It must be weird to go to the blog of a single gal in her early thirties and read about hormones outside of the context of just plain HAVING THEM and wanting to date various men as a result.
Believe me, I think it’s weird, too.
And what’s also weird?
Is being back on the whole replacement trip. Because WOOOOO! If you want to feel both ill and bananacakes all at once?
I got your ship right here, sailor.
But I don’t want to write about it all the time with wry observations about “changes” and “womanhood” and “heart journeys” because I’m really not that girl. Or more importantly, I’m still a girl! I am not ready for all of this!
People keep directing me to various pages and forums where I could discuss the things I’m going through, but when I click on the links, I’m surrounded by people my mom’s age (NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT) who have kids and major past or present relationships and condos and pets and pantsuits and 48th birthdays and other things I haven’t had yet.
If I post my story, I just get a lot of people freaking out that I can’t have babies, that I’m not married, that I’m so young and IT MUST BE SO HORRIBLE. Which is not really the perspective I’m looking for.
No one can really tell me I’m normal, which is fine.
But to not feel like a complete alien? Would be awesome.
Which is very much what I feel like right now, physically, emotionally, etc.
I want to bite people. Or just shove them around a little. Or take a nap. Or sing really loudly. Or eat a Costco-full of tortilla chips. Or get a massage. Or a pedicure. Or remove my head and/or torso. Or throw up. Or cry and cry and cry.
But.
None of these things are on the agenda for now.
What is on the agenda?
I’m taking things personally that I know I shouldn’t, reacting fiercely when I know it’s not justified, thinking about stuff that doesn’t usually cross my mind, and wanting to rant about things that don’t matter.
On the inside, that is.
You’d never be able to tell, other than those occasional moments when I flush bright red and type with a little more passion. I’m pretty good at dealing.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate it.
I wish there was a witty way to discuss all of this. But all the jokes that seem funny about this to women twenty years older than me just seem like a smack in the face right now.
I’ll show you a “power surge”, all right. IN THE NOSE.
So, yeah. I know that men will be thinking AAAAA! THIS IS NOT SOMETHING I WANT TO READ ABOUT! HOW DID I GET HERE! and women will either go NOT TO ME, PLEASE! or BEEN THERE DONE THAT, but every now and then, despite the fact that I haven’t found the humour in all this yet?
I gotta write about it.
And by the time I am Nora’s age?
I will TOTALLY have it down.
I made myself a lovely steak and some caesar salad last night.
Both items contained a fair amount of garlic, in the marinade I created for my happy little tenderloin, and in the dressing on the (yay! organic!) romaine hearts.
Which means that I, in turn, contained a fair amount of garlic.
And I think I still do.
This concerns me.
I never like to smell like what I eat, or — worse yet — what I’ve already eaten. The very thought of giving off some weird spicy odor after downing some curry or pasta or stir fry is enough to make me want to spritz perfume all over my body and up the noses of everyone who comes near me.
Most people won’t agree to that.
So I’m stressing.
The perfume thing is a starter solution, but if the garlic is coming out through my pores, I’m just going to end up smelling like (Garlic) Lychee Sugar. Or (Garlic) Vanilla. Or (Garlic) Jasmine.
And I did brush my teeth three times this morning with my Rembrandt toothpaste, and gargle with my Tom’s of Maine mouthwash. But neither one felt significantly burn-y and caustic enough to rid me of garlictude, if in fact I was giving off garlictude.
Did I mention that I dread the possibility of garlictude?
Argh.
It’s amazing how the fear of something so silly can impact how you carry yourself through your day.
I’ve avoided getting too close to people (other than, of course, showing them my underwear on Transit, which was both unexpected AND intimate.) I’ve walked around with my head down, trying to redirect the potential garlic aura away from the heads of others. I’ve tried not to talk too much when anyone has been in the outflow path of my breath. I’ve used lemon hand lotion twice an hour, hoping that it will sink into my pores deep enough to rescue me. I’ve consumed enough mints to recreate the polar ice cap in my stomach. I’ve slugged back enough coffee to make me smell like the ass of Juan Valdez (the one carrying the bag of beans, not the one beneath his poncho) because I’d rather give off that odor than, say, a faint whiff of spaghetti bolognese.
Basically, I’ve become a paranoid, antisocial, jittery freak because I ate garlic.
Remind me not to go to Italy anytime soon.
On the bus today, I was sitting near the front, since there were few other seats available, and no old or pregnant people rattling about.
Most of the time, I would stand anyway (just in case the elderly or knocked-up or elderly knocked-up appear) but today I was crazy tired. I needed to crash a little and prep my brain and body for work.
And that’s when the chaos began.
The first thing I did upon finding my seat was spill coffee all over my shirt. Which was okay, since the shirt is black. It didn’t even manage to soak through to the hot pink tank top underneath. I felt really lucky.
Until I spilled it on my pants.
In the midst of mopping that up with a random tissue I found in my purse, I let go of my iPod, which bounced onto my foot. Which a) hurt and b) probably took another one of the poor thing’s iLives.
When I bent to pick it up off the floor of the bus, I realized that my jeans were falling down.
Uh.
I now had the following in my hands:
I had no free hand to yank my pants back up unless I could find a way to set something else down. And there was really nowhere to set anything, unless I asked the weird woman next to me to hold a couple items.
But she smelled of eggplant and looked enraged. So that didn’t seem like much of an option.
I shimmied a bit in my seat to try and send my jeans further back up my hips… but no luck.
I did, however, get the attention of the man across the aisle, who smiled and shimmied a little in his own seat.
As my stop approached, I knew I needed to do something, or risk a major underwear flash for 3/4 of the bus. I set my purse and umbrella down on the floor (DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS ON BUS FLOORS? EW.) and transferred everything to the other hand. But just as I reached to tug, the bus lurched quite suddenly, causing me to dump some of my coffee floorward.
Into my purse.
My purse which was now on the move. Rapidly.
Screw it.
I leapt to grab my purse, flashed the entire known universe — including the Shimmy Guy and Ms. Eggplant and the Somewhat Attractive Guy With Decent Hair Three Rows Back — and then sat back and took a long, thoughtful sip of what was left of my coffee.
It’s been an awesome day thus far.
… there are things I want to write about here, but I don’t because the posts would get so long and rambly that no one would finish them.
I wish I could master brevity.
But I guess, at this time of night, it all comes down to one thing, anyway:
I’m awfully tired of being sick and working to get well.
hair like Mount Sinai
snake oil, prayer cloth, hand on screen
bit Haggard, are we?
looking for web love
blurry shot cropped at the chin
recent parolee.
bald-headed pop star
oh, not girl, not yet woman
you can have my toque.
It could be said that I can be a little serious at times.
In fact, it should be said that I can be a little serious at times.
And when I say a little serious, what I mean is really serious and when I say at times? I mean often.
Not in the sense that I don’t laugh or smile, mind you. It’s hard to miss that I’m a complete goofyass.
I just tend to get all fierce and impassioned about things while everyone else is going, “Um?” Which leads to the impression that I’m insane.
I’m fine with it, though.
I get fired up about things. It’s just how I am. I feel stuff strongly, and I’m not really planning to change that. Unless I am arrested, and then I will stop until bail is posted.
I could probably stand to feel a little less impassioned about coffee, but that’s like asking two year-olds to give up on Elmo or teenage girls to stop going on and on about boyish television stars with three names (everyone from Mark-Paul Gosselaar — ZACH! — to Chad Michael Murphy) or easy listening radio stations to stop playing Elton John or Rod Stewart.
Not going to happen.
But fortunately, in the midst of getting fired up about politics and social justice and human rights and gender studies (I know, I know… it’s my damn degree that started it, and I can’t seem to stop flailing about), I manage to reserve some of my eye-popping intensity and unabashed love and hand-talking for… other stuff.
Other stuff which may or may not be embarrassing.
Other stuff which may or may not cause people to point their fingers and laugh.
Other stuff which you may scoff at.
And that’s okay. Because we’ve all got weird things we get excited about, and I’m pretty certain that I don’t have the weirdest interests out there.
In fact, my obsessions are probably fairly pedestrian, since none of them requires a secret room in my home or a fake eBay account or regular vaccinations.
But let’s get on with it. It’s time to share the things that make me vibrate with joy on a daily basis…
He is still white and fresh after 16 months, thanks to a Mr. Clean Magic Sponge, and will only ever be replaced by a MacBook Pro, which I will be able to afford right around the time that I rob a drunken stockbroker in a club in Yaletown or sell my novel (which might take a bit, since I haven’t started it yet.) Our apartment is a blessedly wireless universe, so no matter where I sit or stand, there is always the possibility I can pop Martin open and check…
2. My email. I have a near perverse love of the email. Getting it, sending it, checking it, taking it on island getaways to sit by the pool and intertwine our MIME headers… whatever. I have in excess of twenty-seven email addresses, but I only really check three of them with any regularity. And when I say “any regularity”, I mean ALL THE TIME WHERE IS MY EMAIL CAN I SEE IT MY EMAIL THANKS. It’s not like I get that much of it, and it’s not even that all of it is fun. I just find that I feel an odd kinship with my inboxes.
My brain actually works a lot like email. It tends to amass tons of useless and random information, file it in ways that no one can really understand, and delete old (and useful thoughts) by accident in favour of really stupid items. One of these days, I will forget my name and where I live, and end up wandering the streets mumbling about special episodes of the Partridge Family. Which leads me to…
3. Really odd TV. Now, I’m not one of those Survivor people or Amazing Race people or America’s Next Top Model people or someone that gets genuinely excited when reality stars get married or have babies or go on other TV shows in which they interact with B-list movie actors and rock stars just minutes out of rehab. You will never catch me tuning in to Beauty and the Geek.
But, heaven help me, if they’re showing it on A & E, I have a really hard time not watching it. Dog the Bounty Hunter? Check. Gene Simmons Family Jewels? Check. American Justice? Check. Cold Case Files? Check. City Confidential? Check. Really, if it has an arrogant man with problematic hair or Bill Kurtis anywhere in the mix, I’m on it like Beth Chapman on a clear wedge heel.
In addition to A & E, I also tend to obsess about PBS cooking shows (NOT the Food Network, which makes me want to slap people. Bobby Flay? Rachael Ray? Ew!). Give me old Julia Child re-runs or Jacques Pepin or Ming Tsai, and I’m nearly weak in the knees. I want to make everything they’re making and feed the world with love. Or just me. With extra butter.
4. Cleaning products. Oh, do I love the smell of really strong, toxic chemicals burning the germs from my counters and the hairs from the inside of my nose! Nothing really compares to the magic of the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser or Fantastic with Bleach or Lysol Orange Scrubbing Wipes or Comet with Bleach or CLR or Palmolive Oxy Power with Lemon and Bleach. Don’t even get me started on Tide or the oxygenated laundry stuff with the annoying man in the commercials.
I don’t use rubber gloves, I don’t use it sparingly, and I probably don’t NEED to Comet the sinks quite as often as I do (while giggling merrily), but dammit. That stuff is like crack. Well, probably if I snorted it, it would be. Right before I died.
5. Skin products that produce their own heat. Something tells me that this and the previous item are related.
Tiger Balm, Too-Faced Lip Injection, Du-Wop Lip Venom, A535, Biore Warming Cleanser, Clinique Pore Minimizer Thermal Cleanser… you name it. And then there are all the acidic products that just make you feel kind of burn-y, like my Origins Modern Friction.
I think I just need to feel things working, and heat says YES IT’S WORKING AND YOUR FACE IS MELTING! MELTING!
Love it. And no, I don’t have any weird or adverse reactions to any of this stuff. My skin is like a weird combination of Teflon and Pyrex .
6. Non-shoe shoes. Oooh, Havaianas. I have only nine pairs right now (3 of them are black) but MAN, if I’m ever rich and famous and companies want to sponsor me and send me heaps of their products, I’ll donate most of them but I AM KEEPING THE FLIP FLOPS. I blame my shoe hatred on years of working with kids or in casual offices, and also my need to be ready to run through grass or into the ocean at a moment’s notice. And finally…
7. Everything else: Peanut butter cups; pomegranates; internet research; Sephora; chocolate-brown-and-ice-blue colour schemes; Moleskine journals; french fries; singing; cucumber, lemon, grapefruit, vanilla and jasmine candles; neo-soul music; white sheets; smartass men; San Diego; Benetint; architects; hockey; Firefox; adding lemon juice to everything; Northern Ireland; Essie nailpolish; nutmeg; singer-songwriters; large, weird rings; olives; complaining about the weather in Vancouver; the ocean; sushi; edamame; Verve complilations; McSweeney’s; cleverness; breath mints; peonies; people who use scads of technical terms in conversation and actually know what they mean; Illy coffee; magazines; taking pictures of small, fat birds; babies; avoiding side hugs; apple crisp; blogging; 90’s hip hop; British men; farmer’s markets; The Weather Network.com; snow; blue cheese dip with hot wings; the smell of new books; babbling about love; the last word.
So. What gets you all in a frenzy?
Tell!
There are few things in life that confuse me more than people who believe passionately in human rights and social justice… and then show no grace to the people in their own lives.
I just don’t get it.
How can you work for the rights and freedoms of people thousands of miles away and then treat your friends/family/co-workers/random strangers around you like assholes?
The reality is that people across the world — or across town — will always seem more worthy of your effort or charity when the people in your own life disappoint you.
You can idealize their struggle because it doesn’t impact your daily existence.
And that disconnect between the personal sphere and the external world is what leads to a sort of ideological tunnel vision. Tunnel vision that taints our most noble goals with irony.
Tunnel vision that divides the world into two groups: deserving and undeserving.
I’m not against anger and frustration at the state of the world. Not even for a second.
How anyone turns on the news or flips through a paper or walks down the street without developing a raging disenchantment with so much of what goes on around us, I don’t know. I can’t say enough about how much I respect those who work to restore the rights and freedoms of marginalized people in our society.
But I also don’t know how you can desire hope for some people, and then treat the people you are mandated to care for personally… well, like shit.
Yet we fail to question this brand of emotional compartmentalization.
I can’t imagine how the world would actually change if every person made an effort to show mercy to all those they connect with in the course of a day.
Would it be hard? Yes.
Would it be reciprocated all the time? No.
Would it feel stupid a good portion of the time? You know it.
But our small scale bonds within our marriages, relationships, families, friendships, workplaces — even the way we interact with strangers on the street — are the connections and disconnections on which tribes and sects and factions and movements are built the world over.
Are you more noble because you verbally abuse your spouse, instead of making her wear a veil?
Are you more noble because you write a blog post about how much you hate someone who disagrees with you, instead of punching them in the face?
Are you more noble because you despise your father for his political beliefs or lack thereof, instead of denying him the right to have any views at all?
Are you more noble because you judge your mother for her religious convictions or lack thereof, instead of putting her in jail for what she believes?
Are you more noble because you are simply rude and thoughtless to strangers, instead of murderous?
You can justify it all you like. You can even call it “tolerance”, because you’re not hurting anyone, right? And you’re standing up for the right things!
Everyone believes that, though.
Some of the most evil people on the face of the earth believe that their anger towards others is utterly justified and right and good.
They just take those feelings one step further.
Instead of seething about someone, they blow them up.
And if that choice is where you think hate becomes a problem, think again. Where do news events and wars and criminal legacies and political dramas begin?
I think they begin with people just like us who made the wrong choices based on what they believed was right, whether yesterday or 300 years ago.
The kind of choices we face every single day.
And all it takes is one choice for everything to fall apart.
I would put forward the notion that our hope lies in consistency. That our hope lies in recognizing our personal responsibility towards the health of our society. That the only way to keep passion and conviction in our beliefs is to move forward in grace and hope and love, not misanthropy.
That we become the people we expect others to be.
And I believe this will be what keeps us committed to bringing soldiers home from war. This will be what keeps money flowing towards gifted people trying to cure diseases. This will be what will end child poverty. This will be what makes a dent in religious intolerance.
I truly believe that this is what will let you sleep at night in a world where everything happens for the wrong reasons.
Find a way to change the five feet around you, and the five hundred thousand miles beyond will come, too.
I’m not perfect. As far from it as you can get, really. I know I can be an asshole. And I don’t get this right all the time, by any stroke of the imagination.
I just want more light in my life than the one at the end of the tunnel.
