Bedbugs got you down? It could be worse. A special guest post — in cartoon form– from my friend “Diablo Loco”
Category Archives: That's Life
Supplementing Memories
Memory is a funny thing. Things we might like to forget linger, and memories we’re desperate to recall remain stuck in unreachable places. (I’ve blogged about my lack of mother memories before.)
In this digital world, our lives are documented. If I die with young kids like my mum did, will my future children get to know me through blog posts and Twitter updates? (And would I want that?!)
My mum used to do a two minute column on CBC radio. My father recorded each one from the radio onto a cassette tape. So I’m going to share some with you so you can meet my mother in the same way I have to.
Here she is ranting about reading to kids and sucky books (keep listening to get a clip of me being super-adorable at age 2.)
Wednesday, April 6, 1988, “Learning to Read” on CBC Yukon’s Yukon Morning
Listen to Lorraine Young \"Reading to Kids\" here
Yoga
Everyone does yoga (just the other day, Leslie was busy bragging about this move while I was aching). Everyone but me. I just wear the pants. Until now.
On Monday, Ryan and I went to a class with YouDefined. Afterwards, I wrote to my friend Kelly (a super-seasoned yogateer) to tell her about my experience. This was her reply:
Keep up the yoga – it get’s worse!
It really does get better
I really like the “It Gets Better” campaign. I know that not everyone does and there may be some validity to that — after all, bandwagons are easy to jump on, and often lead to glossing over of the more complicated issues. But I really do believe that this campaign will be helpful to kids. At least one kid.
I had a hard time as a kid. I had a hard time in high school – and I wasn’t even gay (though Lizz is awfully close to….) There was a time when I got picked on, and a time when I probably made other kids’ lives more difficult than they needed to be. But when I look back, all I can say is “thank God it gets better.”
So maybe it’s oversimplified. Maybe it won’t solve the bigger issues. But sometimes all you need is a little hope and a little understanding.
Back to School
Back to school! Back to school, to prove to Dad that I’m not a fool! I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight, I hope I don’t get in a fight! Ohhhh, back to school! – Billy Madison
Snow day in September
I find myself feeling nostalgic this back to school week. It’s not because I miss school (though my continued enrollment in night classes might make you think differently), but I miss being a part of the end of summer transition.
As a child I was never excited for the “learning” part of back to school, (at least not that I would have admitted) but there’s something exciting about putting an official end to summer – in all its silliness, laziness, and un-coveredness – and starting fresh. When else in life do we get a fresh start year after year?
With all that said, I don’t actually remember much from the first day of school. But in typical Canadian style, I remember the weather.
By Labour Day in the Yukon it’s fall. There’s almost always frost at night, and it has snowed on my birthday at least once. Those chilly fall mornings turned to freezing winter mornings. What I remember most is recess on winter days.
The really cold days were organized by colours. “Blue days” meant we could stand inside the doors every 20 minutes and warm up. “Red days” were brutally cold (below -30 I think), and we were mostly allowed to stay inside… as long as we walked a lap around the school first.
If you’ve spent any time in -30/40/50 degree weather you know it’s well beyond just cold. As you breathe in, the air bites your lungs and they ache. It smells different, smells cold. All the other scents in the world have been frozen and all that remains is air.
It’s too cold for clouds on those days too. What’s left is brilliant sun on the sparking, white snow. The only thing I miss about the North is the sun. And on those miserable, biting, cold days, there’s sun.
Yukon River at -30
The Question of Graffiti: Art vs. Vandalism
I’ve always felt rather conflicted about graffiti.
One the one hand, some of it can be really great. Colourful and skillfully painted (even when I don’t have a clue what it says) makes ugly walls interesting.
But on the other hand, it is, even when it’s beautiful, messing with someone else’s property.
A recent BlogTo piece, an ode of sorts to good graffiti, had many commenters raging.
“I guess as long as you like graffiti, it really doesn’t matter what the people that own those buildings or the taxpayers that own those public structures think. That’s the gist of it right?”
“Most of this “art form” are just creating visual pollution . . . 99% of it is crap and people should be punished for inflicting it in our public space.”
“Unsolicited graffiti is just disrespectful and narcissistic. The idea that you are so bloody special that you’re entitled to deface public and private property is just offensive and should not be encouraged. Paint your own damn walls.”
Of course not all of the commenters were against graffiti. Many thought it actually enhances a city, while others supported the unsolicited paintings on the basis of public space. The one thing all the supporters (also the author and me) agreed on is that some graffiti is better than others. Some of it is “art.”
So where do we draw the line?
This is neat:
Courtesy of Toots Fontaine on flickr
But is this OK?
Courtesy of Dominc's Pics' on flickr
If those are OK, then how about this?
The wall in front of Abbey Road Recording Studios in London
And is it still cool if it is commissioned like the these pictures from the East Side Gallery in Berlin?
The issue of what is public space (if it even exists) and who should be allowed to own what is complicated. And while I’m not likely to side with anyone who likes to fancy themselves an anarchist, I don’t want to take a hard lined stance against something I enjoy.
Quite simply, we have to decide: Do we respect personal property or don’t we? After all, I’d be pissed off if someone spray painted my stuff, so I can hardly tell others (even if I dislike them) that they can’t be offended when their stuff is ruined too.
And if drawing that line isn’t hard enough, how do we decide what’s art and what’s vandalism? Can we choose?
If I support your right to paint because I support public space, art and expression, how can I limit one person’s expression while encouraging an other? Banksy is more appealing to some than a tag, but who gets to define art?
Apparently this guy does.
Ironic?
My Twitterpology: The Blog in Which I am a Big Fat Hypocrite
I’m horrified to admit it, but I’ve been using Twitter.
I’ll pause now for the mocking I so rightly deserve.
You might remember that I really hated Twitter for a very long time.
I thought the basic concept as described by Twitter was silly, the media hype was irritating, and the made-up words were stupid.
I’m not the only person to publically hate Twitter. Vanessa Grigoriadis wrote this piece for Vanity Fair. The patronizing article basically calls everyone on Twitter morons (yeah, like I did). But to quote Ryan (from a piece I highly recommend):
Twitter brings out strange reactions in people, particularly among those who have never used it. My lovely girlfriend was at one point so annoyed by Twitter that I set up an appropriately named account just to spite her.
And he’s right. I hated Twitter without ever using it. (Ryan says that makes me a Twitter Bigot. A Twigot?) But it isn’t entirely my fault.
In my time leading up to becoming a Twitter-user, I consistently saw asinine media “reports” about old-man U.S. Congressmen tweeting during important speeches and meetings, about Ashton Kutcher and CNN in a race for followers, or numerous other reports about the way the site was infiltrating lives.
Still, I made a [moderate] effort to understand Twitter by going to their “About” section. It used to say this:
Twitter is a service for friends, family, and co–workers to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing? “Why? Because even basic updates are meaningful to family members, friends, or colleagues—especially when they’re timely.
- Eating soup? Research shows that moms want to know.
- Running late to a meeting? Your co–workers might find that useful.
- Partying? Your friends may want to join you.
The description put forth by the creators of Twitter was inane. I couldn’t take it seriously and I couldn’t understand the usefulness. After all, I already had Facebook to update my friends on my antics, post pictures and read about my friends’ day, why would I need a second medium?
Then I grudgingly started using Twitter for my job. And gradually, I wanted to follow people of my own who didn’t really make sense to follow at work. Then I wanted to re-tweet things people posted that weren’t always appropriate.
So I got my own account. And I was ashamed.
After all, I had been a very public jerk, and I wasn’t sure if my new-found curiosity for Twitter would actually result in a fondness for the micro-blogging site.
So I kept it a secret for a while — I didn’t even tell Ryan right away (if you understood how much he mocks me you’d know why). I certainly didn’t follow anyone who knew me. But I tweeted away in secret.
When I finally decided that I liked Twitter enough to quit being ashamed, I realized that I needed to start using it properly and effectively. This meant using hash tags to join conversations, following people with similar interests to my own (bloggers, writers, angry ranters, etc), and posting my own writing to my feed using catchy titles and good keywords.
It also meant understanding that Twitter isn’t necessarily about connecting with people you already know — there are other, more personal, social media sites for that. I knew I didn’t want Twitter to be a place just to share what I had for lunch, I wanted it to be a place to promote myself as a writer, and to network with people that I otherwise wouldn’t have a chance to “meet.”
As it turns out, it is pretty neat to chat with a writer you like at Newsweek, and read bitchy live-blogs from your favourite gossip columnist during awards ceremonies.
Despite Twitter’s seemingly useless beginnings, it actually has become an important part of the social-mediasphere – and many people post very interesting (and sometimes hilarious) things.
Businesses use Twitter to connect with customers. Felicia Day, and others like her, has used Twitter to promote her brand (she has several successful web series) by developing a massive following. I get strangers following my blog because of a tag I used in a post.
Some people still post mundane thoughts, and young girls still bicker over who is the best pre-pubescent boy superstar, but that’s hardly a surprise. Twitter as whole looks a lot like the Internet, or even the world as a whole. Some people are awesome, some people are OK, and some people are idiots.
Twitter has since changed their “About” page to reflect what the service has become, but that is due in large part to the people who use it — people who have figured out how to make something dumb into something brilliant.
Yes, it is still a place for morons, but it’s also a place for rebellion and a place for connection.
Even without those very good reasons, it turns out that Twitter is…sigh… just kind of fun.
One Day in a Shoe Store
Every time I go into a shoe store I feel like a freak. I’m six feet tall so, unsurprisingly, I have big feet. Over the years I have learned to avoid “regular” stores altogether because they don’t stock shoes in my size, and looking at all the things I want but can’t have just makes my heart ache.
If I’m with friends I’ll either wait outside, or sit down in the “boyfriend” chairs and zone out until it is over. But today I decided to tough it out and I went into the Naturalizer store with Jessica.
As we entered the store the smell of leather filled my nose. It wasn’t immediately terrible.
We were greeted by a ridiculous pair of running shoes with rounded soles like the rockers on a rocking chair. The shoes looked like they had been melted around the side of a melon before tying the laces up. They were certainly not shoes that I’d covet.
The painful florescent lights highlighted a wall of “comfortable” shoes – the kind of shoes your grandmother would wear – with their thick soles, and supportive leather uppers. They screamed celibacy.
But on the other wall, there was beauty. Sling backs! Peep toes! Kitten heels! And they were in glorious colours – golds, blacks, zebra prints. Oh, glorious shoes.
And then I remembered: I can’t wear regular shoes.
But as Jessica picked up a fabulous pair of all-leather Mary Jane’s, I couldn’t help myself anymore. I carried the pair over to the sales woman to ask what size they carried. I expected her to say the usual “nine” or “ten.” To my surprise, they carried up to size 11.
I waited anxiously as she ducked behind the curtain to find shoes for me. I gave her appearance little attention because I was completely focused on those shoes. But that didn’t last long.
When she reappeared with the box, I heard a loud voice that said “now, if you need something larger, that’s what we call ‘specialized’ and you’ll have to check out the website.”
I looked up to see an enormous head of red, curly hair, thick, gold hoop earrings, and a three-inch gold cross that hung around her neck. Her denim jumper looked like it could have been borrowed from Michelle Duggar, while the lime green tee-shirt she wore underneath reminded me more of a summer camp tye-dye project.
I suddenly felt like I was at a roadside diner not a shoe store at trendy Yonge and Eglinton.
Luckily, she didn’t have the personality of a typical sales clerk at Yonge and Eg — only moderately friendly and mostly disinterested.
She was boisterous. She was friendly and knowledgeable. She was a delightful woman. But it was a bit like sales on speed as she manically raced between customers, shouting to one while finding shoes for another.
The woman seemed so out of place, yet oddly comforting. She reminded me of someone’s small town aunt who’d come to visit from “home.”
As I slipped my foot into the shoe I quickly realized what I already knew: I don’t wear a size 11 shoe. My feet are, indeed, “specialized.” I only tried the shoes on because it was the closest I’ve ever come to finding shoes in an average shoe store.
But I wasn’t immediately flooded with sadness over the loss of those shoes because my focus had already switched to watching the sales woman’s interaction with the next customer.
Watching this delightful and surprising woman made me smile. I didn’t get any shoes, but it didn’t really matter. I left happy.
Cooking Up a Mess
New recipes, like sex positions, need to be practiced. You’ve got to get the basics down before attempting to go it alone.
But I am a terribly impatient person, and I can’t follow a recipe. More accurately, I refuse to follow a recipe.
It’s not that I think that I am somehow more qualified than a trained chef — though I often refuse to use the suggested amount of fat — it is because I just can’t be bothered.
For the most part, it works out OK. I tend to make things like stir-frys that really can’t be ruined by experimentation. But after receiving a new Vegetarian cookbook for Christmas, and after realizing that I will never lose weight on diet of bagels and bananas, I decided to expand my cooking repertoire.
The first night I made a noodle-free lasagna. I didn’t think to actually check how many zucchinis I needed for the base layers. Nor did I feel like buying all the obscure ingredients on the list. And then, despite it not being a part of the recipe, I mixed up some cottage cheese and spinach as an alternative to a sauce layer. But I didn’t have enough cottage cheese, so I used some leftover tofu.
In the end it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t lasagna.
The next recipe I decided to tackle was Falafel. Normally I would have attempted anything fried, but because it appeared to be a reasonably healthy choice (merely pan fried, not deep fried), I thought I’d give it a shot.
I was at work when I made the plan so I didn’t have the list of ingredients when I went to the grocery store. I had a rough idea of what I needed, and I consulted some internet recipes to come up with a list. It was mostly right, save for some obscure spices I wasn’t going to bother buying to use only a teaspoon of anyway (another problem I have).
But when I got home, I discovered that I had misread the recipe – it called for two cups of cooking oil, not two tablespoons, and the mixture was supposed to chill for 2 hours before cooking.
They were edible, but I didn’t learn my lesson.
All I really learned is that I am too lazy to shop properly, and don’t like complicated instructions.
Luckily for me, there’s an app for that.
The Scots waste a lot of food – about $800 Canadian dollars worth a year. So a British company has released an iPhone app called Love Food, Hate Waste. It allows you to look in your fridge to see what you already have, put that information into the app, and find a recipe that won’t require a big shopping trip. It also has a portion size planner to avoid making too much.
Maybe it will help me. Sure, I might refuse to do a few of the steps, but at least I don’t have to make a special trip to the store.
Even if it doesn’t make me a better cook, with all the money I’ll save on food I could actually afford an iPhone.
When he’s the one who calls it quits.
City of Toronto 2010 – 2019 Capital Budget and Plan November 3, 2009
You know what sucks? Getting dumped. Sometimes it sucks because you are deeply in love with someone and you just can’t stand the idea of spending a second without them, sometimes it is because you think you can fix your problems if only you had the chance, but mostly it sucks because he got to it first!
As much as your heart may or may not be breaking, being dumped is a rotten cherry atop a shit sundae. Why? Because somehow being dumped signals failure. You know that when people ask for an explanation you will use the its not my fault lines such as “we decided not to see eachother anymore” or “it wasn’t working out” to save face when all anyone wants to know is “who dumped whom?!”
I’m reminded of my pal George Costanza’s Preemtive Break Up: “A preemptive breakup. This is an incredible idea. I got nothing to lose. We either break up which she would do anyway but at least I go out with some Dignity”. And wouldn’t we all like to go with a little bit of dignity? So where do we draw the line between a preemptive breakup and knowing when it is time to call it quits?
I guess the solution is one of two things: either you decide to end it – foregoing any future possibility of ifs, ands or buts, and totally own that decision, or you stick it out ’til the bitter end. If you chose door #2 you probably now despise everything humanly possible about that person – but you’re sure. If you did it a la George, well…. congratulations, I guess?
**Awkward 7 month break in thought process: I started this blog in the summer of 2008. I then left it, intending to finish – but never did. It is now January 2009.
Perhaps my lapse in writing about dating is indicative of a fear of commitment? Or maybe it is just laziness? Possibly it is because shortly after starting this blog to appease a friend who was sticking pins in a voodoo doll of her ex, and I was fed up with yet another failed internet dating experience, or maybe it was just laziness. But I am back.
Also, since the introduction of this blog, I entered into a long-term relationship. Scary, I know. For anyone who knows me, you’ll know that this is not my forte. I’m a sprinter, not a saunterer. I start hard, go fast, and end quickly. So what has changed?
It is hard to say? Maybe it was jsut time? Maybe it was my new found self-awareness ? Maybe it is the perfect guy (yeah, that kind of cheese makes me want to vomit too). Or maybe it was just the realization that George Costanza was saved my an envelope poisoning and is likely not the best dating role-model.
The preemptive breakup, or any other preemptive relationship reaction, is dangerous. It is so easy to run because you might fail, but as it turns out, that kind of sucks. Enter cliches: “it is better to have loved and lost, then never loved at all”, “Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain, But I’d have had to miss the dance”, “Working hard, or hardly working?”. (Ok. That last one isn’t even a little bit relevant, but it is high on my list of pet peeves and tickles the same gag reflex as the rest of them). More importantly, if you’re prone to running in a relationship, you’re probably prone to running in the rest of your life.
The best thing that I have learned in the past 6 months is not that relationships work because you’re perfect, he’s perfect, and everything that was meant to be, is. What I learned is that relationships are great because you get to practice your life skills in an environment where you get forgiven over and over again because that other person loves you (or likes regular sex, at the very least). When else in life do you get to enter a situation where both parties have everything to lose, and they still choose to be there?
So I guess what I am saying is that the decision to break up is hard, and it only gets harder the deeper you get. My aunt likes to tell me that my grandfather told her that “you should only get married if you have to” (meaning if you can’t think of any reason not to). The most simple criteria I’ve ever heard (from a very smart source) is: “Any time things get tough, I think about whether or not they would be easier without her. Everytime the answer is no.” Nuff said.
But if you do find yourself in the situation where you know you’re about to get the boot, be sure to do it first. If you can’t get your words in first at least be the first one to get to facebook.
