Sunday, October 23, 2005

look ma, no hands. I was just telling Kristy as we sat out on the deck this evening that if you'd told me our lives would look like they do now, even a year ago, I'd have said, "No way. How would all that happen?" And as I look back, I'm not really quite sure how I got here. So many steps and events and moves and grooves had to occur to put me where I am right now in all respects, and quite frankly, I'm perfectly okay with not figuring it all out. I'd rather just be. And that -- more than any other single change that has been wrought in my world -- is the most profound evolution that I've undergone in the last twelve months. As an overthinker, I've spent a good portion of my life tormented by the idea of the why and how. I wanted to trace heartbreak back to mistakes and blessings back to smart moves. I mean, logically, how else would I replicate the positive and eliminate the negative? That's smart -- to a point. But no matter what the best-selling life coaches would tell you, making all the right moves guarantees you exactly zilch. Nothing about life is remotely that linear. Your actions are not the only catalyst for events in your life. You don't control everything. You might think that's an appealing notion, but you wouldn't want to -- not really -- even if you could. At least I have no desire to carry that kind of responsibility. Not as long as I remain the impulsive, selfish, complicated conundrum of a woman that I am. If I controlled everything, I'd never have experienced some of the surprises and sudden turns that have given way to some of the biggest joys I've ever known. I'd have avoided mistakes that have taught me unbelievable lessons, but made others that would have taught me nothing except how to hurt more. Sure -- there's stuff I wish had never happened that I carry with me every day. But I've discovered this: In the end, sometimes your only choice is how to react. My reactions are what have brought me to the place I am today. The choice to be strong or to give up. The choice to keep trying at something or take a new tack. The choice to lay down and weep or to stand up and fight. Or to weep for a while and then gather the strength to fight even harder. I take responsibility for the life I have. I am in control of much of what goes on. I own up to my own mistakes. I have my share of regrets. But I am also shocked daily at how things work out when I have long given up all possibility of a solution. It's a fine balance, this -- the high wire between due diligence and tossing your seeds into the wind to see where they might plant. I don't know where I'll be in a year. None of us does, though we may have a plan to take us to a certain place or a series of events we desire to occur. But make sure, as you make your wise plans with your wisest heart, that you're open to the twists in the road that might take you to an even better place. After all, those who try to drive straight down a winding road generally end up wrapped around a tree. 10:54:05 PM    well, yes, but...  [] what you are missing on pandacam right now. (courtesy of Kristy, roommate and fellow PandaCammer) 5:57:40 PM    well, yes, but...  [] why there is so, so much blogcabin. Patia asked a question in my comments about my prolific writing habits, and let me tell you, I've heard that question before. "How do you write so much?" "How to do you choose what to write about?" "How long does it take you to write a post?" And here's the answer: I have no clue. I don't think I write that much. In fact, I think I should be writing more. But my brain gets used up writing at work -- by the time I get home, I am mopping up my own drool and trying to figure out how to spell stuff and form sentences. It comes, though, somehow. And it's not all quality. In fact, some of it is absolute tripe, but there it is, I put it out there, and now I have to live with it -- that's how I see it. It's good to write crap now and again and have all your friends tell you that it's crap. It's good to write as much as you can because the law of averages will make some of it okay, even when most of it is crap. And if no one notices that it's crap, well WOOHOO! Now you're a writer! Honestly, I can spend five minutes on a post or I can spend two hours. Usually the five minute ones are better than the two hour ones. But you'll notice that I don't write about major events or masterworks of art or biographical insights into the lives of great people. I don't link extensively to other sources and lend commentary to their work. I don't dig into the seedy underbelly of pretty much anything and pull out justice like a plum on my thumb from a pie. I just, uh... write about stuff in my head. Since I carry my head around with me almost everywhere (although I do leave it at home on occasion), I know the contents of said head well and can pour them out accordingly without much agonization or organization. Usually said head is overfull, too -- due to lack of sleep and too many hours considering things while staring at the celing in the dark -- so the release is not so much my gracious gift to the universe so much as hooking my mental RV up to a sewage tank to empty the reserves. Did I mention I'm on house arrest, too? 5:37:34 PM    well, yes, but...  [] tales of a fourth-grade something. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I was challenged to recall some of my favourite childhood books for today's blog entry. This is a great topic -- in fact, I bet it's a meme somewhere, replicating endearingly through the blogosphere. And I was excited about the assignment... ...right up until the moment that I sat down to do it. What the heck did I read when I was a kid? I mean, I know I read everything -- I figured out how to piece words together when I was two, much to my parents' wonderment. They'd read to me since I was but an embryo (I love that word... embryo) and I watched Sesame Street as faithfully as possible, but it was still kinda weird. Learning how to read at two gives you a definite head start in creating an extensive childhood booklist. But now, as I sit here, I realize that I read so much that it all seems like a blur. I'd fly through anything I could get my hands on, from my parents' magazines (oops) to my brother's comics (hmm... ) to books I'd get from the school or city library. I kicked ass on all the book drives and the reading drills all the way through elementary school. I would stare into space when my teacher walked us through books in class because I'd have finished most of it by the time she was halfway through. And if they caught me daydreaming and quizzed me, I'd babble out the answers and resume staring into space. I just can't think of what the blazes the highlights of my experience might have been. I can pick my favourite songs off the top of my head and my favourite movies with a bit of thought, and I even know what my favourite adult reading choices have been. But this, this flummoxed me. I think I read all the Dr. Seuss books, but they all run together in my head. What I recall of them, I recall because I read them to kids I nannied for... I think I read all the Robert Munsch and Maurice Sendak and Shel Silverstein I could get my hands on, but uhhh... the details escape me. I vaguely recall the Bearenstein Bears. Watership Down? Check. Little Women? Check. Winnie the Pooh? Check. Grimm's Fairy Tales? Yep. Anne of Green Gables? All of them. Judy Blume? Full catalogue (even Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, which was really disorienting when I was six -- yes, Mom, I didn't tell you I'd already read it). I know I read everything I was supposed to read, and much, much more.  A.A. Milne, E.B. White, Lewis Carroll... you name it. I had literate parents who provided me with all the right things. What I really recall, though, is sneaking peeks at Sidney Sheldon books at the library (although the librarian probably noticed). I remember bringing War and Peace to seventh grade Silent Reading Period (what a dork!). I remember reading short stories by Hemingway and Mansfield in my dad's old university anthologies. Sylvia Plath made my eyes cross in the eighth grade (actually, she did that to me in university, too).  And as far as poetry went, I was winding my way through T.S. Eliot and ee cummings and Langston Hughes before I had a clue what they were speaking of and referring to in terms of subtext (and not even subtext... but I still was clueless). I remember reading that William Carlos Williams poem about the plums in the icebox and trying to make all the notes I left for people poetic thereafter. I think that was grade five. So, to sum up, I know I read all the childhood stuff, but I know that it didn't engage me as much as it should have because I didn't take time to enjoy it -- like eating dinner too fast. You know it was good, but it's all a blur and you're full and you can't recall what got you there. I also know I was sneaking inappropriately mature stuff at a young age and not really getting it in the least -- well, most of it. But I always wanted to know what was coming next. I always wanted an advance clue. I would flip to the last page in books, write my essay conclusions first, and interrupt people telling long, drawn out stories to ask how the story ended. I was a cut to the chase, fast-forward the VCR, Advanced Placement, grade 12 classes in grade 10 kind of girl. And now that I think about it, that's pretty much the story of my life. I was never content to be the age I was -- I always had to shoot forward a little and see what was going on down the chronological road. And once I got there, I was always a little bewildered as to what to do, or what I'd gotten myself into. But it didn't stop me from diving in headfirst. All that changed somewhere in my mid-twenties, when everyone else seemed to lap me on the great track of life. I was going to weddings, baby showers and house warmings every month for a while -- and not hosting any of my own. And I didn't know how to accelerate anymore. There was only so much that one could do to increase one's life trajectory once there are no more classes to take or guaranteed responses to your efforts. At that point, the bungee cord of my life snapped me back without warning. I realized that I'd spent so much time looking forward that I'd completely stalled out in the present. So much time dreaming that I'd completely forgotten how to live. So much time wondering that I'd forgotten that you can only ask so many questions without having to settle down and listen to the answers. Now I'm 31 and I should have done less of some things and more of others -- but on all fronts, it's too late. And I think about all this because someone asks me about my favourite children's literature. Oy, can you see what I mean? You see how far I get with the slightest push? Put me on a swing, and I'll pump my legs and hope for the moon without enjoying the stars in-between. Maybe I should try the sandbox for a bit. 4:54:20 PM    well, yes, but...  [] icy. When I went to the grocery store yesterday to pick up a few things -- disinfecting wipes, paper towel, milk, a bit of produce -- the place was hopping. It took me a couple seconds to choose a line; all of them seemed to stretch on forever with tired-eyed people dragging overflowing baskets and carts. Finally, I just shrugged and chose one, wishing I'd brought my iPod with the grocery line-up mix (kidding!). The girls in front of me looked to be about my age or perhaps a bit older, but it would appear that we'd come from different planets. They were wearing a cornucopia of recently or current trendy items from head to toe -- Ugg boots, excruciatingly tight jeans falling off their hips, baby doll dress-tops over low-cut tanks, and fake bomber jackets with fur-lined hoods. It was a bit of a visual accident, to be sure, but they seemed pretty satisfied with their look. They had the same shade of stick-straightened blonde hair (well, more like nine shades of blonde, in skinny, expensive highlights), the same spray-on tan, and more makeup on than I think I've ever managed to get to stick on my face. And they were standing next to a fairly obvious array of products: margarita mix, pina colada mix, Clamato, and cranberry juice. I assume the tequila, rum, and vodka were elsewhere. According to their overly-loud conversation, they were heading to someone's house to do something and someone else would be there and wouldn't it be something? Yeah. I felt like a dork with my gallon of skim and my Lysol products, but I wasn't dressed to party with them anyhow -- a ponytail, hoodie, jeans and flip flops probably wouldn't have cut it in GlamWorld. But I was going home to a date with some very hot boys in skates and they don't care what I wear. Now, before I go further, let me say this: I am a girly girl. I always have been a girly girl. I love the potions and magic and effort of the whole female beautification ritual. I'm not aggressively trendy -- I'd rather resemble (pipe dream alert! pipe dream alert!) Audrey Hepburn or Sophia Loren than Paris, Lindsay or Nicole -- but I do read the magazines. I don't hold anyone's style against them. I figure we should all be free to look as we wish. Unless, that is, your look comes with an attitude. The girl that was working this checkout is a regular employee at the store. She is a bit stout, a couple inches shorter than I am -- is that even possible? -- and apparently not one for vanity on any grand scale. Her hair is always pulled back tight and her visage is cosmetic-free. She takes her work very seriously -- she never has to look up the vegetable codes, she always can find even the most tricky scan-bars, and she does what she does fast. She's not really one for eye contact or conversation, but she can always make the stubborn debit machine work and she'll bag your groceries for you while you put your code in (which is above and beyond). I like her. She can get a bit intense at times, but hey -- I am all about people taking pride in their work. She glanced fleetingly at the girls while she began to scan their items, and I saw a look flash across her face that I couldn't quite place. I wasn't sure if it was disdain or envy -- maybe just irritation at a long stream of tough-to-scan items. She did look up at one point and mumble (almost imperceptibly) "You having a party?" Neither one seemed to hear her in the midst of their own chatting and gave her no response. And she just kept scanning items as though she were used to being ignored. Oh gosh, I wondered, had I ever ignored her? I'm a little deaf and easily distracted -- I easily could have missed a comment somewhere in the gazillions of transactions she'd done for me. When everything was tallied up, she gave them the total (staring at her shoes) and one of the girls handed her a platinum Visa, proffered by perfectly french-manicured fingers. She ran it through and handed her the receipt to sign. At this moment, the other girl yelped. "Oh, SHIT. ICE. WE FORGOT TO BUY ICE." The other girl grimaced and both of them glanced over at the ice cabinet. "Hang on --" Visa girl gestured at the cashier, "We have to add some ice to the bill." As soon as this came out of her mouth, I knew we were about to have a problem. Number one, the transaction was already processed. Number two, there were seven people in line behind them waiting to pay for their stuff. And number three? She snapped her fingers in the girl's face when she said it. Oh. Everyone in line stopped groaning as soon as she did it, in complete shock that anyone would find that to be an acceptable gesture. The cashier gulped and looked harder at her feet, and mumbled. "Did you want that on your Visa, too?" Ugh. I wanted her to at least shoot the blondes a look -- not for adding to their transaction, because we all know it sucks to have to get back in line just to snag something you forgot to pick up -- but because of their attitude. And then the Visa didn't go through. "Umm... do you have another card?" The girl looked horrified. "Uh, I am nowhere near my limit. Do it again." Ahhhh. This was getting worse by the second. But there was no more luck the second time around. It took the other blonde a two full minutes to fish out her wallet from her purse, after putting all the other contents out onto the counter: cell phone, lip gloss, Coach key chain, assorted MAC compacts and a PDA. One of them glanced me up and down as the other one signed the new credit card slip and smirked. "Sorry to keep you waiting -- I'm sure you've got better things to do than stand in line." I knew she meant to indicate just the opposite, but I responded with panic, my eyes wide, holding my hand to my heart. "Oh, NO. I'm FINE. but THANK GOD you remembered the ice before it was TOO LATE." The man behind me burst into laughter almost immediately and snickers went all the way down the line. I thought I saw a smile flash across the cashier's face. The blondes looked at me like I'd sprouted horns, but I just kept nodding at them, dripping with fake concern. They said nothing as they gathered up their bags and walked away (to a small smattering of applause from the lineup). As my items were being run through and the line resumed progress, I made sure to catch the girl's eye and smile. "I used to get customers like that at Starbucks. They don't seem to realize how rude they are. But you handled that really well. " She handed me the debit machine and began putting my stuff in my bag. She only spoke when she offered me my receipt. "I'm not sure what the ice was for. They seemed plenty cold enough as it is."   1:40:10 PM    well, yes, but...  []

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