By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone. I’m sorry for doing this but… Ok I’m really not. I know this might come as a bit of a surprise to you – especially because I’ve been hiding at the bottom of a bottle of Pinoit Grigo. But I’m sorry – I just need a change (read: improvement). I think you’re swell, but I don’t think we’re right for each other.
First of all, we’re not compatible. You’re a basic, everyday ordinary kitchen spatula blog, and I’m beyond that. You like simple lay-outs and not letting me upload blog skins and enjoy making me re-type entries on a weekly basis, and I don’t like any of these things. Your favourite colours are drab and boring, and your favourite layouts are all the same. Do you even know what my favourite colour and layouts are? I once asked you what colour YOU’D think I’d like and you said ‘error’.
Anyway, I want to move on. I have moved on. But you know what? I still want to be friends… of a friend. We can totally talk once a year. We had some good times, or so you told me, but please, don’t be bitter like last time. That means no crying this time!! And look – I won’t even make an issue out of the time you owe me.
So take care of yourself – and good luck.
Love always,
Carrie
http://carieinthecity.wordpress.com
Monday, May 14, 2007
Monday, May 07, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 27, 2007
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.
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...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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!
Sunday, April 22, 2007
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.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
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 b
een 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.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Dazed and Confused
Whenever I’m caught in the middle of a predicament like this, or whenever I really needed some alone time; time to think and sort out my thoughts, I used to go to the gym. I mean, I pay for it every 2 weeks so might as well use it. This particular gym, more specifically the classes it runs, was the place I went to after Vegas and I ended our engagement – it kept me moving when my world fell apart and gave me a sense of purpose, enough to get me out of bed and to work. And now, 3 years later, I am a fully fledged addict. I’ve met many of my friends and acquaintances through the gym, and I’ve brought along and addicted many of my friends to the exercise classes and ambiance of the gym-going world. Basically, it was home away from the hospital.
However with the arrival of The American… I’m finding it difficult to go. Since the last time we spoke, conveniently at the gym, it seems as if every single word that rolls out of his mouth makes it so hard for me to step inside a once familiar and welcoming environment - like entering your childhood home after it's been sold and remodeled by perfect strangers. A part of you knows that it is the same building; the same structure, the same memories; but a part of you knows that something is missing.
Let me explain; last night I saw The American - saw, not spoke - briefly in between my classes. I had left for the evening and spent a little time meandering around the mall until I realized that I had left my necklace somewhere in the change room. Now this particular necklace, although picked out by Philippe and purchased by my mother, has significant sentimental value to me. It is a teardrop
moonstone and both the shape and particular stone is very difficult to find; it truly is one of a kind. The problem is I had managed to avoid speaking to The American that evening, only because I was still in shock and awe to his very existence – and the fact that I had spoken to Vegas not 2 hours ago about my impending visit. Perhaps I felt guilty, or nervous, or both, however the outcome was still the same: I didn’t know what to say or how to act. But knowing that my necklace had mere hours to sit before someone with a keen eye and fabulous taste in jewellery decided to make it their own I had no other choice but to go back. So with a deep breath and cautious step, I re-entered my gym to retrieve my necklace.
The American was sitting at a table outside of the yoga studio – which just so happens to be right beside the entrance to the ladies locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me walk down the stairs, so an all-out avoidance tactic was completely out of the question. He was surprised to see me back – he didn’t expect me to return, although I instantaneously clarified that it was for my necklace. I asked him why he was seemingly waiting, as he was neither jumping rope nor lifting weights, and he said that he was going to dinner with my instructor friend after yoga. He asked if I would stay for a chat after retrieving my necklace, and under the impression that he was waiting for my friend, I agreed to sit with him for the remainder of the class.
I wish I hadn’t.
The American started the conversation by asking me how my day was. Fine, I thought, as small talk between strangers that is usually a good place to start. He began to drop hints as to what he actually does as a job – not that I can explain what he does. (I’m not being coy. Honestly I have no idea what he does). He mentioned that, at 31 and in the service since 19, he was beginning to get the urge to settle down as so many of his colleagues were doing. The work he does is dangerous, at least from the bits and pieces he’s told me, and as much as it is his ‘honour’ to serve his country, if he found the right woman he would stop. He would give up the service, the one thing he loved in the world for a woman… And apparently that woman is me.
I turned away at that point and took a deep and audible breath. After meeting some men in the military I could somewhat understand his eagerness to remove himself from the dangers of service and the anonymity of his existence. I can only guess that living an extraordinary life for so long, the urge of normalcy when presented is too much to dismiss so quickly. However it was still rash; I mean, The American had just just met me, and now he was willing to give up his career and life for a girl he scarcely knows? To me it just didn’t make any sense: I mean, what would he do? And more importantly, and I had to ask this question, what makes him think I want that?
To that he responded “Picture this” and as I closed my eyes The American started to tell me a story… about how he'd take care of me from the second I walked in the door after a long day at work. How I’d walk in the door, tired beyond belief, and drop my purse to the floor, but before it even touched the ground he would catch and carry it, and me, and bring me to the living room. On the way I’d see the dinner table – perfectly laid out for a meal he’s prepared; The American would remove my shoes and socks and proceed to rub my feet as I talk about my day. Knowing that I was hungry but exhausted he would give me a strawberry smoothie to satisfy me before carrying and putting me in a milk bath to relax away the tension in my body. After dinner we’d then go for a walk before going to bed, only for him to wake up before me to prepare my breakfast and coffee and have it ready for me to go. He finished the story, or I guess I should say fairy tale, by proclaiming that he would do that for me every single day.
At this point I can barely open my eyes in fear that at any moment tears would begin to fall… so instead with my eyes closed I asked him “Won’t you get tired of it?”. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had boyfriends in the past who would make me dinner and breakfast and sit with me and talk about my day – but that usually ends once the honeymoon phase is over and the reality of fights and priorities seep into the time once occupied by romance. Also it was those very same boyfriends who seemed to only do those things for me as a way to ‘bank’ favours back in return, or hold it against me when I was unwilling to give in to their demands. Perhaps I am extra cynical after my ordeal with Philippe, but when it comes to relationships I’d rather have nothing if something is demanded in return. When I give to the one I love – no matter what – I don’t ever expect anything in return. But every man I’ve been with, I guess with the exception of Vegas, had an ulterior motive to giving me something, be it gifts, dinner, or otherwise… so I learned to live with nothing to avoid having a previous deed or favour given to me held over my head.
The American, however, proved me wrong. “No” he said, shaking his head while looking at me with sad eyes, not out of pity, but true sadness. “You never get tired of treating the one you love right.”
As I sat there in silence he continued to speak – “Listen Carrie; I know you just got back with this guy and you haven’t even been with him for a second, so I won’t come between you two. It’s just that… as my grandfather said, you will think that you are so cool, but then along comes that one woman who will make your body shake and your soul nervous… and you do that to me. But it’s like that song, ‘Hey Lover’. I’m not going to do anything… I’ll let you be – but I’ll be waiting. If he doesn’t treat you right, give me the chance to show you how good it could be.”
The class ended right on time. My instructor friend stepped out of the room, surprised to see me and The American there. After helping me with my coat and chatting with some friends, all three of us together exited the gym. My friend invited me to grab a bite afterwards, but I shook my head no, still unable to speak – my mind still processing what I had heard and imagined courtesy of The American. So I watched the two of them walk to the food court as I climbed the escalator I shook my head in wonder, moving in slow motion towards the bridge to walk home, asking myself if this was indeed my reality.
And then in my pocket I felt a vibration. Startled out of my dreams I reached into the pocket of my pink coat to retrieve my now loudly-ringing phone, wondering who could be calling me so late in the evening.
It was then when the tears finally fell from my eyes, for the person who was calling me was Vegas.
However with the arrival of The American… I’m finding it difficult to go. Since the last time we spoke, conveniently at the gym, it seems as if every single word that rolls out of his mouth makes it so hard for me to step inside a once familiar and welcoming environment - like entering your childhood home after it's been sold and remodeled by perfect strangers. A part of you knows that it is the same building; the same structure, the same memories; but a part of you knows that something is missing.
Let me explain; last night I saw The American - saw, not spoke - briefly in between my classes. I had left for the evening and spent a little time meandering around the mall until I realized that I had left my necklace somewhere in the change room. Now this particular necklace, although picked out by Philippe and purchased by my mother, has significant sentimental value to me. It is a teardrop
moonstone and both the shape and particular stone is very difficult to find; it truly is one of a kind. The problem is I had managed to avoid speaking to The American that evening, only because I was still in shock and awe to his very existence – and the fact that I had spoken to Vegas not 2 hours ago about my impending visit. Perhaps I felt guilty, or nervous, or both, however the outcome was still the same: I didn’t know what to say or how to act. But knowing that my necklace had mere hours to sit before someone with a keen eye and fabulous taste in jewellery decided to make it their own I had no other choice but to go back. So with a deep breath and cautious step, I re-entered my gym to retrieve my necklace.The American was sitting at a table outside of the yoga studio – which just so happens to be right beside the entrance to the ladies locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me walk down the stairs, so an all-out avoidance tactic was completely out of the question. He was surprised to see me back – he didn’t expect me to return, although I instantaneously clarified that it was for my necklace. I asked him why he was seemingly waiting, as he was neither jumping rope nor lifting weights, and he said that he was going to dinner with my instructor friend after yoga. He asked if I would stay for a chat after retrieving my necklace, and under the impression that he was waiting for my friend, I agreed to sit with him for the remainder of the class.
I wish I hadn’t.
The American started the conversation by asking me how my day was. Fine, I thought, as small talk between strangers that is usually a good place to start. He began to drop hints as to what he actually does as a job – not that I can explain what he does. (I’m not being coy. Honestly I have no idea what he does). He mentioned that, at 31 and in the service since 19, he was beginning to get the urge to settle down as so many of his colleagues were doing. The work he does is dangerous, at least from the bits and pieces he’s told me, and as much as it is his ‘honour’ to serve his country, if he found the right woman he would stop. He would give up the service, the one thing he loved in the world for a woman… And apparently that woman is me.
I turned away at that point and took a deep and audible breath. After meeting some men in the military I could somewhat understand his eagerness to remove himself from the dangers of service and the anonymity of his existence. I can only guess that living an extraordinary life for so long, the urge of normalcy when presented is too much to dismiss so quickly. However it was still rash; I mean, The American had just just met me, and now he was willing to give up his career and life for a girl he scarcely knows? To me it just didn’t make any sense: I mean, what would he do? And more importantly, and I had to ask this question, what makes him think I want that?
To that he responded “Picture this” and as I closed my eyes The American started to tell me a story… about how he'd take care of me from the second I walked in the door after a long day at work. How I’d walk in the door, tired beyond belief, and drop my purse to the floor, but before it even touched the ground he would catch and carry it, and me, and bring me to the living room. On the way I’d see the dinner table – perfectly laid out for a meal he’s prepared; The American would remove my shoes and socks and proceed to rub my feet as I talk about my day. Knowing that I was hungry but exhausted he would give me a strawberry smoothie to satisfy me before carrying and putting me in a milk bath to relax away the tension in my body. After dinner we’d then go for a walk before going to bed, only for him to wake up before me to prepare my breakfast and coffee and have it ready for me to go. He finished the story, or I guess I should say fairy tale, by proclaiming that he would do that for me every single day.
At this point I can barely open my eyes in fear that at any moment tears would begin to fall… so instead with my eyes closed I asked him “Won’t you get tired of it?”. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had boyfriends in the past who would make me dinner and breakfast and sit with me and talk about my day – but that usually ends once the honeymoon phase is over and the reality of fights and priorities seep into the time once occupied by romance. Also it was those very same boyfriends who seemed to only do those things for me as a way to ‘bank’ favours back in return, or hold it against me when I was unwilling to give in to their demands. Perhaps I am extra cynical after my ordeal with Philippe, but when it comes to relationships I’d rather have nothing if something is demanded in return. When I give to the one I love – no matter what – I don’t ever expect anything in return. But every man I’ve been with, I guess with the exception of Vegas, had an ulterior motive to giving me something, be it gifts, dinner, or otherwise… so I learned to live with nothing to avoid having a previous deed or favour given to me held over my head.
The American, however, proved me wrong. “No” he said, shaking his head while looking at me with sad eyes, not out of pity, but true sadness. “You never get tired of treating the one you love right.”
As I sat there in silence he continued to speak – “Listen Carrie; I know you just got back with this guy and you haven’t even been with him for a second, so I won’t come between you two. It’s just that… as my grandfather said, you will think that you are so cool, but then along comes that one woman who will make your body shake and your soul nervous… and you do that to me. But it’s like that song, ‘Hey Lover’. I’m not going to do anything… I’ll let you be – but I’ll be waiting. If he doesn’t treat you right, give me the chance to show you how good it could be.”
The class ended right on time. My instructor friend stepped out of the room, surprised to see me and The American there. After helping me with my coat and chatting with some friends, all three of us together exited the gym. My friend invited me to grab a bite afterwards, but I shook my head no, still unable to speak – my mind still processing what I had heard and imagined courtesy of The American. So I watched the two of them walk to the food court as I climbed the escalator I shook my head in wonder, moving in slow motion towards the bridge to walk home, asking myself if this was indeed my reality.
And then in my pocket I felt a vibration. Startled out of my dreams I reached into the pocket of my pink coat to retrieve my now loudly-ringing phone, wondering who could be calling me so late in the evening.
It was then when the tears finally fell from my eyes, for the person who was calling me was Vegas.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
At Dusk
For somebody new, it's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is that alright?
(Photo credits: Ottawa Tourism)
It was a chance encounter. One of those moments you believe only exist in movies; an extraordinary event that somehow emerged from an ordinary day. And if you’re me, on a day when you haven’t showered since last night or washed your hair since Saturday. But it happened – and as the cliché goes, a moment in time can change your life forever.
I was at yoga one cold spring/winter evening - my usual lovely way to end a long and draining few days of class, internship and work. In the middle of the class, and in fact in the middle of my reverse triangle pose I saw out of the corner of my eye the door open and a man step in. Startled by the presence of 10 women twisting their body in unimaginable positions he apologized and left only to linger around the studio jumping rope. So focused on my poses and the peaceful pain that power yoga brings, I and the rest of the class thought nothing of it.
The class concluded and as I was packing up and leaving to go he entered the room to apologize again for barging in, except he was apologizing to me. Confused I looked over at the instructor who was coming up next to me (we are friends) and the three of us had a little conversation in which I ended up saying that he should just come in and do the class next time. And some how, some way that line started a seemingly endless conversation. At first I was standing towards the door, the next I was away from the door, then I was stretching, and then I was on the ground stretching – all while talking without pause or breaks with this mystery man. An American soldier in Canada for one month, this well cut, well mannered and well spoken gentleman and I conversed for almost an hour until he asked me the crucial question – where downtown was good to eat.
At this point I think nothing of it – Once myself a stranger in a strange land it is not uncommon for one to reach out to another who is currently in a familiar situation as once you wished someone would have done for you. I had this overwhelming feeling that he had something to say to me, so after a brief pause I let my subconscious decide and said yes to his invitation.
Now unfortunately for me and for most people around me I was in no shape to go out in public – class and the gym doesn’t count. We walked out of the gym to the street and as I tried to juggle my purse, gym bag and coat while putting said coat on, he offered to hold my bag and even carry it while I slipped on the jacket. Again I thought nothing of it, other than it was kind of him to do so. That is, until he opened the door for me, managing to beat me to the handle of the door every single time. Even when I reached for the opposite door to the one he was entering he would let go and grab the door that I was going through, saying ‘please’ as if to ask for the extreme pleasure of opening my door.
Now as a modern Manolo-lite, this of course caught me off guard. The American noticed this and asked ‘what, are you surprised when someone does something romantic?’ and honestly I am. I think it’s romantic when someone gives me a seat on the 95. The American laughed as if I was joking, which clearly I wasn’t when I didn’t return the laughter. ‘Seriously?’ he asked, half confused and half insulted. ‘Seriously.’ He shook his head as he followed me to the table with a disappointed tone in his voice. Clearly I was in for a surprise.
Before I go any further I wish to reiterate a few things to my readers: I informed The American that I was with someone; I informed him that I do not like seafood; and by my actions and future plans The American knew that I was independent, strong and didn’t need anyone to do anything for her. But that didn’t stop him from treating me like a lady in a very Old Great Britain fashion; ordering for me, listening to me, respecting me, complimenting me… And most shocking paying close attention to every little thing I did. I don’t ever think in my entire (albeit short) life have I ever had someone be so attentive to my every action or verbal/nonverbal cue as this American.
If that wasn’t enough to surprise me, the questions he followed with were. ‘So tell me’, he said, ‘Why is it that you don’t have men falling at your feet?’. ‘What?’ I replied with both my words and my facial expression, completely caught off guard by this bold and outlandish statement. To be perfectly honest with everyone, I believe myself to be a pretty average looking person. I am somewhere in the bell curve of statistics proven time and time again – nothing stunning, nothing revolting. Apparently the American thought different. He wasn’t necessarily commenting on my looks, which I may remind you that I had not washed my hair in 4 days, EVEN when going to the gym for some hard-core cardio, and my clothing selection was determined by whatever was on my floor and clean at the time. No, he was commenting on my personality; the very same personality he had met not 2 hours ago and that’s what was so attractive to him – Attractive enough, apparently, to divulge his desire to take things slowly, get to know me, get to love me, care for me, support me, be the man, the knight in shining whatever that every little girl dreams of… that I apparently dream of. Oh, and to fly me to Europe for a weekend to see him if I so wish, and if I was uncomfortable staying in his home in the States put me up in a hotel.
It was here where I thought I would faint only to wake up on my futon with my glasses on the floor, the television still on and mounds of unread/unwritten papers still dangerously overdue. Could this really be happening to me? Could the very image of a gentleman, an older gentleman whisking me away to my happily ever after even possibly be remotely true?
In complete and utter shock and awe I sat there - and apologized. I figured that through my Good Samaritan actions of a familiar face in a strange land I had mislead this American into thinking that I was his dream girl; His princess perfect. I told him that I was with someone and that I never meant to mislead him – And that I, like the rest of the twenty-something girls of my generation, had given up on the idea of a knight in shining whatever. I mean, neither of us are in to flings and he wants to continue talking to me instead of fucking-and-forgetting me… And throughout the night he continuously made it clear that he had no intention of bringing me to his bed. NO, he was more interested in rubbing my feet and then making me dinner and going for a walk to talk about my day.
I had to stop him then and there. Why, you ask? Well… Have you ever had something you thought didn’t exist suddenly appear only when you couldn’t possible have it? I couldn’t say it at the time because I thought I was caught in some sort of rift in time and space… and I was no longer sure if this vision of a perfect life remained my vision of perfect life. I mean… The American is a man looking for his Mrs. The mother of his children. His forever-and-a-day lady. At almost 10 years older than I it is his time to settle down and be with one person and one alone. But for me, at 22 and still in school? I don’t believe my time has come for the white-picket fence with my children running around after the dog in the backyard as I gaze from my kitchen while making supper for my husband. Seriously; I am not slaving through my program and at work to pay for it to become someone’s trophy Stepford wife. I have dreams. I have goals. I believe I have to do something with my life, let alone my degree! But I must admit – there is not one woman alive who doesn’t want to be swept off her feet by a strong, brave, capable man… but if she is literally swept off her feet she can no longer walk towards her own destiny; she can only be carried to another’s.
I believe in my heart of hearts that The American can and would take me away to a happily ever after… His happily ever after. But I can’t help but wonder if I go down this path, what will happen to my happily ever after? What about what I am supposed to do with my life? Am I to forget everything that I have and will work so hard to achieve? How is it possible that in order to get what I want I have to give up, well, what I want?
Not to mention that The American is only in town for a month, so there is always the idea of an expiration to this opportunity. I may never see him again or encounter someone like him again and I would have missed out on a Hollywood love story, an affair I would remember forever in letters to my grandchildren, or I guess in this day-and-age, printed out copies of this blog. Not to say that I would regret anything – Forget regret. Life is too short, and too long for that matter for any of that. The problem with a movie-like romance is that in a movie you know how it’s going to end; the script is already written, the actors paid in advance and the edit room ready to fix all flaws and unfit scenes. In life, while some may believe our history has already been recorded, there is no fast forward button or edit mode. So I don’t know what’s going to happen – but I know it will.
And I’ve never felt so alive.
(Photo credits: Ottawa Tourism)It was a chance encounter. One of those moments you believe only exist in movies; an extraordinary event that somehow emerged from an ordinary day. And if you’re me, on a day when you haven’t showered since last night or washed your hair since Saturday. But it happened – and as the cliché goes, a moment in time can change your life forever.
I was at yoga one cold spring/winter evening - my usual lovely way to end a long and draining few days of class, internship and work. In the middle of the class, and in fact in the middle of my reverse triangle pose I saw out of the corner of my eye the door open and a man step in. Startled by the presence of 10 women twisting their body in unimaginable positions he apologized and left only to linger around the studio jumping rope. So focused on my poses and the peaceful pain that power yoga brings, I and the rest of the class thought nothing of it.
The class concluded and as I was packing up and leaving to go he entered the room to apologize again for barging in, except he was apologizing to me. Confused I looked over at the instructor who was coming up next to me (we are friends) and the three of us had a little conversation in which I ended up saying that he should just come in and do the class next time. And some how, some way that line started a seemingly endless conversation. At first I was standing towards the door, the next I was away from the door, then I was stretching, and then I was on the ground stretching – all while talking without pause or breaks with this mystery man. An American soldier in Canada for one month, this well cut, well mannered and well spoken gentleman and I conversed for almost an hour until he asked me the crucial question – where downtown was good to eat.
At this point I think nothing of it – Once myself a stranger in a strange land it is not uncommon for one to reach out to another who is currently in a familiar situation as once you wished someone would have done for you. I had this overwhelming feeling that he had something to say to me, so after a brief pause I let my subconscious decide and said yes to his invitation.
Now unfortunately for me and for most people around me I was in no shape to go out in public – class and the gym doesn’t count. We walked out of the gym to the street and as I tried to juggle my purse, gym bag and coat while putting said coat on, he offered to hold my bag and even carry it while I slipped on the jacket. Again I thought nothing of it, other than it was kind of him to do so. That is, until he opened the door for me, managing to beat me to the handle of the door every single time. Even when I reached for the opposite door to the one he was entering he would let go and grab the door that I was going through, saying ‘please’ as if to ask for the extreme pleasure of opening my door.
Now as a modern Manolo-lite, this of course caught me off guard. The American noticed this and asked ‘what, are you surprised when someone does something romantic?’ and honestly I am. I think it’s romantic when someone gives me a seat on the 95. The American laughed as if I was joking, which clearly I wasn’t when I didn’t return the laughter. ‘Seriously?’ he asked, half confused and half insulted. ‘Seriously.’ He shook his head as he followed me to the table with a disappointed tone in his voice. Clearly I was in for a surprise.
Before I go any further I wish to reiterate a few things to my readers: I informed The American that I was with someone; I informed him that I do not like seafood; and by my actions and future plans The American knew that I was independent, strong and didn’t need anyone to do anything for her. But that didn’t stop him from treating me like a lady in a very Old Great Britain fashion; ordering for me, listening to me, respecting me, complimenting me… And most shocking paying close attention to every little thing I did. I don’t ever think in my entire (albeit short) life have I ever had someone be so attentive to my every action or verbal/nonverbal cue as this American.
If that wasn’t enough to surprise me, the questions he followed with were. ‘So tell me’, he said, ‘Why is it that you don’t have men falling at your feet?’. ‘What?’ I replied with both my words and my facial expression, completely caught off guard by this bold and outlandish statement. To be perfectly honest with everyone, I believe myself to be a pretty average looking person. I am somewhere in the bell curve of statistics proven time and time again – nothing stunning, nothing revolting. Apparently the American thought different. He wasn’t necessarily commenting on my looks, which I may remind you that I had not washed my hair in 4 days, EVEN when going to the gym for some hard-core cardio, and my clothing selection was determined by whatever was on my floor and clean at the time. No, he was commenting on my personality; the very same personality he had met not 2 hours ago and that’s what was so attractive to him – Attractive enough, apparently, to divulge his desire to take things slowly, get to know me, get to love me, care for me, support me, be the man, the knight in shining whatever that every little girl dreams of… that I apparently dream of. Oh, and to fly me to Europe for a weekend to see him if I so wish, and if I was uncomfortable staying in his home in the States put me up in a hotel.
It was here where I thought I would faint only to wake up on my futon with my glasses on the floor, the television still on and mounds of unread/unwritten papers still dangerously overdue. Could this really be happening to me? Could the very image of a gentleman, an older gentleman whisking me away to my happily ever after even possibly be remotely true?
In complete and utter shock and awe I sat there - and apologized. I figured that through my Good Samaritan actions of a familiar face in a strange land I had mislead this American into thinking that I was his dream girl; His princess perfect. I told him that I was with someone and that I never meant to mislead him – And that I, like the rest of the twenty-something girls of my generation, had given up on the idea of a knight in shining whatever. I mean, neither of us are in to flings and he wants to continue talking to me instead of fucking-and-forgetting me… And throughout the night he continuously made it clear that he had no intention of bringing me to his bed. NO, he was more interested in rubbing my feet and then making me dinner and going for a walk to talk about my day.
I had to stop him then and there. Why, you ask? Well… Have you ever had something you thought didn’t exist suddenly appear only when you couldn’t possible have it? I couldn’t say it at the time because I thought I was caught in some sort of rift in time and space… and I was no longer sure if this vision of a perfect life remained my vision of perfect life. I mean… The American is a man looking for his Mrs. The mother of his children. His forever-and-a-day lady. At almost 10 years older than I it is his time to settle down and be with one person and one alone. But for me, at 22 and still in school? I don’t believe my time has come for the white-picket fence with my children running around after the dog in the backyard as I gaze from my kitchen while making supper for my husband. Seriously; I am not slaving through my program and at work to pay for it to become someone’s trophy Stepford wife. I have dreams. I have goals. I believe I have to do something with my life, let alone my degree! But I must admit – there is not one woman alive who doesn’t want to be swept off her feet by a strong, brave, capable man… but if she is literally swept off her feet she can no longer walk towards her own destiny; she can only be carried to another’s.
I believe in my heart of hearts that The American can and would take me away to a happily ever after… His happily ever after. But I can’t help but wonder if I go down this path, what will happen to my happily ever after? What about what I am supposed to do with my life? Am I to forget everything that I have and will work so hard to achieve? How is it possible that in order to get what I want I have to give up, well, what I want?
Not to mention that The American is only in town for a month, so there is always the idea of an expiration to this opportunity. I may never see him again or encounter someone like him again and I would have missed out on a Hollywood love story, an affair I would remember forever in letters to my grandchildren, or I guess in this day-and-age, printed out copies of this blog. Not to say that I would regret anything – Forget regret. Life is too short, and too long for that matter for any of that. The problem with a movie-like romance is that in a movie you know how it’s going to end; the script is already written, the actors paid in advance and the edit room ready to fix all flaws and unfit scenes. In life, while some may believe our history has already been recorded, there is no fast forward button or edit mode. So I don’t know what’s going to happen – but I know it will.
And I’ve never felt so alive.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Red Fridays
On the road again...
I don't know if I mentioned this, but Angelica's fiance, Joe, is in the army. Not too long ago I received an email from Angelica, which is normally a happy moment of distraction in my otherwise dull and work-laden existance. Anyway it was an email saying that Joe had just received his 'posting' if you must - where he will be stationed until their wedding. And let's just say that from where he is now and where he will be, it's a bit too far for comfort - Angelica's and mine.
I've known quite a few people who have enlisted in the army, and I'm sure that everyone who reads this does as well. I don't have to rehash the wonderful sacrifices these brave men and women gladly make for the glory and love of their country and her allies, but what about the ones they leave behind? Perhaps I am biased because Angelica and I are a part of those the ones we love leave, but every member of family - whether it be biological, friendship or just plain old indescribable (read; Angelica & I) - is affected. Not only does it mean that Joe will be far away until the wedding, or that my dear friend, let's call her Marilyn, leaves for training in just under a week for her 'mission' - it means that Angelica and I will join the sisterhood of the ones they left behind.
Oh - that and after the wedding in the summer, she'll be relocating to that far away place until... well, until they're stationed somewhere else. Meaning that within the space of a year I'll be watching 3 of my greatest girlfriends leave this city to follow their dreams and begin their new lives.
And that makes me so sad.
Before I met them - I got along just fine. Well no, I lie, but I also didn't know any better. And now that I have met them I couldn't get along with out them - I can't imagine my life without them. Sure phone calls and emails and mail-love is just great - but there is just something about sleepovers, 2 am junk food runs, showing up at Angelica's falling down drunk just to manage to sober up before going to the bar, sitting in Christie's car for hours upon end talking about absolutely nothing, managing to pick up just where Marilyn and I left off as if we had seen each other every day of our lives... those somethings just can't be replaced. And I wouldn't want them to be - because those girls are irreplaceable.
I know I wrote about the awkwardness of being the Fifth Wheel (which I am sure we have all or will all experience in our lives) last time I mentioned my girlfriends, but really in the end that one night doesn't matter, or at least pales in comparison to all the love that we've shared, all the memories we've salvaged through pictures, and all the cards and gifts that are strewn across our rooms as constant reminders of the impact we've had on each others lives.
It's always painful when loved ones leave - even when you're lucky enough for them to be just a plane ride away. But you worry for them - Will they be safe? Will they find new friends? Will they forget the old ones? Will you forget them? I highly doubt that Angelica and Christie will ever be erased from my memory (or my hard drive) and I know that our friendship is strong enough to survive anything but... I guess all of you out there with girlfriends as special as these ones will understand the sensation that when they leave, it feels as if 1/3 of you is missing.
But at the same time - if you love something or someone, you let them go - and even if they don't ever permanently come back to where you were, to where Angelica, Christie and I used to be, I know they'll always be mine. Just like I'll always be theirs.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
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.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Women Who've Shaped Me
I know I’m a little late in joining the celebration, but to all the women who have shaped me that I cannot write about today – Thank you.
There are two particular women I have decided to write about made the most significant impact on my future career and school-success. The first one, let’s call her Ms. Super. Ms. Super was my 9th grade science teacher. New to the school, Ms. S’s passion for the subject was both overwhelming and consuming – not an easy task for one teaching a bunch of rowdy 13 year olds. Until attending her class each day in the winter semester, yours truly had no solid interest or understanding of science, no passion to understand the beauty of its mysteries, the complexities of its simplest beings. Ms. S managed to draw me out from behind my science-trepidation, my disability to understand and ‘get’ the concepts and introduced me – started, even, my love affair with biology.
In my last year at high school I found myself in a computer lab full of new grade 9 students with Ms. Super as their instructor. After the class was over (as it was a particularly difficult one for her) I commented on how lucky those students were, as I was lucky 4 years ago, to have her as a teacher. Her unwavering passion for science, teaching and mentoring young students will no doubt be her legacy – and her greatest gift to the future. I have no doubt in my mind that Ms. Super has inspired countless others to pursue what interests them the most, introduced others to something they never thought they would like or, like in my case, excel in despite obvious difficulties.
The second woman I have decided to write about is my Sensei. Well, was my Sensei. At 5’2 (the same height as me) this incredibly strong, kind and intelligent woman has her own business, 2 children, a loving husband, and is a black belt 3 times over. As a skinny, small, naïve 8th grader, this woman through her guidance, instruction, passion and confidence in me, taught me discipline, courage, and guided me all the way to my blue (5/8) belt. In the year and a half I was under her tutelage, I gained tremendous self-respect, self-confidence, discipline and honour – qualities that I have seen lacking in many of the people I have had the displeasure of knowing.
The Dojo I attended was my happy place for 2 years – and when I had to leave it was the saddest day of my pre-teen years. In that small studio in the South-West end of this city I trained my body and my mind to overcome physical, mental and emotional adversity, all the while kicking ass with graceful and powerful movements. Not bad for a 5’2, 100 pound ‘little girl’. The movements and grace have stuck with me and is evident in every kickboxing aerobics class I attend – the discipline has stuck with me as well, which is the greatest lesson my Sensei ever taught me. In the earning of each belt I saw the benefits of hard work and dedication, and although I never reached the top level – in her eyes and maybe, eventually in mine, I am a success. And for that thought I am forever grateful.
There are two particular women I have decided to write about made the most significant impact on my future career and school-success. The first one, let’s call her Ms. Super. Ms. Super was my 9th grade science teacher. New to the school, Ms. S’s passion for the subject was both overwhelming and consuming – not an easy task for one teaching a bunch of rowdy 13 year olds. Until attending her class each day in the winter semester, yours truly had no solid interest or understanding of science, no passion to understand the beauty of its mysteries, the complexities of its simplest beings. Ms. S managed to draw me out from behind my science-trepidation, my disability to understand and ‘get’ the concepts and introduced me – started, even, my love affair with biology.
In my last year at high school I found myself in a computer lab full of new grade 9 students with Ms. Super as their instructor. After the class was over (as it was a particularly difficult one for her) I commented on how lucky those students were, as I was lucky 4 years ago, to have her as a teacher. Her unwavering passion for science, teaching and mentoring young students will no doubt be her legacy – and her greatest gift to the future. I have no doubt in my mind that Ms. Super has inspired countless others to pursue what interests them the most, introduced others to something they never thought they would like or, like in my case, excel in despite obvious difficulties.
The second woman I have decided to write about is my Sensei. Well, was my Sensei. At 5’2 (the same height as me) this incredibly strong, kind and intelligent woman has her own business, 2 children, a loving husband, and is a black belt 3 times over. As a skinny, small, naïve 8th grader, this woman through her guidance, instruction, passion and confidence in me, taught me discipline, courage, and guided me all the way to my blue (5/8) belt. In the year and a half I was under her tutelage, I gained tremendous self-respect, self-confidence, discipline and honour – qualities that I have seen lacking in many of the people I have had the displeasure of knowing.
The Dojo I attended was my happy place for 2 years – and when I had to leave it was the saddest day of my pre-teen years. In that small studio in the South-West end of this city I trained my body and my mind to overcome physical, mental and emotional adversity, all the while kicking ass with graceful and powerful movements. Not bad for a 5’2, 100 pound ‘little girl’. The movements and grace have stuck with me and is evident in every kickboxing aerobics class I attend – the discipline has stuck with me as well, which is the greatest lesson my Sensei ever taught me. In the earning of each belt I saw the benefits of hard work and dedication, and although I never reached the top level – in her eyes and maybe, eventually in mine, I am a success. And for that thought I am forever grateful.
Friday, March 23, 2007
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.
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