The Good Mascara

Now before I start anything, I must admit that I am not one to deny myself ‘the good stuff’ – be it clothing, shoes, food or wine. I figure that if I have to spend money on necessities of daily living (and all above are truly necessary) you may as well spend that little bit more for the best. So has been my mantra since I got my first part time job at the tender age of 16 but until recently there was one aspect of my necessities that I still felt a bit guilty for over-indulging in.

Make up.

Before I turned 16 the only make up I truly owned was a silver eye liner I purchased from the dollar store for one of my schools famous Electric Circus dances that, as a 8th and 9th grader, was ecstatic and excited to finally be able to attend. However with the move to a new school with higher expectations all around, I began to meander at the make up counters at The Bay and Sears, wondering if what those girls spent hours on in the change room putting on their face really made a difference. Not to mention that with said-make up on their faces in public I felt pretty plain, and on bad days ugly, in comparison – which didn’t make any sense to me then and now, because their beauty was store bought and, along with all the time spent making themselves up, was washed away at the end of the day. But me being me - young and naïve – still went to the mall one day after school to ‘follow the trend’ and try and fit in.

So again, at the tender age of 16, I bit the bullet and purchased my first non-drug store piece of make up. Still missing my high school of choice I opted to stop at the MAC make up counter for whatever it was that I needed. Now I was never good at applying anything to my face, so I stuck with the absolute basic: concealer. Thanks to my mother’s south pacific ageless skin, foundation and powder were unnecessary and not to mention expensive for a 16 year olds budget!! So I settled for paying the (at the time) outrageous price of 17$ for a mini-tub/pot of concealer and rushed home, nervous and excited, to put it on. The gentleman behind the counter wasn’t too helpful in the application process – basically he just said put it on under your eyes using your finger. Now, me having 10 fingers to choose from (I am ambidextrous – writing with my right hand but highlighting and doing everything else under the sun with my left hand) and no concept whatsoever in proper application – I fussed about in my bathroom trying to ‘blend in’ the streaks of medium beige cream that I had scooped out of the little and seemingly endless pot.

It honest to God took me about a week to get the concealer just right, but boy oh boy was it ever worth it! All of a sudden the bags underneath my eyes disappeared, my eyes ‘popped’ with the illusion of wakefulness, and of course, the boys started paying a bit of attention to the short brown no longer plain but still average looking brunette in the growing heard of tall blonde skinny beauties that roamed their hallways. And to this day I have never ever left my house with at least a hint of concealer under my eyes – or for days when it’s truly a struggle - sunglasses.

It wasn’t until the tender age of 21, so less than a year ago, was I introduced to true ‘grown up’ make up. After being a loyal MAC girl for so long, my co-worker friend who used to work with said ‘grown-up’ make up, almost wrung my neck when I told her I was a) still using MAC concealer and b) I hadn’t replaced it in almost a year and a half. Hm – apparently that’s bad. Anyway with a bit of arm twisting and threatening I switched from MAC to Make Up Forever and added expensive mascara (DiorShow Unlimited) to my repertoire that, thankfully, I could still only spend 5 minutes on my face as I rush out the door.

And I’ve never looked back… that is, until a few days ago.

It had been over 6 months (which apparently in the make up world is sacrilegious) since I had replaced both my concealer and my mascara. I didn’t mind replacing the concealer, since I used it every day… but I was having the worst time actually throwing away the DiorShow tube – its beautiful navy blue colour with silver lettering was just too nice to all of a sudden stop using. But then I realized – I wasn’t upset because it was so pretty, or that I had spent 23$ on mascara that I was throwing away… I was upset because, in the 6+ months I had it in my possession… I had only used it, at most, once or twice a week. And that is being generous.

I sat back in my chair at work contemplating this very notion – not just of mascara, but of everything in general. I know plenty of people that save those ‘special’ items, be it China, a dress, shoes, make up… for special occasions only – however most times those special moments are few and far between or at worst, nonexistent. I was saving my DiorShow mascara for true occasions: nights out, dinners, dances… but with my schedule dedicated to nursing and work, I never really had the chance to feel that extra bit pretty, or take that extra care of myself just for the hell of it. I had ‘every day’ mascara, you know, the kind you get for 6$ at the drug store, that had been used more often than the DiorShow for no other reason than it was cheaper. And now I had to let it go – bacteria growth and clumping had started so rationally it was best to get rid of it before problems arise – before it had the chance to reach its full potential, or at least, reach half way down the tube?

While I was waiting for Vegas to pick me up from a night of shopping I meandered over to the Dior counter at the Bay, where the lovely manager assisted me in the purchase of my new mascara – DiorShow with shimmer. As I put my credit card down to pay for the mascara and lip gloss (what can I say? J’adore Dior!)I made a promise to myself that, no matter what day it was, no matter what I was doing, and no matter how foolish I felt, I would wear the good mascara and get as much out of it as I had put in. Which got me thinking… that if I can start at mascara, I ought to extend that sense of living the good life to everything before it’s too late. I mean, I can replace mascara without looking foolish, but I can’t replace this time of my life later on because I was ‘saving’ it too for something special. It already is something special, or at the very least can be. All I need to do is seize the chance.

Oh, and to put on the good mascara.

Say Goodbye

Heading homeward, but tell me what becomes of us?

Last night I said goodbye to The American. We had spoken some words few and far between since the last time I saw him - My friends and others had reiterated to The American that I was a taken woman and my dwindling presence at the gym hinted at a nervous mind and an uneasy heart. I had made up my mind to be with Vegas - and not just anyone, not even this old-school romantic soldier could sway my decision. But I admit there was still something about him that made my breath laboured and my heart beat just a moment faster. I didn't know what was going to happen when I stepped out of the change room after an hour of choeographed weights with my instructor friend, but as I saw him sitting on the couch waiting to say goodbye I knew that a final conversation was going to be had.

It was a warm evening - (with the exception of the wind) and temperate for this city - so I elected to walk home. In my normal pace on a night where my winter jacket was but a burden on my arm I could have made it home in 15 minutes. However with The American by my side until I said otherwise, we meandered through the city admiring its beauty, knowing that he may never see the city, or me, ever again.

I asked him why he would ever want to move here. Not that I dislike this city - it's lovely. It is and forever will be my home - or at least, the closest thing to home I've ever had. It's just being an American soldier and having the opportunity to travel to far and distant places to see breathtaking and history-laden sights, why chose just one to remain in for the rest of your life? His response? "I was just always drawn to Canada; and now I know why."

I didn't ask for his 'why' - not because in my heart of hearts I knew his answer, but because it wasn't mine to know. The American was leaving for a mission not 2 days long before flying to Europe for a month and then, well, who knows? He was obviously energized and nervous but at the same time sad to leave; after dropping me off he was heading to a local martini bar to say goodbye to other friends he had met in his short time in the city. I wasn't going - it didn't seem right. But at the same time not saying goodbye didn't seem right as well. Without knowing or caring what my past was, The American thought of and treated me like a lady - even when it was evident that he would not get what he wanted from me. So on a park wall 5 blocks away from my apartment, after walking and talking for what seemed like forever, we stopped to speak.

The conversation started as I had imagined: the easy banter between strangers was seguayed by The American mentioning that one day, in the future, I would make one man very lucky and very happy. I dropped my head and looked away, saying thank you but in the middle of my sentence, as if out of a scene from Gone With The Wind, The American lifted me off the ground, effortlessly, and placed me on top of the wall I was leaning against. Startled but grateful that I was able to rest for a while I continued to speak, confiding in The American that Vegas had hurt me in the past. Startled, he asked why I had let him back into my life, and as I began to contemplate my answer he took off his sweater and folded it up and placed it next to me. He mentioned that while he too cared deeply for his ex's, that he would give her his last dime, it didn't mean that he would ever think to let her back into his life the way she used to be, let alone his heart. Before I could give him my response - in fact, just as I was about to open my mouth - he placed his arms under my knees and my back and lifted me onto his sweater, mentioning that it was never good to sit on something so cold.

After that gesture of kindness that was as unexpected as it was overwhelming to my heart - I wanted to cry because my answer didn't change. The American's 'dream' of whisking me away and giving me everything I wanted, all the while being the officer and gentleman I dreamed of as a little girl in my mothers high heels couldn't remove the face of Vegas that was and is on my heart. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and with my hands in my lap and my face to the moon I gave him my answer - one I've given many a times to friends and strangers when I let them know that Vegas and I are back together, but until last night did I truly understand the meaning behind the words I speak.

"If I made a mistake like that, and I was truly sorry, I'd want to be forgiven. I can not expect to receive that kind of love, the love that I want, if I am unwilling to give it first."

The American was silent. I could sense an understanding and a level of respect eminating from him, even before he started to speak. "You have a good heart - too good", he said, "but you're a good woman." He nodded his head as he lifted me off the wall and placed me back on solid ground.

We said goodbye shortly after that. In a final attempt to sway my heart The American proclaimed that if I ever wished to see him again, if there was ever a chance that he could call me his woman, that all I had to do was tell him and he would make it happen. I nodded - and told him to be safe. After a kiss on the forehead and a first and final hug, I walked away from my American soldier without a phone number, an email, or even a last name.

I believe that every person we meet, have met, and will ever meet, has a lesson for us to learn. I had asked The American why he thought he had met me, and although I disagree with his interpretation of the events from this month, I know the lesson that The American taught me. Perhaps it is the offshoot of the Sexual Revolution, but the fact is until now, for 22 years of my life, I had never been treated as well as I was by The American. In his mind a lady deserved to be treated as a lady, no matter how she decides to act. I may disagree with the last part, but thanks to The American I no longer have any reason or excuse to not act, or more importantly treat myself, like a lady. I'm not saying that I wish to convert back to a chauvinistic view of male and female roles, but damn did it ever feel good to be viewed and treated like a lady, and I'd like to keep that feeling going - even if it's only by myself.

So... While this may not be the happily-ever-after ending I once dreamed about as a little girl in my mothers high heels, but as a 22 year old girl in my own high heels - it's an ending that I am happy with. And in the end that's all that matters.

Biceps & Bigots

I see you lookin' at me/like I'm some kind of freak

The one thing that I really liked about my gym – the very same one I frequent on an almost daily basis, is the fact that the majority of its members are quite often too busy staring at themselves to pay attention to anyone else, i.e. me. It was my place to just disappear into the music and choreography to emerge sweaty, red and victorious without worrying what I look like before, during or after my session. I had left my university gym for this one permanently in 2003 when the stark reality of college life hit me: I just couldn’t stand going into the change room to watch my fellow females put on copious amounts of makeup to work out while I did my best to tame my unwashed-uncombed hair into a ponytail with water and 2 super-strength elastics. Now I understand that not all women are like this: there are plenty out there who just want to get in and get out of the gym, do their thing without being ogled by men and sneered at by other women, but to me it seemed that the aforementioned were few and far between at the university and boy did I ever feel ugly and out of place.

Hence – this gym. An avid loyal customer of 6+ years I had happily gone about my business without the slightest hint of disrespect from my fellow gym-goers. I mean, aren’t we all there for the same reason? Well, maybe not the mirror image exact same reason, but similar reasons nonetheless. Anyway perhaps I was just naïve, or blind until recently, as I’ve noticed and been informed that not all gym-goers keep their eyes or mouths to themselves. Let me tell you ladies and gents – you may think you're being cleaver in your insults but your body and eyes give you away.

More than once, twice, three times I’ve walked past women who felt so inclined to make a snotty comment. About what, you ask? Just me. I admit I am a fit female, only because I frequent that very same gym at least 4 times a week to do cardio and weights. The only time I can admit to ‘showing off’ is laundry day when all my pants are unfit to work out in and I must wear my bike shorts to a weight lifting class. Ladies, don’t think I am oblivious to your catty eyes and judgmental facial expressions. I see you looking at me with those “ugh what a show-offy bitch” eyes – but as the song goes, why don’t you do something? I only look fit because I am fit; because I work for it. To me it doesn’t make much sense to chastise someone for working hard and achieving their goals. How does that make achieving yours any easier? I mean, will your bitchiness magically erase 10 pounds of heart-hazardous fat from your body and transplant it on to mine? No – I didn’t think so either. So save your stares for those women out there who truly do not have to exercise for 7 hours a week to maintain their ideal weight and figure and let me exercise in peace.

Don’t worry men; I haven’t forgotten about you. I notice you as well just as I’m sure you notice me. Most men at my gym are quite fine. They are too engrossed in their weights or cardio to pay attention to anything else, or they are busy comparing themselves to bigger, stronger or faster men as a motivational tool to in turn make them bigger, stronger or faster. But there are some of you out there who are cursed with verbal diarrhea, or perhaps Tourettes, which makes you so inclined to say whatever pops up in your brain or somewhere else on your ripped and vicious anatomy. I am not going to repeat what I hear you say, but trust me: I hear it. And I don’t like it. My sole intent and purpose for going to the gym is not to provide you with eye-candy entertainment, a walking visual image you can fantasize about – ‘getting her for one night’ or worse. I understand that the aerobics class that resembles a dance-hall atmosphere is entertaining to watch, but I and the rest of the participants are not doing it solely for your pleasure. No – we’re doing it for our pleasure. The pleasure of movement, of music, of knowing that you’re exercising without feeling like you’re exercising. Yes you can watch us, but seriously; stop standing outside of the studio making comments on how well we’d do after the music stops. It’s not funny – it’s insulting.

This won’t stop me from going to the gym. In fact I’m going tonight. But at the same time it still sucks knowing that the place I once thought to be judgment free – if only because the people who’d judge you were too busy judging themselves – turned out to be just like any other place. I know that it’s human nature to judge but c’mon; at the very least we can keep our judgments to ourselves, lest we be judged and overhear it too.

PS: The only thing that has (almost) stopped me from going to the gym is The American. No he hasn't vanished from my radar just yet. But he is leaving in 3 days...

Merci beaucoup!!

First off I would like to thank God for all the gifts She and He have bestowed on me - namely the brain currently exploding with a mish-mash of pathophysiology medical-medical-bullshit-bullshit - for somehow filtering out the words that you are reading right now.

Speaking of which, I would also like to thank Mr. WriteNow who bestowed on me the lovely award you see above. I haven't been blogging for long, nor have I had such a big audience besides my mom and my girlfriends who only read when they were bored at work, so it is truly truly an honour (I'm not be facitious) to be recognized for my blog in an (internet) full of incredible, note-worthy, publish-worthy, thought-worthy, laugh-worthy blogs that have come before and will come after lil' old mine.

And as a recent recepiant of the thinking blogger award, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce you to 5 blogs that make me stop, think, smile, recoil, laugh, cry, and everything in between. BUT first of all I must must say - it was exceptionally hard picking just 5, as each and every blogger that I have on my roll has made me think. Luckily most of them have already been honoured!!

DT: the life and times of a twenty-something --> Not too long ago I was found by DT, or did I find him? Either way, DT's was the very first blog I was hooked on when I started Life In The City. His writing style was fluid and poised but down-to-Earth and funny - like I was having a weekly coffee with an old friend, each of us catching up on the others lives. DT's one of the good guys, at least in my opinion, and he's intelligent and funny and a fantastic story-teller. Although he may not post as much as I want him to- when he does it is worth the wait.

The Exception --> There is truly only one word I can use to describe this blog: Incredible, but imagine me saying it with a French accent, it is that good. Like dark chocolate and red wine good. The Exception makes me think - on topics I ponder about on a daily basis, and more importantly, on topics I never would have imagined thinking about. I think she is a teacher and if so I wouldn't be surprised, for I learn something or am inspired to learn something from every post of hers that I have had the pleasure of reading.

Calling it Carpe Diem --> The first 'local' blog that I was drawn in to; I can't really explain my attraction to this blog, besides the authors honesty in her writing and her ability to draw you into a story, even if it's just about steak or those glorious sleepovers we as girls get to experience. I've never met her, probably won't, but more likely than not passed her non-chalantly on the streets of our city - but through her writing she could very well be your best friend.

Ruby: Destination Unknown --> Straight and funny and to the point - Ruby's posts are as thoughtful as her comments that she leaves in yours. I was drawn in by her humour and stayed for her honesty and haven't looked back. I have a feeling that she's already been mentioned, as she should be, so it's not that I have less to say about you Ruby!!!!

Beth: Pink Lace and Pearls --> It was her last post that really really made me think (and as bloggers it's a question I am glad she raised), but to be fair, I was hooked on her blog because it made me think and inspired many a post from yours truly. I love it when I read and am inspired and on more than 1,2,3 occasions Beth has done this for me - and on those days when you have no idea what to write but just feel the need to write, her insights are a welcome ray of sunshine.

On that note - I enjoy each and every single blog that is on my roll, so if you see one that isn't on yours go read! I can't remember who I found first, I think it was brandy, but that's how I've managed to find all the blogs I read on an almost-daily basis. HOWEVER before I go, because there is always a however, Kyla Bea just started her newest blog (I think) - and I believe that given more time, I'd bestow on her the thinking blog award. GO read!

Something it's not

I can only give you everything I've got...

Last Friday, yesterday in fact, I was at work - a company that I've been a part of for the better of three years. During my time here I've had the pleasure of meeting some incredible people - some people that I still keep in touch with despite them leaving for bigger and better opportunities. Last summer I was introduced to my still-co worker now, let's call her "Rebecca", and she and I became fast friends. We thought alike, spoke alike, had the same interests, same sense of humour, hell even similar pasts (THAT was the freaky part). Anyways Rebecca and I soon exchanged cell phone numbers and had many a lunch date that reflected our similar interests and the friendship seemed to be off to a swimming start.

The introduction to other new co-workers, 1 in particular, let's call her "Addie" made for some interesting conversations, ideas and of course, outings. One night in the summer, I'm guessing it was sometime back in August or maybe September... I'm guessing August as it was still warm enough to go out clubbing without jackets and I wasn't buried under a mountain of schoolwork. Anyway one night in the summer, after Addie and I and my friend Chris had been drinking since around 5:15 pm - we ended up at a bar in the heart of the Market. It was the same night that ended with me being followed by the handsome stranger from Montreal that I had been dancing with on-and-off during the night; some parts were getting pretty hot, others not so much. It was a crowded dance floor, I was drunk, and having a good time. So was Addie, who managed to get drinks from almost every single available man on the floor. Rebecca had arrived late and as such was nowhere near as tipsy as the rest of us were, and since she is engaged she declined to, well, engage, in the flirtation game that Addie and I were so enjoying.

The night ended and we all went our seperate ways - but back at the office when our co-workers who declined to join us asked for details, they were stymied with our pact of "If you weren't there; you weren't there" - kind of like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas".

That is.. until Friday at lunch.

I can't even recall where and how this night came up, but near the end of lunch after we had regalled some tame moments of the night, Rebecca thought it to be funny to look me straight in the eye and say "I saw Carrie give this guy a lapdance".

I could feel the fire in my cheeks turn my brown skin red as the entire table of co-workers, many of which I respect and respected me (punctuation on purpose) turned in shock and surprise, their eyes searching for an explination or an adament rejection of something so terrible coming from such a sweet girl as myself. I took a breath and paused - unable to recall the specifics of the evening with the weight of embarassment crushing my shoulders and my chest. In fact I don't think I even had the mindset to defend myself as I was so shocked that Rebecca, someone I had considered one of my friends moreso than co-workers, would so publically and openly paint me with a scarlet brush.

Knowing that I had mere seconds to defend myself I admitted that I did dance with the guy; he was a good dancer. We danced most of the evening. And I do remember grinding with this guy - and I do remember that one moment he was standing and the next he was sitting; but we were still dancing and his hands were still on my hips. But the way that she said it made it seem, and the looks on my other co-workers faces support my interpretation of her interpretation, that I was practically naked and straddeling him, front to back, on a high-rising stage, suggestively moving my hips and body just for his pleasure and enjoyment. I don't know about you, but when someone says 'lapdance' I picture something along the lines of a strip club with a practically naked professional grinding front and back, stuffing some man's face into her ample clevage where he leaves dollar bills. And let me tell you - that was NOT what happened.

I was dancing with him. That is all. It was a crowded and packed dance floor with little space to breathe, let alone dance. It was around 1:00 am, so we were tired. I remember my legs hurting and being grateful to sit for a little bit - it just so happened to be on his CLOTHED lap. But that's not what Rebecca, and now the rest of the company, thinks. Now I'm a whore, or at the very least, less respected than I was before.

And for that - I'm insulted. I'm insulted that Rebecca, someone I had considered to be more of a friend, would embarass and insult me so publically and so non-chalantly, like it was comperable to proclaiming what colour my shirt was that day. She did it without a moments hesitation; knowing that her interpretation and her delivery was both excessive and painted a far worse picture of yours truly than what the truth revealed. And, of course, how this will inevitably degenerate into me turning tricks on the guy on stage completely naked, and then going home with him, and me waking up with 400$ next to the bedside.

Half of me wishes to get even; for my little 'show' as she puts it is nowhere NEAR as slutty as her on Halloween - slutty enough to get her fiance mad enough at her.. mad enough to leave the bar with her jacket and keys... all without telling her. Slutty enough for her to destroy all the pictures of her, the majority of them capturing her signature dance move of bending over to anything and anyone. Slutty enough for her to be on Facebook, tagged as the "naughty nurse" with her leg around strangers, guys and girls, without hesitation.

But the other half of me ... doesn't. 2 wrongs don't make a right, and although Rebecca chooses to be my very own US magazine, telling stories with partial truths to get the attention and fame she desperately needs... it's not my style for me to do it to her, or anyone for that matter. I don't judge; the very next day after her tryst at the bar on Halloween I met her for a day of shopping as she didn't want to deal with her fiance; I continued to go out with her for a few drinks here and there; I participated in her Secret Santa exchange; I booked her graduation dinner; hell, I even gave her a free week of tanning at my former roommates place of employment. And this is how she shows her friendship to me, by bad-mouthing me with half truths to my peers?

I decided to keep my mouth shut in and outside the lunchroom - shaking my head and rolling my eyes. I tried my very best to not get bent out of shape for a night that happened almost 9 months ago when clearly, without going into detail, there were others in the room, Rebecca included, who acted worse than I at company functions - not something on their own personal time. And I will not share the story of Halloween to anyone else but her if I decide to confront her for Friday's lunch; I take no pleasure in telling other peoples stories and spreading rumours and lies - because if you do that too often, soon enough you'll run out of people to have stories to tell about.

But herein lies the question: do I confront her, and if I do, what do I say? How do you tell someone that they've betrayed you, that what they said - although it was in public and yes they did see it, was both uncalled for and particularily cruel... Something you would expect from an acquaintance that you didn't really get along with as supposed to someone you consider a friend?

I think that the fact that I even have to confront her - that this has to happen, is what's making me so sad. I guess I'm not used to friends doing that to each other.

At Dawn

(Photo: Corbis)

… this is not what I do, it's the wrong time, for somebody new

I was thinking about The American after not seeing or talking to him for days. He was constantly on my mind – like a shadow on my conscience you know is there but can’t quite catch as it disappears from your view. The initial shock and awe was wearing off, the romantic ideas of being swept away and cared for falling back to the reality of my future and what plans I had made and ideals I want to live up to. But the way that he was in my thoughts wasn’t as I expected. There was no rhyme or reason for me to be thinking of him – I just was. And that got me to wonder, was this the famous ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other sensation that Ms. Bradshaw was talking about? But more importantly was the question, do I even want it?

When I take a step (or 5) back to contemplate this entire situation the attraction that I have to The American and the attraction that he has to me is completely irrational. I have no idea who he is, what he does, how he is, where he is going, what he wants or how he plans to get it. He met me a week ago and already has planned our entire future together and is ready and willing, and has even put into motion moving to my city. He claims that I am “the One” to me, to my friends, to anyone who would listen. And when I found that out – reality hit. The romantic ideal, the movie-script come to life feeling quickly fell into the familiar sense of fear that I have of men who, at the beginning, place you on a pedestal only to one day place you in a cage. When viewed through the lens of scientific rationalization – The American seems to be a man who would use my compassion against me and my need for love as a way to control me.

Perhaps I am being paranoid – but in this day and age of the dating/relationship game you have to be. The lines that defined a relationship that were once clearly drawn have been blurred or even erased by the actions of both men and women who were either in a relationship, in an affair, or hell in both. Apparently the term ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ may not always mean exclusivity… I mean, I had to spell out for my friends what ‘seeing – dating – relationship’ meant to clarify that I wasn’t a whore. Sure; I admit that I told The American that I wasn’t getting married. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I am fair game to any and all potential suitors that got it into their heads that this Manolo-lite is "the One". Now my interest in the opposite sex is for friendship and friendship alone; I shouldn’t have to stop being my polite, friendly and funny self to men just because there are some out there who cannot control their raging emotions, or those men out there who believe that if a pretty girl is nice to you it is actually an invitation to get in her yoga pants.


I have a boyfriend. I know I wrote about taken-attraction in a tongue-and-cheek fashion, but now with The American it went from being funny to being ridiculous. The American knows that I have someone in my life – someone special, someone I know, someone I (will again) trust, someone I care deeply for and who cares deeply and truly for me. As romantic and adventurous and exciting as it would be, at least in my mind, to run off with The American – my body says differently. It says ‘hell no!’. I don’t know about you, but I believe that your body is the most beautiful thing you will ever possess in your entire life, save for that awesome pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. I say this because I found my mind being tricked into this imaginary Hollywood-story while my body stayed steadfast in its ‘no way nuh-uh not while I’m warm and alive’ opinion. As the song goes, my hips don’t lie and I’m starting to feel nervous.

My instructor friend and her boyfriend gave The American the old "If you love/care for something let it go" speech, which got me thinking; if you never really had something, how can you let it go? Granted The American had me going for a while – that is, until I left to see Vegas on Sunday. I admit I thought of The American during my visit with Vegas – but when I compared the two side by side, Vegas won the battle hands down.

The only positive thing that I have realized throughout this entire ordeal with The American is that although Vegas and I had and will have our issues… Vegas is actually a decent guy. His level of jealousy and possessiveness has not crossed over to the dark side – He’s attentive without being overbearing, he’s interested without being obsessed, and he’s eager without being controlling… that is, unless I want him to be. I understand that I could have another man in minute but a guy like Vegas, a guy willing to admit over and over that he messed up and is walking the walk of action to prove he’s sorry… that kind of guy isn’t so irreplaceable. As charming and wonderful as The American has made himself out to be - he's actually taught me - or brought to my attention, inadvertantly - that Vegas is one of the good ones, which I guess means I am one of the lucky ones.

Even if I have men falling at my feet.

Into the Fire

... from one extreme to another

I'm going to school. University, I guess. Granted I am nowhere near Virginia, nor was I nowhere near Dawson College back in September. I am in no way, shape or form related to Virgina Tech or Dawson College, save for living in Montgomery County back in the 90s. But I am a student - I am a part of the university and college community here,there and everywhere.

And I'm going to school.

Back in September my college issued a statement regarding the Dawson College rampage, saying that they had a contingency plan in case of emergencies like this. Which got me thinking then and now - after waking up to the news on the radio, on the television, on the front covers of the Citizen, Sun, Metro, and 24 (hours & heures)... how sad it is that in 2007 we even have to have a plan in place for the potential of mass murder in an institution for higher learning. It just doesn't make any sense to me...

But I have an exam to write today - much like those students did too. And I am not going to let the images and talk of fear prevent me from getting my degree... or getting anything else in life that I really want. So I am going to school; and I am going to the gym; and I am going.

I hope you are too.

The Name Game

"I have given you my soul... leave me my name."

It's a big question - one that has followed women ever since the Sexual Revolution. I first heard it in grade 6 - my science teacher, Mrs. K, introduced herself to us as Mrs. because it was too much work and way too much of a hassle to fill out the paperwork before the ceremony. This question is - of course - "Will you take your husbands name once you're married?".

In my circle of friends this question was never brought up - maybe because (for my friends) we're all 22 and marriage is the furthest thing from our minds. Maybe because we're too busy asking pertinant questions, like which dress should I wear for which formal, or where did my other shoe go, or the ever popular necklace/no necklace problem we all run in to. But maybe because all of our mothers, mine, Mackenzies, Angelicas, Christies, Nicoles and countless others - are Mrs. Every boyfriend I've ever had - his mother is a Mrs. Grandmothers too. It seems as if Mrs.' are everywhere, an inescapable future if a girl chooses to get married.

Not to say that is a bad thing - my mother says her married name often and with pride. Vegas' mother responds lovingly to my 'hello Mrs. ___' as have every mother I've addressed who took her husbands name. But when I was discussing this with Vegas and with anyone who has asked me - I am of the opinion that I should never have to take my husband's name so much as to choose to take his name - and if called Mrs. by an unsuspecting person, be able to correct them with the salutation of "Ms." followed by my last name. Not maiden name, not fathers name. My name.

For as long as I've been out in public alone - not under the shadow of my brother or with my family - teachers, friends, colleagues and others have always called me "Ms." - jokingly and seriously. With the exception of French - the term "mademoiselle" for a young lady and '"madame" for a married woman - I have been and plan on forever being, Ms. And apparently that is a problem - at least, it has been for past boyfriends and lovers and their families.

I remember one time with Philippe - I was discussing with him the potential of getting a new hockey jersey with a player's name on the back. He said i "You know what would be really hot? If you got (his last name) on the back". To which I replied "No, why the hell would I do that?". "Why not?" He asked, insulted that I would dare to reject his name. "Well", I replied, "a) You don't play for the team, b) I'm not your wife and don't plan on being your wife and c) It's not my name. If I were to get my name on the back of MY jersey it would be MY name and no one elses". Clearly this started a fight, but really - when were we not fighting?

But most recently it has been with Vegas. When I mentioned the previous story and how I'd never take on someone elses name - at most I would hyphen but still sign legal documents Ms. - he too didn't understand this. Now my stance on the Ms. subject has not changed since we were dating back in high school. When I reminded him of this, he responded "Well, I thought you would have changed your mind."

Isn't that some men in a nutshell?

I get that in Vegas' family it is 'tradition' for the wife to take the husbands name. My mother did it - my grandmother did it- and I'm pretty sure my great-grandmother did it too. However, this is 2007: and I've never been good at following, or at least, I've managed to follow until I can lead. As much as I adore Vegas' family - I am not willing to forego my family of origin if Vegas' doesn't have to as well. Gone are the days when the wife was a piece of property to be exchanged between one man and another. Isn't it now "husband and wife" instead of "man and wife", implying maybe a hint of equality? So why the name game? Why is it when I chose to keep my own name after being able to chose if and whom I marry do I come out as the bad guy?

In a relationship I understand that I will eventually have to compromise. A lot. Kids, 'home', education, hell even religion - meaning I'd accept yours but never convert from mine. But my name stays. For me - my name is my identity. It is the one thing in this world that defines me and my accomplishments - my struggles, my past, my achievements, my potential. Why would I willingly give up my greatest sense of independence in exchange for the title of 'someone's'?

I retorted back to Vegas, to Philippe, to each man I've dated: "Take my name" - and boy oh boy were they insulted beyond belief. Laughter, pity-looks and dismissals galore. "Degrading, isn't it?", I replied, "that you'd take my name." So why am I supposed to be overjoyed at the potential of gaining a mans name when the shoe is on the other foot is it the most degrading concept ever heard by the ears of men?

There is one woman I know who is a Ms. It's Chris' mom. I called her Mrs. by mistake the first time I met her - she kindly but firmly corrected me as Ms. and I have never made that mistake again. She is easily one of this country's most powerful women - intelligent, successful, not to mention really hot for a mother twice over. She has a better body than I do! But what makes her so incredible is that she is everything: a wife and mother, a success in her career and her life, and she did it all as Ms and not Mrs. She is the epitamy of what I believe is the update to the saying - "Behind every great man is a great woman". Chris' mom is "Beside every great man is a great woman" - not his Mrs. but his Ms.

And I can definately live with something like that.

One hundred little things...

I wish I could take credit for this idea: alas, it's been done many-a-times before on blogs like mine, but hey; it's a great one so let's keep it going!


1) I am obsessed with the colour red. I wear it every day – seriously every day. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean I’m not wearing it.
2) I’m 5’2 – but so constantly in heels that I scare/surprise people with my ‘party trick’.
3) My ‘party trick’ involves me taking off one shoe and proclaiming “this is me with shoes” – drops down 2-3 inches – “and this is me without shoes”. It gets laughs every time.
4) The main reason I flirt is because at the time I’m bored.
5) I’ve grown up in several different countries on several different continents; and a few islands too.
6) Why? Well because I am a diplobrat.
7) I blame coffee for stunting my growth – however I am average height for someone with my background.
8) My mom’s from the South Pacific region of Asia. My dad is white.
9) I am literally a slave to my music.
10) I am addicted to Dog the Bounty Hunter.

11) I can’t cook – but I can sure as hell bake.
12) I have 2 replica WW1 and WW2 posters above my bed.
13) I am addicted to internet shopping.
14) 2 summers ago my dryer took a day to dry clothing, all the while making the loudest noise you could possibly imagine coming from an appliance. So I waited until the last possible minute to turn it on in the morning and managed to run out of my apartment.
15) I really don’t know how I’ve managed to survive myself.
16) If I am really lazy – I don’t do laundry. I just buy new clothes.
17) I still do that with panties.
18) Speaking of which, I keep them in a hat box instead of a drawer.
19) I’m really good at pretending to listen to people when I’m actually going over what I have to do/haven’t done that day.
20) I have a red load for my laundry.

21) I exercise constantly – but eat poorly.
22) I don’t have a favourite food – but I eat a lot of cereal.
23) I make a mean bowl of cereal.
24) I think Booster Juice is the greatest invention of our time.
25) My jeans hang in my closet from lightest to darkest – all other pants I really don’t care.
26) I have a growing obsession with Aveda hair and body products.
27) I am a serious hockey fan. It’s just a bonus that the players are so damn sexy.
28) I’m pretty sure I have ADHD.
29) I have a learning disability.
30) I seriously considered sewing my mitts to my jacket for the winter time, but then I’d be one of those kids.

31) Every so often I feel as if I am a 50 year old trapped in a 22 year olds body.
32) I have more older friends than friends my age.
33) I hate living with people.
34) Instead of removing nail polish with liquid remover, I just let it chip off.
35) I used to wish that I could change my full name – now I love it and most of my nicknames.
36) I have a fetish for shampoo and conditioner pairs.
37) I believe that shoes are God’s gift to women.
38) I believe that God is a woman – because there is also God that is a man.
39) I have an intense hatred for stupidity – not ignorance, because ignorant people truly don’t know any better. Stupid people do.
40) I hated dating – but loved the single life.

41) I carry with me at least 2 lip-chap sticks with me at all times; if I don’t have one I buy one.
42) I was the ugly kid.
43) I still don’t think I’m all that attractive: People seem to think otherwise and mistake my opinion for a sorry-attempt at being humble.
44) My father is the most interesting man I’ve ever met; but I’d still like to meet Christian Bale.
45) Batman is my favourite superhero.
46) I only eat pancakes either at home or at my greasy spoon diner next to the highway.
47) I hate taking the bus; I prefer the train.
48) I have an irrational and petrifying fear of flying.
49) I belong to a sorority. I don’t tell a lot of people because they assume that I’m one of those girls, like in the movies. Unfortunately those movies do a pretty accurate description of some of the girls I’ve met.
50) The area that I study in university is the love of my life.

51) Seriously I don’t think I’m all that attractive. I’m not being facetious.
52) I only go shopping for clothing by myself. I feel bad purchasing clothing in front of other people.
53) Shoe shopping – however – is a totally different story.
54) I have kindergarten teacher handwriting.
55) I learned to write at the same time I was learning how to use chopsticks. I amalgamated the two.
56) I love mint chocolate chip ice cream.
57) I have the craziest girlfriends in the world. And I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
58) The best part about me is my hair. It’s thick and it grows like a weed.
59) My prized possessions include my pair of Manolo Blahniks, my Coach purse and my Fendi sunglasses.
60) I only paid for the Manolo Blahniks.

61) I crack my knuckles on an hourly basis.
62) I have glasses but I never wear them.
63) My nails only seem to grow when I am not constantly watching and willing them to grow.
64) Michael Moore’s “Dude; Where’s My Country” inspired me to go into my field.
65) I guess I should tell you what that field is. I often leave out important pieces of information.
66) I once sprained my wrist opening a jar of applesauce. I wish I were kidding.
67) I’ve never broken a bone in my body.
68) I just knocked on wood. I also throw salt over my left shoulder if I ever spill some.
69) I really hate this number.
70) I’m studying nursing.

71) I have a wicked long-term memory, but damned if I can remember what you told me a minute ago.
72) I sing really loudly in the shower.
73) I love Post-It notes.
74) I hate going to movies with people.
75) I’ve been told that I think I am in a 24 hour shampoo commercial. Sometimes I think they’re right.
76) If I didn’t have to worry about paying off my debts and supporting myself and making a living, I would dance for the rest of my life.
77) I planning on getting, but at the same time am terrified of, laser eye surgery.
78) I can’t drive.
79) No seriously I don’t have my license.
80) I’m 22.

81) As soon as the flavor is gone I spit the gum out.
82) I eat the red ones – of anything - last.
83) I have 2 yoga mats and my yoga bags name is Polka.
84) I name most of my possessions.
85) Whenever I am away from home, I bring my teddy bear to sleep with.
86) That particular teddy bear has no name, despite being 10 years old. How very Holly Golightly of me.
87) My curiosity will be the death of me.
88) I have a terrific audio memory.
89) I can do 8 ‘man’ pushups and way more ‘girlie’ pushups.
90) The fact that ‘girlie’ push ups are referring to the ones done on your knees insults me.

91) I am very witty.
92) I take insults as good as I give them.
93) I trip over flats more often than heels.
94) I can’t eat spaghetti and meatballs without most of the sauce landing on my (always white) clothing.
95) I wear a moonstone necklace almost every day. I feel naked without it.
96) When I am nervous I bite my pinkie finger or my lower lip. I also do this while thinking.
97) I have a very expressive face.
98) I can’t lie. I am probably the worst liar ever.
99) This was really hard to do for me. I keep thinking I forgot something.
100) I probably did. C’est la vie.

Bells & Blues

... do I look like a maid?

I was talking to my boss yesterday about, oddly enough, weddings. Perhaps because he and I are just short of creating a pool as to when the receptionist will get a proposal, or when our other co-worker will have a baby and finally bag her long-long-long term boyfriend. Anyway I had mentioned Angelica's upcoming nuptuials to Joe in August, of which yours truly is one of her bridesbabes. He brought up that old, awful and oh-so-annoying 'insult' of "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!" to which I responded "Do I look like a maid?"

Again, I guess I've been slacking on the memo department, but since when did getting a boyfriend automatically bring up the awkward wedding questions, the proposal dreams and the choice of flowers at the ceremony? And in a place of business, where the majority of employees and maybe 1-2 management are in fact female? Am I missing something - perhaps an emotion that most girlfriends are supposed to have when it comes to weddings and white picket fences?

Another blogger wrote about this not too long ago - how she, at 28, still had no idea of what her perfect wedding would look like. And for that post I wish to thank her. Vegas and I were talking and he brought up the 'fact' that "All girls have their perfect wedding planned out from the beginning." Um... the beginning of what? A relationship? Isn't that a little freaky? I mean - I got freaked out like nobody's business when Philippe got to talking about how I'd raise his children and how we'd be married in a Catholic church in French. It just didn't make sense to me then and now the concept of planning out such an elaborate event when you never know what tomorrow will bring in a relationship. Seriously; as in the case of Philippe, one morning he could be making you pancakes and strawberries and walking you to work, and the next day he could be chasing you down the main street of your city calling you a lying cheating waste of space. Why spend all that day-dreaming time on one day when you could spend it dreaming of your future - career wise, friends wise, travel wise, everything wise?

I must admit, however, that I have thought a little about a wedding. Why, Carrie - you ask? Well a few years ago yours truly was engaged... to Vegas. Did I mention that? Yeah... well anyway. The extent of my planning? My dress is Vera Wang. My shoes are Manolo Blahnik, or maybe Christian Loubouitin. Uh... um. My ring is Tiffany's. And that's it. Everything else was shades of grey or on my to-do-list after finishing my degree, getting a good job to pay for more school, getting my MA, PhD or even MD. Back in my 18-year-old mind that was what was most important to me - and it still is today. In fact, now in my 22-year-old mind other things have entered the realm of 'most important to me' that were not so clear as a know-nothing-know-it-all teenager.

A good point that was brought up in a comment is that most couples, men or women, whatever, think too much of the ceremony and not the actual marriage. What comes after the celebration - when the guests all leave, the food all gone, the presents all open - the reality of married life kicks in. Back in the end of my relationship with Philippe entering my single summer, my cynical self once though that the smallest pair of handcuffs in the world were wedding rings. And in a sense this is still true.

Vegas is a home-body. He dreams of white picket fences, children (with HIS last name), roots and neighbours, routine and stability. I, on the other hand, am a nomad. A gypsy in the hot-Esmerelda kind of way. I dream of travel, of far away places, of giving back to the world everything it's given to me and more. Of joining MSF, of lecturing on a little known but so important topic to future generations of those following in my footsteps. Of having former teachers who didn't believe in me call me DR., and have former teachers who did believe in me celebrate my success as their own. And maybe, after all that, or at the end stages of that, do I begin to accept visions of children and a hint of stability.

To me, a wedding represents both a celebration of a beginning and of an end. Sure I wrote how the Bachlorette Party is a celebration of the end of the single-fling life, but what about a wedding? It is a celebration of the beginning of married life - but what if it's not what you want? It sometimes seems, maybe only to me and others who've experienced twisted forms of relationships, that a wedding means you're exchanging your freedom for a party and a pretty dress. And to me, my freedom is worth far more than that.

The receptionist at my office seems really happy that she will be getting a proposal. She is more than willing to move to be with her soon-to-be fiance and start a life anew. And to her I say - right on sister. My co-worker wears her engagement ring with pride and brings her man with her whenever she can, and on her spare time plans her wedding with the same force and passion that she does her work. And to her I say - right on sister. Angelica is running a tight ship with dresses, fittings, parties, hair, plans, placement and of course food. And to her I say - right on sister. I will gladly attend, send gifts and stand up at the alter of my girlfriends weddings because it is her choice and I will celebrate it as if it were my own. But it's not my choice. At least, not yet.

I've got too much to do.

The Politics of Relationships

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder… or does it make the heart go wander?
This weekend is my formal – a graduation of some sort into the ‘adult’ phase of my life. I’ve known about this for 2 months know, and in turn so has Vegas. He planned on coming to the city on Thursday night, seeing me, and then meeting again on Saturday for the evening out. Great, I thought to myself, because Thursday day I work and then head to the gym until the late evening, and Friday I have class all day and work all night. So while this weekend I would love to see him as much as possible, 3 out of 4 days is pretty good and significantly enough for me.

Wednesday night we chat online and Vegas tells me that he is sick. How come, I ask, because on the weekend I went out he sounded fine, energetic, a little buzzed but overall well-enough to withstand his activities. Well, it’s because of the weekend straight of partying that he’s sick because the late nights have continued on as he scrambled to get his work done for looming deadlines and group meetings that start early and run late. So as a result, plus family obligations, our together time has fallen from 3 days to 1.

Fine, I said, just see me on Saturday, because I did not want him to get sick before then and be unable to accompany me. We proceeded to get into a disagreement (not argument) about the time issue, with me saying no to anything before Saturday in concern for his health and my previous obligations, and him say yes to see me on Thursday because he missed me. He was wondering why I was mad at him (I was not mad) for being sick, that he didn’t plan on it, and that he couldn’t control it. I was upset because I beg to differ.

I am of the opinion that every action has a reaction – and that every action has a consequence, and if you are not prepared to lose then you should not take the risk. Vegas partied a lot the first time around and it was a major issue in the ending of the relationship because it became priority #1 followed closely by school work and new friends, with me somewhere at the bottom for whenever it was convenient. When we got back together he had said that he was a changed man; and little actions like this tell me otherwise. He still readily and willingly gives into his friends to join in the party, which as a senior I can understand, but not attend the pity-party when the price is being paid in the form of sickness, insomnia, late assignments and all nighters.

Without trying to sound like a nag, some people, like Vegas and at one time myself, just don’t understand that they simply can not do everything, and even when they try 9 times out of 10 they’ll just end up doing nothing. During our conversation I was trying so hard not to say anything that could resemble a lecture from his mother, since he already has one. After Philippe I’ve obtained a very laissez-faire mentality when it comes to significant others; I believe that Vegas and any other man I decide to date is a grown man and can do and will do as he pleases; therefore he can also deal with the consequences of his actions. I too am a grown woman and can react as I please, which will be not speaking to him until the following Saturday when I make the trip to attend his formal, for which no doubt he will be well rested and anxious to attend.

I made a promise to myself and my girlfriends to act differently this time around, to not put up with neglect, to not beg for attention and come off as the demanding and high-maintenance girlfriend. If Vegas is sick or unable to completely attend my formal, and we all know how much fun an event can be when you significant other clearly makes it known that they do not wish to be there, then I have decided on a costume change and that I will go by myself. Last year I had a smashing good time by myself, in fact it was the best formal I ever attended – but I will still make the trip and spend the money to attend Vegas’ formal the following Saturday because that’s what Audrey Hepburn would freakin’ do.

I’ve found in my past relationships that there are guys out there who like to test the waters, to see how far the can push the limits, to see what the limits are. I mean, if they want to do something you can’t stop them, but at the same time they cannot be surprised when we react the way we do. I understand that being 2 hours away makes things difficult – and that our lives shouldn’t be spent pining for the other when there is the joie de vive out there waiting to be experienced. BUT at the same time, long distance requires a tad more planning and effort than having someone close by. Balance is the key to long-distance and in-town relationship success and it simply can’t all be on one side. I say this because I stay in, I work 2 jobs and I get my school work done so that when I do have a chance to see Vegas I am well, well rested, work free and money sufficient. If it won’t go both ways with Vegas or with anyone else then clearly I am wasting my time.

I get that men will try and test the limit. I get that they want to have fun; I mean, don’t we all? I get that they want to experience life, and sometimes it’s something they have to do with their buddies. But if it get’s out of hand and he doesn’t realize it, problems can and will arise. However, and there is always a however, until Vegas realizes on his own things won’t change.

So why is it when I bring this issue up, when I try to communicate that maybe he doesn’t have to attend every single party that arises, do I come off like a nagging, self serving bitchy girlfriend when all I want is a healthy rested boyfriend that I booked 2 months in advance for an important event? I guess it takes time for some to realize that when you're in a relationship you're no longer the only one who has to deal with the consequences of your actions.

It seems as if I have forgotten the politics of relationships – the negotiations, the debates, the communication issues, the diplomacy, the his-story/her-story/truth conundrum. The balancing act between the interests of yourself, your friends, your obligations and your significant other. The problem with relationship politics, as with politics in general, is that one side always seems to get screwed over in favour of another, one that may or may not deserve the extra attention, one that may or may not be the popular or correct choice. And just like in real politics, it is only a matter of time until the side that’s being screwed either becomes invisible, or leaves the table altogether.

Perhaps I am being rash, being too harsh with Vegas – but a promise to my girlfriends is a promise I do everything in my power to keep, especially when it’s a promise made with my best intentions and my well being at heart. And those kinds of promises insisted upon by your girlfriends is a promise one should never ever break.

Ask and Ye Shall Wait...

… or Go Get It and Save Yourself the Trouble

I don’t ask for a lot of things. I’m stubborn like that. I’d rather do something for myself or get something by myself rather than have to rely on someone else to do it for me. Perhaps it is a cynical view I carry that really, the only person you can rely on is yourself, but think about it. If you need something, say a cup of coffee or a manicure, I am not the kind of person to wait for it to come to me or project my needs onto whoever is closest to me when it would take less effort to stand up and get it myself. From what I have experienced thus far, people are too busy worrying about what they have to do than to really take the time to do something for you, so why bother when it’s nothing off your back to do it? Having to work around someone else’s priorities sounds a hell of a lot harder than working around your own, and at least you’ll have an idea of when whatever you need will be done. A few of my friends refer to this belief as my innate independence; I just see it as common sense, and I can’t be the only one.

I was having dinner with Pete one night and we got to talking about how I somehow managed to break my TV by turning it off on a Thursday night after “The Office” and “Grey’s Anatomy”. He had asked me if I was planning on getting it fixed, to which I replied “well I don’t know” and still don’t know. Although it being an inopportune time, seeing how “Grey’s Anatomy” is now on for 3 hours a week, (same as a standard university lecture; coincidence? I think not!), getting my television fixed would require me having to rely on a few things: first, a TV repair man, if they even still exist, and having to work around his schedule or even worse have to lug the damn thing somewhere in my non-existent car with my not-so-legal-by-myself license, so second someone else with a car and a heart of gold. Neither option was too pleasing to me, so until a better one pops into my head I’m just not going to do anything about it.

This made Pete burst out laughing at my natural stubbornness, mentioning that he a) has a car and b) would be willing to take me to get it fixed. However, Pete knows me pretty well and through his chuckles threw out there that I would “carry that thing on your back and drag it down the street yourself!” his emphasis on yourself. I know that eventually I will break down and get my television fixed, or buy a new one, but still… it does not take away from the fact that I do not like to ask or rely on anybody else for anything.

Now I admit there are a few things that I simply cannot do for myself and thus rely on other people. Brazilians for example. I mean, I guess I could do it in theory, however I cannot inflict that much pain upon myself willingly, thus I pay almost 50$ every 5 weeks for my waxer to do it for me. I also can’t drive, but living in the city not many twenty-something students do who live on their own. So I rely on the bus to get me places that I can’t or really shouldn’t walk to. And finally, I cannot survive without my friendships which means in the end relying on other people. It is true that no woman is an island, but at the same time there is nothing stopping any capable girl (or guy for that matter) from being independent and self-reliant.
I guess it’s the “some else will do it” mentality that plagues a percentage of the population, tying into the fact that nobody cares what happens so long as it doesn’t happen to them, but if it does well someone better be there to fix it and that someone better not be me! It’s a shame that the percentage of this lazy population is unfairly clumped into my generation, the twenty-something Echo’s of the Baby Boomers who to some people gave us everything except the value of hard work. Granted yes, the majority of these lazy freeloaders I speak of are in my generation, but I know quite a few people in my age-range who gladly work for their own money, clean their own apartments, maintain their own cars, and basically are as independent as a twenty-something student can be. That being said, I’ve run into more than my fair share of sponges who create messes but refuse to even acknowledge them, let alone clean them up for themselves.

I know a few people who believe that it is much easier for another person to do whatever needs to be done and for some things I agree. It is much easier to have someone clean your apartment, for example, or for someone to cook for you and change your light bulbs 2 months after they have burned out. However I can’t for the life of me understand people who do as little as possible every chance they get, as if they are deflecting the smallest task just so that they don’t have to do anything or use anything of themselves. I’d think that consistently delegating any and all tasks to someone else would cause more stress, not less. I mean, what if they don’t do what you ask them on time, or at all? What if they forget? What if they simply do not feel like it? It seems to me that you’re creating more complications by hoping that someone else will take care of it than solving the same problems on your own.

The Champagne Year

Tomorrow is my birthday, a day to sit back and reflect upon the year that has passed to see where I was, where I have been, and most importantly what I actually did and what I didn't do. At 22, although I'm still uncomfortable at giving up 21, I admit that I do not have an enormous wealth of knowledge of live, but from what I've learned during my short hour upon the stage that is life is that life is short, fleeting, and will pass you by before you even know it.

Isn't it funny how many people don't, or refuse, or neglect, or even forget to do something, or hum and haw at another, wasting precious time thinking of excuses that prevents them from doing the very thing they are trying so hard to avoid? Well... I think I've come up, well not really, but I've got a solution of some sorts to this little dilemma... at least for me. This solution is related to the impending arrival of my Champagne Year.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the concept of a Champagne Year please allow me to elaborate: the Champagne Year is the year you turn the age of the day that you were born. So, for example I was born on the 24th, therefore my Champagne Year runs from September 2008 to September 2009, in other words, the year that I am 24. So as of today I have exactly 2 years to decide what, when, where and how I will spend my Champagne Year... oh, and how the hell I am going to pull it all off. My current guestimate is I will be entering either my final year of undergraduate studies, or have graduated already and maybe started some post-grade education or work. Either way, 24 is a great age, almost ideal to have as a Champagne Year.

The Champagne Year, for me at least, is like a marker: not set, as it is unique depending on the person celebrating, it's not scary like the dreaded quarter-life or mid-life crisis, and not as final as 50, or whatever age finishes the "____ is the new _____" sentence. The Champagne Year is meant to celebrate you in every way you can imagine. As the creaters of the "Totally Unique Thought" website say "Thoughts become things...." and trust me, you'll want to think about this.

I must admit that the idea of a Champagne Year is not entirely mine... or really, not mine at all. No, that idea came from a friend of mine after spending his 24th year travelling and seeing the world. Fitting, as on benefit of travelling at any time broadens ones horizons, exposes one to new cultures, and let's not forget about the shopping. Understanding all of this, my obvious choice for my Champange Year is to travel, which should come as no surprise. Europe is the hot bed for 20 something travellers either just beofre, in between or just after our education. With so many places to choose from, one could get lost in deciding where to go, where to stay, what to see and of course, where to shop. But after about a year of careful consideration I have decided where in Europe I will spend, at least one week of my Champagne Year, in Paris France.

Why Paris? Well... to be honest the closest I've been to France is that little bakery in the Market off of Dalhousie, or my manicure that I've already managed to ruin. I'd also like to explore and experience the so-called 'city of love' for myself; walk the streets of paris in ridiculously high heels, eat those famous French pasteries, smoke those fabulous French cigarettes, climb... well gaze up at the Eifel Tower, tour the Louvre, complete that Da Vinci tour and but of course, visit the accessories at Chanel. Going to Paris like this has been in my head for the past 5 years and as a result it is something that I've always wanted to do ... something that I would like to do, and I can think of no better time than to do something like this than a Champagne Year.

The entire idea behind the Champagne Year is to do stuff like this, stuff that in the dull reality of the 'real world' you would hum and haw over. The Champagne Year is a year of doing, of celebrating, of living your life the way you wish you could live. It may even be a jump start into a better state of mind. Maybe afterwards I and anyone else 'Champagning' out there won't want, or will not want to stop living life to it's fullest. And seriously, I can't think of a better gift to give to oneself for a Champagne Year.

Beyond Our Front Door...

I realize that the majority of my posts have been about stereotypical twenty-something issues with an extra focus on shoes; it is the prerogative of youth to act our age, however there is a time and place for everything, including the issues that nobody my age wishes to discuss. It is a common mistake, I know I do it too… I have kept my mouth shut when the right thing was to speak out, but never mistake silence for stupidity. As a young woman in 2006 I may not always say what is on my mind, but that doesn’t mean that I actually don’t have anything important to say.

My generation is notorious for our lackadaisical attitudes towards others; not caring what happens so long as it doesn’t happen to us. We’re unaware or worse, disinterested in the goings on of the world outside our social circle and at most outside of our sphere of influence. The “why should I care what happens?” stigma, I feel, is unfairly placed upon all twenty-something’s, at least myself and a good number of twenty-something’s I know. The confusion or misconception lies in the fact that although we are aware of what is going on in the world around us, we don’t quite know how to deal with it yet, or what we should or should not do about it. Contrary to popular movies that claim otherwise, twenty-something’s don’t think that they declared peace in the Middle East, we know that AIDS is real not just because Alicia Keys told us so, and that in comparison to 20-30-40 years ago the world we live in is a very different place. So to all the “adults” who look down upon my generation as a group of know-nothing-know-it-alls I say this: we’re conscious of our environment beyond our immediate friends and family; it’s just hard to make a stand on our principles when those in power aren’t listening because it’s already been decided that we don’t know anything. How can those of us who want to change the world if the world right now doesn’t acknowledge that we want to?

I bring this up because of the recent news article about the alleged bombing plot on 10 UK to US flights and other potential acts of terror that seep over the Atlantic Ocean into the back of our minds. As a frequent and already petrified traveler I find this news especially disturbing, not because I plan on flying in the near future, nor because my family, my father especially, tends to fly quite often. No, this disturbs me because as a human being in an insecure world, news like this should disturb me, despite it being about perfect strangers one continent away from my cozy cubicle in a safe (for now) country. I mean, one would have to be REALLY selfish or really removed from reality if a news article like this doesn’t affect you in the slightest. We’re social creatures: we all know somebody who flies/commutes/works/otherwise lives their daily lives. Some call me paranoid for being frightened, my mother to be exact, even though she herself hates flying; I’ve had friends and relatives remind me that you are safer in a plane than in a car, that the chances of this/that/the other actually happening to you are slim to none and every other cliché you can throw at me… but clichés are another topic that I’ll discuss later. Either way the end result was the same; I was scared before, and now I am scared stiff.

I guess its human nature, not twenty-something nature, to not want to think about events or happenings that has the potential to cause us harm or danger or anxiety, or to rationalize it away like my friends and family have tried to do in respects to my fear of flying. And personally, when I catch myself thinking about the social issues that will eventually effect my work, like AIDS in Africa, the ridiculous price of easily made pharmaceuticals to third world populations, and the overall lack of funding and attention my field received despite performing a critical function within society, I find myself frustrated at the external loci of control that for the moment is making all the decisions about topics I care deeply for. So what does one do? If I kept thinking about it eventually I’d find myself in a state of helplessness, that even after I get my degrees and experience and the skills necessary to make a difference I would have convinced myself through years of thought and doubt that no matter what I do or who I do it to, nothing will change. The idealism of my youth and the passion that drives me would have been crushed a slow and painful death by the distorted reality of the forty/fifty-something’s opinions on the current world we occupy. So I stop thinking about it all the time until the day I can actually do something about it, more than the monthly donations, the volunteer work and the education I give myself that keeps me close enough to make it real, but far enough to let me focus. To everyone outside our heads this seems pretty selfish, like we’re ignoring the problem, but we’re not. We’re just waiting for our turn.

Isolationism didn’t work for the States cerca WW1 and WW2; as hard as they tried to ignore the problems that were occurring a world away because in the end, geographic proximity doesn’t matter in the modern world. We are free to move about, as are those who wish us harm. We know that. We painfully, obviously know that to the point where we know-nothing-know-it-alls don’t know what to do. And for a stubborn independent twenty-something, that is not a good feeling.

But if you’ll excuse me, I have to go board my flight.

Cheap & Easy

... and not as good as you think!

It’s simple, it’s cheap, and it’s plentiful. Take it easy, I’m talking about food, fast food to be exact. Just walking down Bank Street this afternoon I am inundated with inexpensive meal options, just begging me to take a look and see exactly how much food I can get for one low ridiculous price. Me being a student and more apt to spend my hard earned money on clothing and shoes and the occasional book am instantaneously attracted to this, knowing that the less I spend on food the more I can save or more likely spend at the mall. However, me being a student of life sciences, I also know better… or at least I know to know better regarding what I put into my mouth. And yet I still find myself oddly attracted to the fast food nation, McDonald’s specifically, thinking that every time I eat there will be different, I won’t feel sick to my stomach afterwards, and I’ll be just fine. Obviously I am wrong, but hey, it’s the prerogative of youth to act our age once in a while.

I admit, I used to frequent McDonalds on a semi-weekly basis, whether it be a quick breaky with my roommate, an inexpensive dinner and hang-out place with Angelica and another one of my friends, let’s call her “Christie”, or a late night or early morning snack with my clubbing and McDonalds friend, let’s call her “Kelly”. An ex-boyfriend of mine used to chastise me (among other things) about eating at McDonalds as often as I did. At first, well now even, it really pissed me off. I mean, I’m 21, don’t you think that’s a little too old to baby-sit what I eat? Especially someone who is studying life science, I’m pretty sure I have a better idea of health and wellness than my ex who… well, wasn’t even in school. Apparently watching Oprah and Dr. Phil gave him license to “fix” whatever was “wrong” with me, including my selection of eats. Anyway, back to my point: I ate at McDonalds knowing full well that it is bad for me, I saw “Super Size Me” and loved it, but immediately following headed for McDonalds. Afterwards, and every other time afterwards, I couldn’t help but begin to speculate as to why I continue this obvious self-destructive behavior of eating bad food while understanding the consequences.

Cheap food is bad for you, but it’s bad because it’s so cheap to make… and knowing how cheap it is to make, it’s just gotta be bad for you. It is a vicious cycle that nobody had quite yet figured out how to completely break free from, and I mean absolutely no cheating whatsoever: not on birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, stagettes…

The funny thing is, and I can’t for the life of me figure this out, is that the diet “pill” phenomenon makes millions of dollars a year selling us … well, crap. Crap that either doesn’t work, works momentarily, or works so well that it kills you. So we’ll shell out the 30,40,50$ for a bottle of “miracle” weight loss, and yet when it comes to purchasing food that is already healthy, won’t make us fat or won’t clog our arteries we’re suddenly skittish, even shy and sometimes downright resentful for having to spend that little extra on those “healthier” choices.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on those so-called “healthier choices” one can find in today’s vending machines. Last time I checked, diet Coke is still Coke, except we’ve replaced sugar with aspartame. Oh ok, give me more chemicals rather than something that exists naturally. There’s the ticket to everlasting health! Something else that I find amusing is that those “healthier choices” are more expensive than the usual crap… which doesn’t make much sense. You’re charging me .25 cents more for a bottle of water that contains 2 hydrogens and an oxygen molecule, plus some sodium, maybe potassium… and yet for a bottle of soda that contains considerably more ingredients/chemicals/dyes/whatever, it’s cheaper?

I mean after these fries I really don’t have to eat for the rest of the day, or hell maybe even the rest of this week! But I will; I have to. My body, although currently in the 21^st century, still believes it’s back in the days of famine, of starvation, of hunt or perish, kill or be killed, so it will hoard most of this “energy” I’ve consumed and save it just in case all the grocery stores sink into the earth and I am left stranded with the little food I currently have in my fridge… if I even have food in my fridge. My body doesn’t know any better, but that’s ok. That’s why I have a mind. That’s why I can think, because I can, and I should. I should really think about what I’m putting into my body if I am going to demand optimal performance out of it. Maybe I should stop fueling it with crap.

It’s not like my body doesn’t know the difference between healthy food and unhealthy food. Oh, it does, and I sure as hell paid for my choice of fuel the day I wrote this. On Thursdays I venture to the gym for a 2 hour cardio session; 1 dance and 1 kickboxing. Under normal (read: healthy) circumstances I love to dance and can let the music move me until I can’t move anymore… only to recharge with Powerade or whatever and kick-box/karate chop my way through another hour of high intensity exercise. Last Thursday after my 4$ meal at McDonalds I could hardly move. I was sluggish, inconsistent, tired and just plain awful when I glanced into the mirror to check my form. It felt as if my body was actually punishing me for eating garbage for lunch by making my limbs that much heavier, my heart more sluggish and unwilling to beat quicker, my mind wander into the blissful peace of sleep… in the middle of a loud and sweaty dance studio?

That being experienced, I’ve learned my lesson. It’s a misconception that if one works out, one can eat whatever the hell one likes… but that’s not true. My athletic body is slowly but surely rejecting junk food, at least for lunch, and if I plan on keeping this active lifestyle as I age then I’d best learn what it means to eat healthy or more plainly, to follow my own advice. Drink lots of water; eat fruits and veggies and lean sources of protein, whole grain carbs and the occasional sweet treat. I mean, what is the point in spending all my money on hot clothes and shoes if I am too fat or too skinny to wear them well and do it justice?

But if you’ll excuse me, my breakfast coffee is getting cold. D’oh!

It's Just A Little Crush...

Wanted: An object simply to crave…

As the title suggests, I have a crush. Well, this isn’t news. I’ve had this particular crush for oh… 3 years now? Yeah, three years. The entire concept of this crush is ridiculous; I am 21 and the term crush is usually reserved for pre-teens and adolescents who are too embarrassed to admit when they like someone in fear of the repercussions … however I think we’re all just big kids at heart, so although I am admitting to the world of a crush I have, I’m still going to keep his name somewhat hidden. For those of you who know me, you probably know who I am talking about, but either way, I have to protect the innocent… ie me. Does anybody else remember when crushes used to be fun, and you didn’t have so many things to think about except your dream wedding with that person and the happy life you’d lead?

Anyway, on with my story: I have a crush on a certain athlete (every woman’s prerogative, of course!), let’s call him “Charlie”. Now “Charlie” plays for a local professional team in my city, a city that just happens to worship this team through good times and sometimes even through bad times. I first laid sights on “Charlie” when I was a bright-eyed 17 year old attending a rookie-tournament with my father and brother, as I was raised right to first appreciate the beauty of the sport and then the beauty of the players. He did not stand apart from the rest of the team at that particular moment; however there was this glimmer of excellence behind those lovely blue eyes that showed drive, passion and perseverance, all very attractive features in a man. Not to mention that after I got home and Google’d his photograph, well, off the ice he is just as pleasing to look at. Afterwards, I was hooked. I officially had my latest celebrity crush, thinking it would be similar to all the other celebrity crushes I’ve had in my short life.

Except this time I guess, it was meant to be different. “Charlie” is about… 2 years older than I am, so 23. Ok… usually I tend to fall for older men, meaning I’d solidify the fact that I simply have no chance in hell. “Charlie” also spends the majority of his time in this city… as do I. Ok… usually I tend to fall for men who have absolutely no geographic proximity to me at any point in my life. “Charlie”, being the typical 23 year old, oh except with millions of dollars, endorsements and women throwing themselves at him, goes out and enjoys the bar scene in this city. Ok… I am known to sometimes dabble in the cirque that is the bar and club scene downtown or in the West end… I guess what I am trying to say is, this is my first celebrity crush where I actually have a chance to meet “Charlie”, maybe even say a word or two.

However, and yes, there is always a however, it’s really not that simple. I’m not saying I am a celebrity, famous or even important in the grander sense of things. But I do know important people, and I do represent important people at times. These important people happen to know people who know “Charlie”. Hmm.... this puts quite the damper on my little crush. How so, you ask?

I had a recent (and very frustrating) chance that I had chosen not to take which would have ended up with me meeting “Charlie” at an intimate (read: small) location. After regaling this story to my girl friends, all of whom shared in my pain, I got to thinking about this crush in the grand sense of things and about how, as much as I would like to act on my impulses regarding “Charlie”, in reality I really can’t.

Allow me to explain: given the chance I would gladly make out with “Charlie” in a closet, or out in the open, whatever. Except I know that I’ll never get that chance, not because I am not pretty enough or I do not know the right people, but because my mind will always get in the way. First of all, when I mention this crush to my girl friends most automatically assume that I want to meet “Charlie” just so I can sleep with him and that is not true… for the most part. I generally like to know a person first hand before sleeping with them, and really all I know about “Charlie” comes from 2^nd hand sources, or a friend of a friend of a friend of a guy who knows him. It really is the equivalent of sleeping with a perfect stranger who happens to be famous. If he wasn’t famous, would you sleep with him right off the bat? No, I didn’t think so. “Charlie” may be young, hot, successful and wealthy, but he’s still a person and not all twenty-something female-fans are so quick to give it up… or at least I am not. To any and all twenty-something and thirty-something female fans who can meet an athlete at a bar, go home with them and think nothing of it; good on you, and I am not be factious. I personally am not strong enough or secure enough to do so; and what’s not for me may be exactly what the next person finds appealing. Happy is she who follows her own path. Mine just happens to take me away from suddenly sleeping with “Charlie” if I ever meet him.

Now because of obstacle number one it wouldn’t be so simple afterwards, hence obstacle number two. Under normal circumstances regarding celebrity athletes a fuck-and-flake is perfectly acceptable; you sleep together and never see each other again, or maybe once or twice at the bar. Oh no… it is not so for me. See “Charlie” happens to know and be around people that I know, and not just any people. Remember those important people I mentioned? Yeah; them. Can you say awkward? Because I can say that would be totally humiliating and really not worth the fleeting pleasure of an I-know-you-but-it’s-still-a-one-night-stand-kinda-thing.

Finally, the obstacle I currently find myself in, the third and most common obstacles to crushes is that secret crushes hardly ever stay that way. I can safely say that an entire community well known to the people who know “Charlie” is fully aware of my school-girl crush. I don’t care how old you are or how mature you are perceived to be; I already feel a slight twinge of embarrassment just thinking about how I’d be introduced should I ever get the chance to meet “Charlie”. It’s true that when you’re introducing people you should add in a fact about them, like “she’s studying this”, or “he does that”… but for some reason judging on the reactions I’ve gotten from this community the introduction would probably go a little like this: “Oh this is Carrie, she’s had a thing for you for ages!!” All in all I guess

You know, for something once so simple like a crush, I’ve managed to make this pretty complicated. The more plausible your day-dreams are to come true, the closer you get to realize the fantasy, the closer you get to the reality of having to think about your actions, or non-actions in my case, which can be quite the task when you are actually given your daydreams on a silver platter or satine sheets. So all of a sudden after having to think about “Charlie” actually being present in my life with all the people I know… My crush … sucks. I mean, so long as you don’t think about them crushes are a lot of fun but in the end “Charlie” is just another guy, like Paris, that I can’t seem to be able to get without complications.

If I think about it, and I obviously do, this crush of mine is kind of discouraging. I mean, one of the pleasures of a crush or a dream is the hope that one day it may come true. So in short, thanks to me thinking things through about the chances of me actually meeting “Charlie”, that crush has been effectively... well, crushed