinging to a person in their life. The people they had attached these trappings to were people that they cared about, lusted after, even (despite what they would sometimes admit) loved. For years, (notice the italics) each of them had kept these people around, unwilling to delete them, unable to do anything else. Why did they delete? They found themselves in a position where their lives were better for it. I don’t mean to be one-dimensional, but we entertain people in our lives who make our lives better, once someone fails to do that, or prevents you from making your own life better, you should start eyeing the delete button. That is not to say that once you hit ‘delete’ and decide to move on that you will forget about the person, (most are afterall a little more memorable then a paper crown), it’s just that you will erase their file and gain some free storage to create something new. You will remember what you wrote, you just won’t have a copy to hold on to.
Do I have people that I should delete? Absolutely. People who are long since gone who I allow to influence my descisions, to affect my mood and cause me to question things that can no longer be answered? Yes. Have I deleted these people? No. But I’m going to. Today. Because a girl can drive herself crazy trying to hold on to something that she doesn’t really have. And after a few sleepless nights, I’ve realized I’m better than staring at myfailed relationships computer screen and wondering what to do next. So for now, I will push the delete button, take a deep breath and reboot.
It’s going to be an interesting summer.
My computer deletes without feeling, without debate. It asks me only once if I am sure, and then it does the job. It doesn’t ask me “Do you think you will regret deleting this file?”, “are you sure this isn’t a mistake?” or “Isn’t this the best copy you’ve made, shouldn’t you keep it?”, my computer coolly and objectively deletes with one swift swipe of the enter key. There are no tears, long conversations anazlying the matter, or sleepless nights. My computer just deletes and moves on.
Other than the time I accidentally deleted my entire hard drive (oh what a life I lead!), I’ve never been really good at deleting anything. I still have my first baby tooth, my class president crown from grade two and my one and only Spice girl CD. I have kept matchbooks with numbers I would never call, pictures of people I don’t remember and every napkin I’ve ever scratched an ingenious thought on (most of these thoughts occur at 2am when I’m drunk on genius and tequila) . Deleting possessions, removing them from my cluttered life has never been my strong suit.
People are even worse.
The ability to delete has become one of interest only recently. I had always accepted that I was unable to delete, to remove, to erase people in my life. I mean, if I can’t discard the president’s crown from grade 2 (I totally rocked the competition though), how could I possibly find the boldness to delete a person? Like I said, I had accepted this fate until a funny thing happened…
Within the last couple of weeks I have witnessed to examples of exactly how to delete. Two of my loveliest friends, each in a different way were able to find their delete button and discard the emotions, attachments and questions that were clinging to a person in their life. The people they had attached these trappings to were people that they cared about, lusted after, even (despite what they would sometimes admit) loved. For years, (notice the italics) each of them had kept these people around, unwilling to delete them, unable to do anything else. Why did they delete? They found themselves in a position where their lives were better for it. I don’t mean to be one-dimensional, but we entertain people in our lives who make our lives better, once someone fails to do that, or prevents you from making your own life better, you should start eyeing the delete button. That is not to say that once you hit ‘delete’ and decide to move on that you will forget about the person, (most are afterall a little more memorable then a paper crown), it’s just that you will erase their file and gain some free storage to create something new. You will remember what you wrote, you just won’t have a copy to hold on to.
Do I have people that I should delete? Absolutely. People who are long since gone who I allow to influence my descisions, to affect my mood and cause me to question things that can no longer be answered? Yes. Have I deleted these people? No. But I’m going to. Today. Because a girl can drive herself crazy trying to hold on to something that she doesn’t really have. And after a few sleepless nights, I’ve realized I’m better than staring at my
It’s going to be an interesting summer.
And I Quote
“I never wanted to be one of those girls in love with boys who would not have me. Unrequited love- plain desperate aboveboard boy chasing turned you into a salesperson, and what you were selling was something he didn’t want, could not use, would never miss. Unrequited love was deciding to be useless and I could never abide uselessness"
Sunday, April 04, 2010
Party of One
My night started off very well. Some friends and I went out and to celebrate we popped open wine, marvelled at my shoes (pictures. soon. promise.) and discussed everything from Healthcare to American Idol with equal passion. We laughed, we drank and I went out smelling like Kim Kardashian, glossed with my lipglass and doused in the “look at me, I’m bloody fantastic!” confidence that comes with a 4 drink minimum or a really good hair day.
We went to a lounge where the music was loud and the people were polished. There were camera shots and tequila shots. There were hugs to old friends and numbers exchanged to new ones. It started out being one of those nights where you hope you see everyone you ever knew because they would see you at your best- laughing, happy, surrounded by friends and wearing killer footwear.
An unfortunate circumstance found me having to state my relationship status repeatedly (or lack of relationship status to be more accurate). At first it was fine, I can throw in a joke about it, can say all the reasons I’m glad I’m not currently coupled like an animal on Noah’s ark (the commitment! the chance of drama! the fact I would have to shave my legs on a regular basis!), but it didn’t stop. I had to keep saying it over, and over and over again.
I’m single.
And the kicker? I’m not casually dating, not currently on the fence about a particular guy, not even secretly lusting after someone.
I’m just… single.
It was in that moment that I noticed everyone who wasn’t single. I noticed the couples suctioned to each other- sweaty from dancing with hands interlaced. The ones smiling at the dancers antics knowing they would go home together and have something to talk about. The ones whispering secrets and stories no one else would ever hear.
Suddenly, I felt something that stirred my insides and left me shaken. A feeling that crept slowly up my throat and left a bad taste in my mouth. Suddenly, I felt being single wasn’t fun.
There’s the idea that singleness equals carefree road trips with red toes out the window. Of random sexual escapades that would make even Samantha blush. Of spur of the moment splurges, weeknight parties, drawers filled only with expensive La Perla panties and complex nightgowns with strings and bows.
And sometimes being single is like that. It’s lovely, and exciting and causes you to skip into your office or strut in the coffee shop. You feel independent and lovely and find yourself going on trips or applying for jobs you would have to think twice about if coupled.
And sometimes being single isn’t like that. It’s heartbreaking and lonely and causes watery eyes when you realize that when you wake from a bad dream, there’s no one to tell. And you find yourself on a Saturday night wearing your best shoes, surrounded by too many people, feeling far too alone.
We went to a lounge where the music was loud and the people were polished. There were camera shots and tequila shots. There were hugs to old friends and numbers exchanged to new ones. It started out being one of those nights where you hope you see everyone you ever knew because they would see you at your best- laughing, happy, surrounded by friends and wearing killer footwear.
An unfortunate circumstance found me having to state my relationship status repeatedly (or lack of relationship status to be more accurate). At first it was fine, I can throw in a joke about it, can say all the reasons I’m glad I’m not currently coupled like an animal on Noah’s ark (the commitment! the chance of drama! the fact I would have to shave my legs on a regular basis!), but it didn’t stop. I had to keep saying it over, and over and over again.
I’m single.
And the kicker? I’m not casually dating, not currently on the fence about a particular guy, not even secretly lusting after someone.
I’m just… single.
It was in that moment that I noticed everyone who wasn’t single. I noticed the couples suctioned to each other- sweaty from dancing with hands interlaced. The ones smiling at the dancers antics knowing they would go home together and have something to talk about. The ones whispering secrets and stories no one else would ever hear.
Suddenly, I felt something that stirred my insides and left me shaken. A feeling that crept slowly up my throat and left a bad taste in my mouth. Suddenly, I felt being single wasn’t fun.
There’s the idea that singleness equals carefree road trips with red toes out the window. Of random sexual escapades that would make even Samantha blush. Of spur of the moment splurges, weeknight parties, drawers filled only with expensive La Perla panties and complex nightgowns with strings and bows.
And sometimes being single is like that. It’s lovely, and exciting and causes you to skip into your office or strut in the coffee shop. You feel independent and lovely and find yourself going on trips or applying for jobs you would have to think twice about if coupled.
And sometimes being single isn’t like that. It’s heartbreaking and lonely and causes watery eyes when you realize that when you wake from a bad dream, there’s no one to tell. And you find yourself on a Saturday night wearing your best shoes, surrounded by too many people, feeling far too alone.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Give Me a Kleenex, I'll Wipe Your Nose Too.
It’s impossible to immerse yourself in a new job, to live it, breathe it, and not find yourself changed by it.
The proof of this change came last week over dinner with friends….
While sitting with friends (some old, some new), the cute guy two seats down from me put down his napkin and said that he couldn’t eat another bite of his sandwich because he was full.
I promptly replied “See if you can eat two more bites. Then you can be done.”
It wasn’t until I looked up from my meal and heard everyone laughing did I remember that I wasn’t eating my meal with picky 8 year olds who hate eating their lunch.
But for the record, the guy DID eat two more bites. And then we shared a dessert.
Something an 8 year old would never do.
The proof of this change came last week over dinner with friends….
While sitting with friends (some old, some new), the cute guy two seats down from me put down his napkin and said that he couldn’t eat another bite of his sandwich because he was full.
I promptly replied “See if you can eat two more bites. Then you can be done.”
It wasn’t until I looked up from my meal and heard everyone laughing did I remember that I wasn’t eating my meal with picky 8 year olds who hate eating their lunch.
But for the record, the guy DID eat two more bites. And then we shared a dessert.
Something an 8 year old would never do.
My Uncomfortable Zone.
Like Pavlov’s dogs, I’m learning that certain triggers will send me into an unplanned response. More specifically, certain phrases will send me into a blood curdling, hair tingling, cold and uncomfortable sweat that will prompt me to lie in the fetal position under my bed and drink whiskey until I think I AM Johnny Cash.
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy…
- “I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let’s do this song sober!”
- “Hi there, this is the Internal Revenue Service. Can we please speak to Amaya?”
- “You’re late” (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- “It’s time for a pap smear!”
- ” I think you are silly/cute/a joke”.
- “It broke” (And to quote Louis Armstrong, ‘if you have to ask, you’ll never know’)
- “Now, I know we said we weren’t going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought these Heidi Klume bangs would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?”
- “Nope, we don’t have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?”
- “You're car is totalled."
- “I don’t want to date you anymore, but happy birthday.”
- “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration”
- "I have been going to dinner and movies with a gal pal."
- “You’re a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican.” (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- “I don’t watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- “I have some bad news”
Okay, I exaggerate, but here are some phrases that make me prone to fits of extreme rage, or you know, just uncomfortable or unhappy…
- “I signed us up for karokee, stop drinking so fast, let’s do this song sober!”
- “Hi there, this is the Internal Revenue Service. Can we please speak to Amaya?”
- “You’re late” (I hate,hate, HATE being late)
- “It’s time for a pap smear!”
- ” I think you are silly/cute/a joke”.
- “It broke” (And to quote Louis Armstrong, ‘if you have to ask, you’ll never know’)
- “Now, I know we said we weren’t going to cut a lot of hair off this time, but I thought these Heidi Klume bangs would really suit you. Hey, why are you crying?”
- “Nope, we don’t have you booked on this airplane, sorry! Now can you step aside for the next person in line?”
- “You're car is totalled."
- “I don’t want to date you anymore, but happy birthday.”
- “Ma’am, I need to see your license and registration”
- "I have been going to dinner and movies with a gal pal."
- “You’re a democrat? Wow, I would have totally pegged you as a Republican.” (this one was more funny, but I was shocked nonetheless)
- “I don’t watch The Office. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong?”
And of course, the ever popular, never appreciated
- “I have some bad news”
Monday, March 08, 2010
Instant Gratification in an Instant World.
We live in an instant world. Instant coffee, instant messaging, instant car starters. We wait for nothing. We can fast forward our commercials, email our letters and drive-thru for our meals.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn’t want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to ’speed up’. My list of what’s worth waiting for includes…
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that’s homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the “it’s the third date so we should kiss”, but the “I’m so excited about you, I need to kiss you” kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I’m not the only one who misspells “foreign”.
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don’t love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your grandmother's car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an “I love you” to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favorite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn’t seem so bad.
Everything happens so quick that when I actually am forced to wait for something; eggs to cook, Saturdays paper, a doctor to see me, life suddenly seems to move very slow. Too slow. Unbearably slow.
While toe-tapping and watch checking this morning waiting for an airline flight confirmation, I got to thinking about what is WORTH waiting for. What would I never want to be found quicker, what I wouldn’t want to experience sooner, what I would hate for technology to ’speed up’. My list of what’s worth waiting for includes…
- homemade pie crust. Actually, any food that’s homemade. Instant potatoes scare me more than Tara Reid.
- babies.
- the third date kiss. Not the “it’s the third date so we should kiss”, but the “I’m so excited about you, I need to kiss you” kind.
- a proper goodbye.
- handwritten letters in the mail that confirm I’m not the only one who misspells “foreign”.
- my birthday.
- someone who loves you even on the days (most especially on the days) you don’t love yourself.
- garden peas.
- the shoes you adore (but cost more than your grandmother's car) to come on sale.
- a glued macaroni picture addressed to you in crayon.
- an “I love you” to be said sober, fully clothed and vertical.
- movie sequels with an actual plot.
- waiting in line to meet Cinderella.
- an explanation for a broken heart, missed lunch appointment or $489 vehicle repair bill.
- seeing your favorite piece of artwork so close up your eyes can trace the paint strokes and find the pieces of hair stuck in the paint.
- the perfect dress.
Suddenly waiting doesn’t seem so bad.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Happy Birthday Dr. Suess
I’m sitting here in my classroom- one that was so ugly when I first met it, I almost cried. It was a thousand shades of beige with ripped construction paper and borders that didn’t quite meet around bulletin boards. It had dirty walls, smeared windows and it smelled like my grandmother’s basement. It had torn posters haphazardly dangling from the last cold remnants of sticky tack, a small collection of tattered books housed in a dirty plastic bin and 10 lonely desks stood in the center of the room.
I look around now. I have brightly colored material stretched over each bulletin board, cheerful border lining each one. I have a dazzling collection of books- on Robin Hood and magic and planets and a boy named Fudge filling a wooden bookcase and labeled bins and sorted in magazine holders. I have 19 desks filled with pencils and crayola markers and papers lined with thoughts of people young enough to still be brave enough to write down their wildest ideas. I have an orchid blooming at a reading table, the Mona Lisa hangs from the wall looking down and I have three dozen gorgeously fat tulips blooming on my desk. It is a room that vibrates with potential and possibility and excitement when you enter. It is absolutely everything I ever wanted my classroom to be.
The funny thing is, I’ve been missing it. September curb stomped me, wore me down until I was nothing but a shell that rose each morning at 5:20 am and came home each evening at 4:30 pm. I’ve been crabby and tired and when I looked around my room instead of seeing the colors and flowers and solved math problems of my genius class stapled to the bulletin board, I saw unfinished marking, the need for more books, a to-do list that multiplied every second I took my eyes away. I saw everything it wasn’t instead of what it was.
I have a poster hanging in my room. It’s a Dr. Seuss quote- one of my favorites, it says
"You have brains in your head
and shoes on your feet.
You can steer yourself
in any direction you choose."
I’m so quick to tell me students they can do anything, be anyone, accomplish anything- that I’ve been forgetting that I can do the same too. I can steer myself any direction I choose- even steer myself away from a career responsible, (but soul depleting) schedule that leaves me aching for more and settling for less. And sometimes accomplishing less- spending less time at the school, quitting before the sun has left the sky, refusing to battle the photocopier one more time, is doing more. Sometimes crossing off fewer things on your to-do list (or just chucking the to-do list altogether) provides a kind of sanity you can’t find anywhere else.
Happy Birthday Dr. Seuss.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
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 :)
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 :)
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