Once upon a time, there was a boy.
We talked for hours - over MSN. He loved my writing, and I would send him samples of pieces, starting with the impersonal - the ranty and the political - and eventually easing him into more personal stuff until I’d finally sent him a twenty page manuscript outlining the detailed story of a previous break-up.
Shortly thereafter, he started making out with me, and I knew we were dating.
Dating him was difficult, because I never was quite sure if we were dating or not. On our first outing, he invited me to a movie - date! But he phrased it as though he was going, and if I was free, I was welcome to join him - not date. I discovered that we were alone on said outing - date! But he made no overtures of closeness or feigned attempts to pay for my ticket - not date. He insisted I wear his jacket, afterward, when I was cold - date! But he didn’t attempt to kiss me - not date. This pattern continued until I’d fully resigned to life as a confused and incompetent heterosexual.
Finally, on our third or fourth such outing, he slapped my ass and shortly thereafter stuck his tongue down my throat. We made out a few times, and I stayed thoroughly confused. I liked him. He was a good friend. And I’d been attracted to him - or at least, I thought I had. Then again, I didn’t enjoy kissing him…and that was because he was a bad kisser.
His mouth was an unfortunate, vacuum-like device which managed to engulf my entire mouth, and nose, and render me both unable to breath and mildly nauseous. I choked, and gagged, and he seemed entirely oblivious. I feigned coyness, and the need to write a paper, and I sent him on his way. I mustered the courage to break up with him a week later.
He has, henceforth, thoroughly hated my guts.
And this story continued and repeated, unhappily, ever after, until your writer resigned herself to never having sex again, dying alone, and inevitably being eaten by her dogs.
The End.
Showing posts with label Boy Issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boy Issues. Show all posts
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Speaking of Celebrity Crushes
“Ewan McGregor? I love him.”
We were seated on the top story of a double decker bus, not red but covered in adverts, nestled into a seat at the back and overlooking Oxford street. She was my roommate, accompanied by her boyfriend, and I was her father’s old friend’s Canadian daughter. We were discussing the theatre.
“I thought you would say that you liked him, or that he‘s a good actor.” She laughed, turning to her boyfriend for affirmation of her wit. “But no, ‘I love him,’ ‘we are meant to be together.” She spoke in a deadpan, having the good grace not to attempt an imitation of my accent. I laughed along side her, feeling slightly intimidated by her quick tongue, which was an uneasy feeling I carried throughout my time abroad. Whenever I tried to join into the gentle, observant jabbing, I ended up coming off harsh or obvious. Bless her, they’d say, she’s Canadian.
Ewan McGregor, who was not Canadian, was starring in a production of Guys and Dolls. Working in London’s West End, I walked past the posters daily. The many theatres nestled into that tiny stretch of Soho attracted American stars, like Kevin Spacey, Val Kilmer, and the lesser David Schwimmer (who my spell check insists does not exist). I thought this was interesting, and it made me feel like I was part of a time and place which might someday matter, to someone, at some distant point in time, like I regard flappers today or others think of hippies and California or old New York. My current situation would pale in comparison, but it was nonetheless an exotic feeling of cultural relevance. Wheatley, Ontario, my home town of eleven-hundred, made no such worldly claims.
Adding to this feeling was my employment, which was as an usher for Mary Poppins, an up-and-coming musical, based on the novels and the Disney movie, which had premiered that year to great reviews. Eventually, the show would be exported to Broadway, where I would see it on the Tony awards and scoff at the actress playing Mary, who paled in comparison to Laura Michelle Kelly, whose voice was more angelic and overall form simply…better. The original cast was spectacular.
I had applied to all the theatres, and shudder to think of where I might have ended up. Ushers, or front-of-house staff, as we were called, were expected to sit in for a portion of the play to ‘observe the audience’ and keep an eye out for things going horribly wrong, as things will tend to do. This inevitably exposes the usher to the play itself, over and over again, eight times a week, until you find yourself knowing every word and intonation, every understudy, and picking up bits of choreography. The songs of Mary Poppins were catchy and thus repeated nonstop in my head, but the musical experience, even on its eightieth viewing, was never completely dull. Death of a Salesman, playing down the road, couldn’t make that claim on its opening night, and I wondered how the ushers there survived, and if they were all depressed, and if they were, at least, paid a better wage for their labor. Mary Poppins was truly a godsend.
The only place I’d have rather worked would be Guys and Dolls, playing at the Piccadilly.
The theatre was smaller, dingy and cramped compared to the majesty of the King Edward and all of its red carpet glory. Because Mary Poppins was new and exciting, our audience played host to a throng of celebrities, from Britney Spears to Michael Jackson and the Israeli Prime Minister, though most before and after my employment. Guys and Dolls, older than time, would not have attracted such crowds, despite the prestige of its cast and its equally rave reviews. So, the lure of the theatre was questionable at best.
Objectively, I knew, Mary Poppins offered a better working experience during my time in London, and a conveniently quintessentially British one, to boot. Guys and Dolls offered no such perks, and even as I entered the doors of the theatre, and I saw the dark, jaded eyes of the ushers there, holding their velvet rope, I didn’t doubt it for a second. Ewan McGregor was in that theatre, and thus that theatre was the best place to be.
Getting to see the production was no easy task. I worked every evening and on afternoons for matinees, and so the only available performance was a single, weekly matinee which did not happen to overlap with Mary Poppins. Also of concern was the fact that I could not afford a ticket, which could be gauged at up to fifty pounds apiece. The only solution was to line up outside at six a.m.. Each day a row of seats for that afternoon or evening’s perform was released, at a heavily discounted rate, for those who were willing to brave the fatigue and the rain. The seats were usually considered undesirable, in rows with a limited view, and I accepted this with undeterred enthusiasm - a squinted, half-formed view of Ewan McGregor was still a view of Ewan McGregor. I waited, patiently.
A fellow Canadian coworker had joined me on this journey and, as we waiting in line, for hours, we recited the entirety of Mary Poppins, in off-key tones and imitated accents. This probably annoyed those around us, but it wasn’t as if we had a choice. The musical was our white noise, never stopping in its circulation and expanding to fill any idle moment, perfectly, intractably, until we really couldn’t help but burst into song. Besides, at least one person ahead of us had cut in line - this was their punishment.
Eventually, the doors opened, and my friend and I stepped inside and acquired our tickets, which informed us that our seats were situated near the centre of the very first row. Over a lunch of chips and spotted dick, we squeaked with glee and then told ourselves, stoically, to prepare for the worst. Front row seats are often terrible, especially if the stage is too high; the view can be cut in half or completely obscured for shorter audience members, and any use of on-stage fog leads to complete oblivion in a cloudy nightmare. I wondered if Guys and Dolls would need fog, but couldn’t be sure.
After lunch, I feigned nonchalance as we made our way back to the theatre, biting the inside of my cheeks in eager anticipation.
Arriving at our seats, we found that the stage was not too high - in fact, it was unusually low, granting us the perspective of sitting, cross-legged and stooped, directly on stage. Below was the orchestra, tuning their instruments, and I gulped. Don’t be too excited, I cautioned myself, it’s only your one chance to see the love of your life, in person, two feet away from you… Eeeeeee!
***
Perhaps I should interject here and explain myself, or at least provide some clues. My admiration for the Scottish actor nearly twice my age began with the film Moulin Rouge, a film which I happened to watch at least once a day, on my laptop, while studying for exams during the previous university semester. His character in the film is, essentially, the perfect man - the only flaw being a certain puppy-dog passivity which was easily ignored in the name of good looks, a Scottish accent, and singing ability whilst standing atop an elephant.
A short while later, after the end of exams, I discovered Trainspotting, and felt a similar desire to view the film repeatedly and let its every moment seep into the deep recesses of my subconscious. Trainspotting is far more disturbing than its musical bohemian counterpart, and despite Nicole Kidman’s death from tuberculosis, I’d never considered Moulin Rouge to be anything but a happy film. Trainspotting was not a happy film, or even a not-unhappy film, but it kept me watching, again and again, caught up in its masterfully artistic folds. Ewan McGregor was not solely responsible for the beauty and intrigue of either movie, but at the same time he could not be separated out - there is no Trainspotting or Moulin Rouge without him. His ability and commitment to his roles can, and one day will, burn down a house. The man is that good.
Admiration does not equal undying love - a love that was born with the reading of The Long Way Round, which was the co-authored memoir of the actor’s journey around the world by motorcycle with a friend. Everyone I know who has read the book has come away with the same thought: Ewan McGregor is really a great guy. Down to earth, friendly, personable, without a slimy layer of smarm or sleaze. A man who loves his wife and kids. A man who challenges prejudice, sometimes, and really just likes riding his bike into the sunset. Really, truly, the perfect man. Love.
My love is laced with tragedy, for I will never be with Ewan. Even if we were to meet, which seems unlikely given our differing social circles and continents, there would be no chance of mutual attraction. Ewan has made out with some of the hottest women of our time, and he remains deeply enraptured by his wife, who in his book he calls simply ‘my Eve.’ And even if lightning would strike, and we were to meet, and he were to find my short stature and big ears oddly alluring, still the love could never be. Ewan loving me would make him into an odd, philandering, lesser man, and I could never do that to him. Alas, my wretched, wilting heart, alas.
The closest I will ever get is staring up from an audience as he exists, enveloping Sky Masterson, in a different world two feet away. And perhaps that is close enough. I swear, during a long moment staring at the crowd, he almost looked right at me.
When we galloped back to the King Edward to get ready for that evening’s show, our fellow ushers asked us about the play, about our seats, and about the performance of Ewan McGregor. “So, basically, when he was onstage, you were within spitting distance?”
“Yes.” I beamed, proudly. “Yes, I was."
We were seated on the top story of a double decker bus, not red but covered in adverts, nestled into a seat at the back and overlooking Oxford street. She was my roommate, accompanied by her boyfriend, and I was her father’s old friend’s Canadian daughter. We were discussing the theatre.
“I thought you would say that you liked him, or that he‘s a good actor.” She laughed, turning to her boyfriend for affirmation of her wit. “But no, ‘I love him,’ ‘we are meant to be together.” She spoke in a deadpan, having the good grace not to attempt an imitation of my accent. I laughed along side her, feeling slightly intimidated by her quick tongue, which was an uneasy feeling I carried throughout my time abroad. Whenever I tried to join into the gentle, observant jabbing, I ended up coming off harsh or obvious. Bless her, they’d say, she’s Canadian.
Ewan McGregor, who was not Canadian, was starring in a production of Guys and Dolls. Working in London’s West End, I walked past the posters daily. The many theatres nestled into that tiny stretch of Soho attracted American stars, like Kevin Spacey, Val Kilmer, and the lesser David Schwimmer (who my spell check insists does not exist). I thought this was interesting, and it made me feel like I was part of a time and place which might someday matter, to someone, at some distant point in time, like I regard flappers today or others think of hippies and California or old New York. My current situation would pale in comparison, but it was nonetheless an exotic feeling of cultural relevance. Wheatley, Ontario, my home town of eleven-hundred, made no such worldly claims.
Adding to this feeling was my employment, which was as an usher for Mary Poppins, an up-and-coming musical, based on the novels and the Disney movie, which had premiered that year to great reviews. Eventually, the show would be exported to Broadway, where I would see it on the Tony awards and scoff at the actress playing Mary, who paled in comparison to Laura Michelle Kelly, whose voice was more angelic and overall form simply…better. The original cast was spectacular.
I had applied to all the theatres, and shudder to think of where I might have ended up. Ushers, or front-of-house staff, as we were called, were expected to sit in for a portion of the play to ‘observe the audience’ and keep an eye out for things going horribly wrong, as things will tend to do. This inevitably exposes the usher to the play itself, over and over again, eight times a week, until you find yourself knowing every word and intonation, every understudy, and picking up bits of choreography. The songs of Mary Poppins were catchy and thus repeated nonstop in my head, but the musical experience, even on its eightieth viewing, was never completely dull. Death of a Salesman, playing down the road, couldn’t make that claim on its opening night, and I wondered how the ushers there survived, and if they were all depressed, and if they were, at least, paid a better wage for their labor. Mary Poppins was truly a godsend.
The only place I’d have rather worked would be Guys and Dolls, playing at the Piccadilly.
The theatre was smaller, dingy and cramped compared to the majesty of the King Edward and all of its red carpet glory. Because Mary Poppins was new and exciting, our audience played host to a throng of celebrities, from Britney Spears to Michael Jackson and the Israeli Prime Minister, though most before and after my employment. Guys and Dolls, older than time, would not have attracted such crowds, despite the prestige of its cast and its equally rave reviews. So, the lure of the theatre was questionable at best.
Objectively, I knew, Mary Poppins offered a better working experience during my time in London, and a conveniently quintessentially British one, to boot. Guys and Dolls offered no such perks, and even as I entered the doors of the theatre, and I saw the dark, jaded eyes of the ushers there, holding their velvet rope, I didn’t doubt it for a second. Ewan McGregor was in that theatre, and thus that theatre was the best place to be.
Getting to see the production was no easy task. I worked every evening and on afternoons for matinees, and so the only available performance was a single, weekly matinee which did not happen to overlap with Mary Poppins. Also of concern was the fact that I could not afford a ticket, which could be gauged at up to fifty pounds apiece. The only solution was to line up outside at six a.m.. Each day a row of seats for that afternoon or evening’s perform was released, at a heavily discounted rate, for those who were willing to brave the fatigue and the rain. The seats were usually considered undesirable, in rows with a limited view, and I accepted this with undeterred enthusiasm - a squinted, half-formed view of Ewan McGregor was still a view of Ewan McGregor. I waited, patiently.
A fellow Canadian coworker had joined me on this journey and, as we waiting in line, for hours, we recited the entirety of Mary Poppins, in off-key tones and imitated accents. This probably annoyed those around us, but it wasn’t as if we had a choice. The musical was our white noise, never stopping in its circulation and expanding to fill any idle moment, perfectly, intractably, until we really couldn’t help but burst into song. Besides, at least one person ahead of us had cut in line - this was their punishment.
Eventually, the doors opened, and my friend and I stepped inside and acquired our tickets, which informed us that our seats were situated near the centre of the very first row. Over a lunch of chips and spotted dick, we squeaked with glee and then told ourselves, stoically, to prepare for the worst. Front row seats are often terrible, especially if the stage is too high; the view can be cut in half or completely obscured for shorter audience members, and any use of on-stage fog leads to complete oblivion in a cloudy nightmare. I wondered if Guys and Dolls would need fog, but couldn’t be sure.
After lunch, I feigned nonchalance as we made our way back to the theatre, biting the inside of my cheeks in eager anticipation.
Arriving at our seats, we found that the stage was not too high - in fact, it was unusually low, granting us the perspective of sitting, cross-legged and stooped, directly on stage. Below was the orchestra, tuning their instruments, and I gulped. Don’t be too excited, I cautioned myself, it’s only your one chance to see the love of your life, in person, two feet away from you… Eeeeeee!
***
Perhaps I should interject here and explain myself, or at least provide some clues. My admiration for the Scottish actor nearly twice my age began with the film Moulin Rouge, a film which I happened to watch at least once a day, on my laptop, while studying for exams during the previous university semester. His character in the film is, essentially, the perfect man - the only flaw being a certain puppy-dog passivity which was easily ignored in the name of good looks, a Scottish accent, and singing ability whilst standing atop an elephant.
A short while later, after the end of exams, I discovered Trainspotting, and felt a similar desire to view the film repeatedly and let its every moment seep into the deep recesses of my subconscious. Trainspotting is far more disturbing than its musical bohemian counterpart, and despite Nicole Kidman’s death from tuberculosis, I’d never considered Moulin Rouge to be anything but a happy film. Trainspotting was not a happy film, or even a not-unhappy film, but it kept me watching, again and again, caught up in its masterfully artistic folds. Ewan McGregor was not solely responsible for the beauty and intrigue of either movie, but at the same time he could not be separated out - there is no Trainspotting or Moulin Rouge without him. His ability and commitment to his roles can, and one day will, burn down a house. The man is that good.
Admiration does not equal undying love - a love that was born with the reading of The Long Way Round, which was the co-authored memoir of the actor’s journey around the world by motorcycle with a friend. Everyone I know who has read the book has come away with the same thought: Ewan McGregor is really a great guy. Down to earth, friendly, personable, without a slimy layer of smarm or sleaze. A man who loves his wife and kids. A man who challenges prejudice, sometimes, and really just likes riding his bike into the sunset. Really, truly, the perfect man. Love.
My love is laced with tragedy, for I will never be with Ewan. Even if we were to meet, which seems unlikely given our differing social circles and continents, there would be no chance of mutual attraction. Ewan has made out with some of the hottest women of our time, and he remains deeply enraptured by his wife, who in his book he calls simply ‘my Eve.’ And even if lightning would strike, and we were to meet, and he were to find my short stature and big ears oddly alluring, still the love could never be. Ewan loving me would make him into an odd, philandering, lesser man, and I could never do that to him. Alas, my wretched, wilting heart, alas.
The closest I will ever get is staring up from an audience as he exists, enveloping Sky Masterson, in a different world two feet away. And perhaps that is close enough. I swear, during a long moment staring at the crowd, he almost looked right at me.
When we galloped back to the King Edward to get ready for that evening’s show, our fellow ushers asked us about the play, about our seats, and about the performance of Ewan McGregor. “So, basically, when he was onstage, you were within spitting distance?”
“Yes.” I beamed, proudly. “Yes, I was."
Goodbye, Jeffrey Dean Morgan
Last night, a new coworker shat all over my dream of going to Ireland to seek out and acquire a husband.
“They're all so conservative,” she stated and now, knowing her heritage, I could catch the Belfastian lilting drawl. She mentioned how everyone, inevitably, knew of each others families, and she mentioned the pervading and everyday influence of the Church.
I sighed, the sigh one sighs when their dreams are shattered into bits and pieces so small that it’s hard to say if they ever really existed. Of course the Catholic church, or god forbid the Protestant church, is a domineering and suppressive entity in the lives of Irish citizens. Of course that translates into a great deal of social conservatism. Of course that a nation composed of very old, small towns results in a national mentality which somewhat resembles an old, small town. The evidence seemed damning.
And the fact that I didn’t know if I would marry at all seemed perfectly clear, in the way that one experiences gravity, or the eventual implosion of the sun. I was comfortable alone, and made life plans based on the eventuality of always being alone. I would be a single mother, and a single foster mother. I would breed puppies in a country home. I would write novels under a pseudonym which the New York Times would think were charming, insightful, and endlessly witty. And if perchance some blunt and especially stupid soul should wonder at my wizened, contented, perpetual singledom, and ask why I never married, the answer that awaited them would be obvious and ready: Well, my dear, I simply never possessed the inclination.
And sometimes, my dear, that is true. And occasionally I melt under the wistful drawl of a foreigner from the Emerald Isle from which I acquired my redundantly patriotic name. My father’s heritage is that of a proud Irish Catholic, diluted through years of United States since the age of the potato famine. He would proudly tell of beatings by nuns, a formative experience tying him to generations past in the old country, of which my brother and I sadly missed out. My mother’s heritage is one of more recent immigration - never has a woman from my maternal line married a Canadian, as far back as I care to tell. My mother’s father was Scottish, my mother’s mother’s father was Irish Protestant, and though I never met my great grandfather, she speaks of him fondly.
“He was Irish,” She’ll say, in a tone meant to dismiss my father’s so-called Irish heritage, which she sees as sullied by so many generations of habitation in a mere colony. There is also a hint of nostalgia, of distant longing for a man with a moor and an accent.
And when I imagined a husband, in the quiet recesses of imagination where I allowed myself to think of such things, he had an accent, and a rich cultural heritage, and that heritage may or may not have involved potatoes and cabbage. Sometimes, I think he’d ideally be Indian. The reasons for this are mostly genetic, and for the sake of my (inevitably gorgeous) future children, and sometimes the reasons are purely due to hunger - I savor the possibility of a mother-in-law with a tandoori oven where she would bake me naan. Indian men themselves are a somewhat attractive means to such ends, but Irish men, I admit, are an end unto themselves.
So, goodbye, Liam, and goodbye, Connor, and goodbye, strapping but hairy Finn. I will miss you, and your beer belch, and your stereotypical manly ways, and I’ll settle now into a dreamt future where you can’t exist, and maybe never did.
“They're all so conservative,” she stated and now, knowing her heritage, I could catch the Belfastian lilting drawl. She mentioned how everyone, inevitably, knew of each others families, and she mentioned the pervading and everyday influence of the Church.
I sighed, the sigh one sighs when their dreams are shattered into bits and pieces so small that it’s hard to say if they ever really existed. Of course the Catholic church, or god forbid the Protestant church, is a domineering and suppressive entity in the lives of Irish citizens. Of course that translates into a great deal of social conservatism. Of course that a nation composed of very old, small towns results in a national mentality which somewhat resembles an old, small town. The evidence seemed damning.
And the fact that I didn’t know if I would marry at all seemed perfectly clear, in the way that one experiences gravity, or the eventual implosion of the sun. I was comfortable alone, and made life plans based on the eventuality of always being alone. I would be a single mother, and a single foster mother. I would breed puppies in a country home. I would write novels under a pseudonym which the New York Times would think were charming, insightful, and endlessly witty. And if perchance some blunt and especially stupid soul should wonder at my wizened, contented, perpetual singledom, and ask why I never married, the answer that awaited them would be obvious and ready: Well, my dear, I simply never possessed the inclination.
And sometimes, my dear, that is true. And occasionally I melt under the wistful drawl of a foreigner from the Emerald Isle from which I acquired my redundantly patriotic name. My father’s heritage is that of a proud Irish Catholic, diluted through years of United States since the age of the potato famine. He would proudly tell of beatings by nuns, a formative experience tying him to generations past in the old country, of which my brother and I sadly missed out. My mother’s heritage is one of more recent immigration - never has a woman from my maternal line married a Canadian, as far back as I care to tell. My mother’s father was Scottish, my mother’s mother’s father was Irish Protestant, and though I never met my great grandfather, she speaks of him fondly.
“He was Irish,” She’ll say, in a tone meant to dismiss my father’s so-called Irish heritage, which she sees as sullied by so many generations of habitation in a mere colony. There is also a hint of nostalgia, of distant longing for a man with a moor and an accent.
And when I imagined a husband, in the quiet recesses of imagination where I allowed myself to think of such things, he had an accent, and a rich cultural heritage, and that heritage may or may not have involved potatoes and cabbage. Sometimes, I think he’d ideally be Indian. The reasons for this are mostly genetic, and for the sake of my (inevitably gorgeous) future children, and sometimes the reasons are purely due to hunger - I savor the possibility of a mother-in-law with a tandoori oven where she would bake me naan. Indian men themselves are a somewhat attractive means to such ends, but Irish men, I admit, are an end unto themselves.
So, goodbye, Liam, and goodbye, Connor, and goodbye, strapping but hairy Finn. I will miss you, and your beer belch, and your stereotypical manly ways, and I’ll settle now into a dreamt future where you can’t exist, and maybe never did.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Amazing!
Today, I unexpectedly stumbled upon a diary entry from almost three years ago - written as part of a failed plan to write daily and promote inner peace. It is, in my humble and self-deprecating opinion, the Best Thing Ever. Seriously. It oozes with angst, and then languishes in a cesspool of its own spittley rage. It is amazing...I present it here in its unedited, unabridged glory. You may disagree, invisible audience, and that is your right...however, doing so would make you a big Stupidhead. (Those pressed for time may skip to the last paragraph, which is especially awesome: "I remember living in a time when sexual favours were good for three, maybe four days of polite small talk...because God forbid I get something out of my sexual encounters besides urinary tract infections and pregnancy scares.") I rest my case.
***
I have come to a conclusion today which really, I’m surprised I didn’t reach a very long time ago. And that is this: I am crazy. Totally bat-shit. Breadbasket, if you will. Losing touch with reality. Suffering from a nervous collapse. Experiencing a culmination of mental illness. Crazy. I’ve discussed suicide at least once, burst in to tears about five times, and now I think I’ve reached a point where I’m okay with my self diagnosis. Well, not ‘okay,’ as that implies a degree of health or wellbeing, which I certainly lack. But, accepting. So I’m crazy. So I react to things in ways that normal human beings completely shouldn’t, and should probably be medicated. So I may never have normal interpersonal relationships or be able to live independently…assuming they let me live outside of a group home at some point before I turn 80. At which point I’ll be locked up anyways, because by then I’ll be old and have dementia or Alzheimer’s, probably. It’s this sort of optimism which is a strong indicator that I am suffering from mental illness. That and I’ve had a very crappy day, and when I have crappy days I assume that everyone in the world hates me and then systematically collect evidence to prove that everyone in the world hates me, because that’s a constructive use of my time. And also, I know that in reality my day wasn’t even that bad, but the fact that I also feel that it was so craptacular that my whole world and sense of self is collapsing, despite probably insurmountable evidence to the contrary which I can’t even perceive because I’m so crazy, is a freaking lot of evidence that…I’m crazy.
***
I have come to a conclusion today which really, I’m surprised I didn’t reach a very long time ago. And that is this: I am crazy. Totally bat-shit. Breadbasket, if you will. Losing touch with reality. Suffering from a nervous collapse. Experiencing a culmination of mental illness. Crazy. I’ve discussed suicide at least once, burst in to tears about five times, and now I think I’ve reached a point where I’m okay with my self diagnosis. Well, not ‘okay,’ as that implies a degree of health or wellbeing, which I certainly lack. But, accepting. So I’m crazy. So I react to things in ways that normal human beings completely shouldn’t, and should probably be medicated. So I may never have normal interpersonal relationships or be able to live independently…assuming they let me live outside of a group home at some point before I turn 80. At which point I’ll be locked up anyways, because by then I’ll be old and have dementia or Alzheimer’s, probably. It’s this sort of optimism which is a strong indicator that I am suffering from mental illness. That and I’ve had a very crappy day, and when I have crappy days I assume that everyone in the world hates me and then systematically collect evidence to prove that everyone in the world hates me, because that’s a constructive use of my time. And also, I know that in reality my day wasn’t even that bad, but the fact that I also feel that it was so craptacular that my whole world and sense of self is collapsing, despite probably insurmountable evidence to the contrary which I can’t even perceive because I’m so crazy, is a freaking lot of evidence that…I’m crazy.
So, what happened, you, nonexistent audience who I’ve created to take the form of an empathetic listener because I’m the saddest person in the world, ask? Well, I will tell you. I suppose the repeated crying episodes all began when I spoke to the Canadian Student Loan Service Centre lady on the phone. She was rude. And also, she had a French-Canadian accent, so even if she wasn’t trying to be rude, she sounded rude. It took me a good two hours of searching on the stupid hardest-to-use-website-in-the-world to find the right number to call, and when I called, she was rude. And then she referred me to the stupid Canlearn website, which I can’t log onto, because I don’t have an valid account number. Even though I have an account. And I was told that Ontario student loans and Canadian student loans don’t speak to each other, so even though I updated my address with one, it didn’t update on the other, so a loan document was sent to my old address, where my aunt decided NOT to forward me my important government loan documents, or return them to sender, but instead just kept them. Which meant the student service centre had no idea I didn’t receive them, and refuses to believe I didn’t receive them, so started taking payments out of my account. Without informing me. And now I have to send them documents and check for outstanding interest which has accrued on my loan during the two month period it’s taken for all this to occur, even though I have irrefutable evidence that I’ve been a student, and therefore interest free, that entire time. And then I went back to the OSAP website and it put at 24 hour lock on my account and I have no idea if it was the French lady or just my stupid computer but it was very upsetting. And even though the $170 dollars which has already been taken out of my account, and the maybe $75 more dollars that I’ll have to pay in interest is not that big deal at all, it’s still was apparently the worst thing ever to happen to anyone ever, so of course it ruined my whole day. Which was gorgeous and sunny outside and everything. And I was so upset I didn’t even want to call my mom to talk about it because I didn’t want to cry to her on the phone. I contemplated calling my aunt to yell, but I didn’t want to appear crazy, because why appear crazy to others instead of just letting the crazy fester on the inside. So instead I took a shower, cried in the shower, got faint because I’m completely neurotic and am apparently supposed to take to my bed every time an overworked underpaid government employee isn’t entirely courteous to me on the phone. And finally I got dressed and did some chores, including buying text books, because if you’ve just lost a lot of money to the government, spending $200 on inflated textbooks for university courses which will systematically sap your spirit over the next four to eight months should really lighten things up. And now I won’t leave my room because I don’t want other people to see me cry, which I am doing, repeatedly, even though I’m watching a comedy. On my computer, because my fucking bitch of a roommate is in the next room and I don’t want to run into her in the commons area. I said hi to her this morning and she just stared at me and went into her room. Or maybe it was last night. Really, I don’t care. Except I completely do. What is her PROBLEM? Seriously. What? Gah.
Oh, and my not-boyfriend totally blew me off on MSN this afternoon when I really really needed some human contact. I said hi, he said ‘Hi!!!’ and then stopped talking to me. For two hours. Which, okay, he was setting up his new computer. But then he said about three words and then just stopped talking, again, except permanently this time. Which sucked. I gave him sex. Twice. Like, 36 hours ago. 48, tops. I remember living in a time when sexual favors were good for 3, maybe 4 days of polite small talk. He didn’t even make me breakfast. And I totally need to get something from his office, but I won’t ask him to open it for me. Because god forbid I get something out of my sexual encounters besides urinary tract infections and pregnancy scares.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Boys and Friends
This week has hosted a lovely string of meetings with friends - over coffee, and omelets, and delicious, sinful, organic pie. There has been chitchat and banter, and glee over each other’s respective successes at life. There has been admiring of each other’s coats and purses, before I inquire after their men, and they inquire after my dogs. And we part ways with a hug and a smile and a lovely to see you…because you see, we are girls, and this is what girls do.
Boys, I guess, are harder. But…they’re not, really. When I think of why the majority of my close friends are female, and the ratio of guys to girl is 1:10 at best, I inevitably wonder how it ended up that way. Because I do like hanging out with guys, and getting to know guys, and generally being around friends of the male persuasion. And sure, I have boy angst in my background, and my male-relative-childhood angst is palpable, but I don’t think that’s the issue here. I think the issue may come down to something much, much simpler.
I am, mentally and socially, the age of seven.
Seven was a good year - don’t get me wrong. I rocked the second grade. There was some solid story time, and hanging out on my bff Samantha’s farm (her family owned goats!). We were cute enough to get away with murder, but our short attention spans and boundless energy meant that life was a string of OMG! A Cloud that LOOKS like a Bunny! Did you SEE that? What? Let’s go ride bikes!
As every good seven year old knows, boys (or girls, respectively) are icky. It’s not that they’ve especially done anything wrong…but the boys aren’t like you, and thus are worthy of collective distain. You are a girl. You play with other girls, while the boys play with boys, and the two social groups seem to ignore each other, entirely, until you have a snow-wedding where you are married to an unfortunate looking boy with the last name Snell.
As this analysis is all very stereotyped, let us not forget the burgeoning gay and lesbian children, lost and wandering between the groups without a sense of belonging, and the lone smelly kid, who no one played with at all. But for the most part, I believe my seven-year-old self was typical - I clung to my small group of same-sex friends and didn’t think anything of it.
Later on, puberty happened, and guy friends happened, and first relationships happened. Sex happened. University happened. And then there was a lot of beer, which blurs things a little, but, along the way, almost all of the friendships I grew and maintained were with girls. When boys (now technically men) came into my life, the scenario always seemed the same: someone would inevitably end up liking someone else who didn’t like them back, and then someone always ended up heartbroken, or rejected, and it was awkward, and Ivy ended up without male friends, again.
There were, and are, exceptions - notably, guys in long term relationships, distant cousins, and gay men, circling the periphery of my life and being lovely in their non-girly ways. I like that. I like hanging out with guys, and mixed company, and kicking back with a beer and a terrible local hockey team (bandwagon supporters in tow). Just don’t ask me too many questions about sports, and we’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t ask me to play cards, I can’t do that. Or pool…oooh, especially not pool. Anything with hand-eye coordination, really. What am I into? Umm…well…knitting? I have a lemon tree named Cecil, and some puppies….no? …I don’t belong here?
Whatever, guys, I don’t need you anyways. I have my female friends, and I have my brain tumor, Steve, and my crippling loneliness, and we’re just fine without you, thanks. As long as my life doesn’t turn into a Sex and the City episode, I’m okay with hanging out with my girlfriends over coffee any day.
Also:
Dear Vengeful God, please don’t let me turn into anything resembling Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. Please, please, please…I hate her horse-faced show, her ugly hats, and her one-dimensional consumer friends so very, very much. Thank you, God. You rock. Amen.
Boys, I guess, are harder. But…they’re not, really. When I think of why the majority of my close friends are female, and the ratio of guys to girl is 1:10 at best, I inevitably wonder how it ended up that way. Because I do like hanging out with guys, and getting to know guys, and generally being around friends of the male persuasion. And sure, I have boy angst in my background, and my male-relative-childhood angst is palpable, but I don’t think that’s the issue here. I think the issue may come down to something much, much simpler.
I am, mentally and socially, the age of seven.
Seven was a good year - don’t get me wrong. I rocked the second grade. There was some solid story time, and hanging out on my bff Samantha’s farm (her family owned goats!). We were cute enough to get away with murder, but our short attention spans and boundless energy meant that life was a string of OMG! A Cloud that LOOKS like a Bunny! Did you SEE that? What? Let’s go ride bikes!
As every good seven year old knows, boys (or girls, respectively) are icky. It’s not that they’ve especially done anything wrong…but the boys aren’t like you, and thus are worthy of collective distain. You are a girl. You play with other girls, while the boys play with boys, and the two social groups seem to ignore each other, entirely, until you have a snow-wedding where you are married to an unfortunate looking boy with the last name Snell.
As this analysis is all very stereotyped, let us not forget the burgeoning gay and lesbian children, lost and wandering between the groups without a sense of belonging, and the lone smelly kid, who no one played with at all. But for the most part, I believe my seven-year-old self was typical - I clung to my small group of same-sex friends and didn’t think anything of it.
Later on, puberty happened, and guy friends happened, and first relationships happened. Sex happened. University happened. And then there was a lot of beer, which blurs things a little, but, along the way, almost all of the friendships I grew and maintained were with girls. When boys (now technically men) came into my life, the scenario always seemed the same: someone would inevitably end up liking someone else who didn’t like them back, and then someone always ended up heartbroken, or rejected, and it was awkward, and Ivy ended up without male friends, again.
There were, and are, exceptions - notably, guys in long term relationships, distant cousins, and gay men, circling the periphery of my life and being lovely in their non-girly ways. I like that. I like hanging out with guys, and mixed company, and kicking back with a beer and a terrible local hockey team (bandwagon supporters in tow). Just don’t ask me too many questions about sports, and we’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t ask me to play cards, I can’t do that. Or pool…oooh, especially not pool. Anything with hand-eye coordination, really. What am I into? Umm…well…knitting? I have a lemon tree named Cecil, and some puppies….no? …I don’t belong here?
Whatever, guys, I don’t need you anyways. I have my female friends, and I have my brain tumor, Steve, and my crippling loneliness, and we’re just fine without you, thanks. As long as my life doesn’t turn into a Sex and the City episode, I’m okay with hanging out with my girlfriends over coffee any day.
Also:
Dear Vengeful God, please don’t let me turn into anything resembling Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. Please, please, please…I hate her horse-faced show, her ugly hats, and her one-dimensional consumer friends so very, very much. Thank you, God. You rock. Amen.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Things Born of Bicycles
I recently bought a bike and...my bike, she is a pretty bike.
Truth be told, I don't think I've ever owned a nice bike before. I've had okay bikes bought from the hardware store that I loved to pieces and rode to death, but never anything worth bragging about. This bike is worth bragging about, and exclaiming over, and generally showing off to the world. She is European, and has a bell, and a dutch lock and built in lights, and...well...none of those features do her true justice, because they don't capture her quintessential quality which is...Pretty.
I live in a city, and work in the sketchy part of said city, so any bike in my possession would likely have an inevitable life span due to rampant theft. This bike, however, I fear is not long for this world. She isn't worth thousands upon thousands of dollars, she was actually reasonably priced and on sale...but...pretty. The bike thieves will snatch her up the second I leave her unattended, I'm sure.
So a bike lock seemed more like a ceremonial gesture than a true theft preventative, but I was willing to do the song and dance if it bought me a little while longer to play out my European fantasies on my beautiful new bike. I could buy bread and wine and go to the beach and...see? It's a priceless fantasy. A solid looking lock might protect it, at least for a little while.
I was also in need of a bike helmet. I am not a fan of helmets, at all. As I child on route to the nearest gas station convenience store, I would abandon my helmet in a ditch a block away from my house, bike down a busy highway full of transport trucks, and then pick up my helmet on the way home because...well, I guess I wasn't the brightest of children. But also, because I do not like helmets. They mess up the hair, they irritate the neck, and just...no. It's not that I want to be brain damaged, because that does not sound fun. It's just that if I do get into a serious accident, I'd rather not have only my brain protected and everything else smooshed, because having an already depressed mind trapped inside a useless body, drinking out of a straw, and communicating through blinks to resentful family members while I slowly die of an untended bed sore....also not fun.
I happened to be talking to my little sister on route to the bike shop and, while I expected a lecture, she enthusiastically applauded my anti-helmet stance. And at first I was thrilled and validated but then, I felt the sour pangs of elder guilt, and I worried: am I being a bad influence? What would my little sister do if I was killed....or what would I do if she was killed? Such deep routed fears are best dealt with through retail gesturing, so I promised to buy a good helmet if she would, too. I had to wear it, she noted wryly, and I responded in kind. We both sighed and agreed, and I found myself stuck. I now needed both a helmet and lock, though I really didn't see the use in either. The bike shop loomed in the distance and I rolled my eyes, then dutifully stepped inside.
The fog engulfing the city, at that moment, lifted. The clouds parted, a single light shone down from the heavens, while underneath the din of rush hour traffic, a chorus of angels in perfect harmony began to sing. The words were celestial in the tongue of the gods, but their message was clear:
"Can I help you find anything?"
"No, I'm okay." I stammered, then smiled. "I'm just browsing, I mean. I need a lock?"
The man...he was pretty. He smiled back at me as I compared brand names, and the smile, it was pretty, too. Truth be told, he could have been the spitting image of my grandmother and I wouldn't have cared, because he possessed An Accent. Donegal women are particularly vulnerable to the charms of accented men, and I am no exception. Was he from New Zealand, or was it well-spoken Australian, or colloquial English? I don't care. He slurred his words, pronounced no 'R's, and I was smitten.
I'm not one for crushes, and I rarely flirt. I'm shy, I guess, and inevitably awkward. It's easier with liquor and, for me, the perfect accent is the equivalent of three tequila shots. I asked for his bike lock expertise. When he mentioned he was a bike mechanic...swoon. I don't know why, actually, I didn't think I would find that sexy...but there you go.
The pretty, accented bike mechanic sold me a bike lock. We will see how long it lasts. And then he sold me a helmet, and we'll see how much I wear it. But at the till, he smiled, and he gave me a discount- "Wait, stupid computer, I was going for an even hundred but it won't...."
...Aw, you're awkward, too. I think I love you, Bike Boy.
Truth be told, I don't think I've ever owned a nice bike before. I've had okay bikes bought from the hardware store that I loved to pieces and rode to death, but never anything worth bragging about. This bike is worth bragging about, and exclaiming over, and generally showing off to the world. She is European, and has a bell, and a dutch lock and built in lights, and...well...none of those features do her true justice, because they don't capture her quintessential quality which is...Pretty.
I live in a city, and work in the sketchy part of said city, so any bike in my possession would likely have an inevitable life span due to rampant theft. This bike, however, I fear is not long for this world. She isn't worth thousands upon thousands of dollars, she was actually reasonably priced and on sale...but...pretty. The bike thieves will snatch her up the second I leave her unattended, I'm sure.
So a bike lock seemed more like a ceremonial gesture than a true theft preventative, but I was willing to do the song and dance if it bought me a little while longer to play out my European fantasies on my beautiful new bike. I could buy bread and wine and go to the beach and...see? It's a priceless fantasy. A solid looking lock might protect it, at least for a little while.
I was also in need of a bike helmet. I am not a fan of helmets, at all. As I child on route to the nearest gas station convenience store, I would abandon my helmet in a ditch a block away from my house, bike down a busy highway full of transport trucks, and then pick up my helmet on the way home because...well, I guess I wasn't the brightest of children. But also, because I do not like helmets. They mess up the hair, they irritate the neck, and just...no. It's not that I want to be brain damaged, because that does not sound fun. It's just that if I do get into a serious accident, I'd rather not have only my brain protected and everything else smooshed, because having an already depressed mind trapped inside a useless body, drinking out of a straw, and communicating through blinks to resentful family members while I slowly die of an untended bed sore....also not fun.
I happened to be talking to my little sister on route to the bike shop and, while I expected a lecture, she enthusiastically applauded my anti-helmet stance. And at first I was thrilled and validated but then, I felt the sour pangs of elder guilt, and I worried: am I being a bad influence? What would my little sister do if I was killed....or what would I do if she was killed? Such deep routed fears are best dealt with through retail gesturing, so I promised to buy a good helmet if she would, too. I had to wear it, she noted wryly, and I responded in kind. We both sighed and agreed, and I found myself stuck. I now needed both a helmet and lock, though I really didn't see the use in either. The bike shop loomed in the distance and I rolled my eyes, then dutifully stepped inside.
The fog engulfing the city, at that moment, lifted. The clouds parted, a single light shone down from the heavens, while underneath the din of rush hour traffic, a chorus of angels in perfect harmony began to sing. The words were celestial in the tongue of the gods, but their message was clear:
"Can I help you find anything?"
"No, I'm okay." I stammered, then smiled. "I'm just browsing, I mean. I need a lock?"
The man...he was pretty. He smiled back at me as I compared brand names, and the smile, it was pretty, too. Truth be told, he could have been the spitting image of my grandmother and I wouldn't have cared, because he possessed An Accent. Donegal women are particularly vulnerable to the charms of accented men, and I am no exception. Was he from New Zealand, or was it well-spoken Australian, or colloquial English? I don't care. He slurred his words, pronounced no 'R's, and I was smitten.
I'm not one for crushes, and I rarely flirt. I'm shy, I guess, and inevitably awkward. It's easier with liquor and, for me, the perfect accent is the equivalent of three tequila shots. I asked for his bike lock expertise. When he mentioned he was a bike mechanic...swoon. I don't know why, actually, I didn't think I would find that sexy...but there you go.
The pretty, accented bike mechanic sold me a bike lock. We will see how long it lasts. And then he sold me a helmet, and we'll see how much I wear it. But at the till, he smiled, and he gave me a discount- "Wait, stupid computer, I was going for an even hundred but it won't...."
...Aw, you're awkward, too. I think I love you, Bike Boy.
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