Good Night Darling...

Mark and I had been living together for over a year. During that period, we had adopted a cat. Although adorable, she was a bit of a challenge. Life had made her a complete nervous wreck. Swift movements and great guttural laughs were a thing of the past in our home. All our efforts were focused on making her feel safe.

One night while we were all sound asleep; Mark had one of his typical nightmares. They use to scare me to no end when we first met. In the dead of the night, Mark would start screaming in that quivery spectrum of sounds made by someone attempting to scream yet only managing to make horrible creepy sounds. He would also reach out for something that he alone could see coming to him, making him look like a walking dead from the 1950’s zombie movies. The worst for me were the eyes. He would look at this coming danger eyes wide open in terror. I would, in turn, scream with perfect pitch while sitting bolt upright in bed wondering what the matter was while contributing my fair share of confusion. Most nights, Mark would not even wake up, other times; when he did, he would clearly show annoyance at my hysteria, he hated these nightmares of mine which woke him up. Either way, the night was over for me.

On that particular night, prior to Mark’s nightmare, we were a happy sleeping family like many others. Mark was to my right, by the window and my cat was curled up by my left shoulder. Then it all began. Mark had one of his sudden nightmares. I produced one of my perfect pitch screams, but this time, it was followed by such horrible pains that my screams morphed into hysterical laughers. Mark suddenly woke up and started screaming in hope of shutting me up; after all, we did have neighbors, to no avail. No amount of shaking or poking would calm me down. In order to shed some light on the situation, Mark got up and switched the light on. What he saw was pure carnage. There was blood everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the bed, Mark and more importantly my face were covered in blood. I was disfigured. At first sight, I had been in a fistfight with a razor blade and did poorly. My nose had been slashed open down to the bone from the nostril to the eye; I had gashes all over my face and neither one of us could figure out what could have happened. Mark tossed me a towel; the bright white one of course, put a pair of jeans on and took me to the hospital. By then all the neighbors were awake, watching the scene assuming family discord. At the hospital, we still could not provide an explanation as to what might have taken place, making it highly suspicious. Poor Mark, on that night he lost his virtual good boyfriend gold star in the eyes of onlookers. By the time they finished the last stitch of my new facial railway tracks, we were free to go home.

As we walked in, the scene seemed more ghastly still than it had appeared an hour earlier. The sheets had been tossed aside, the blood on the walls looked like arterial gusts and paw prints were all over the window. The cat? The cat! Oh goodness gracious, the cat! It turned out that when Mark had his nightmare the cat jumped in panic, landing on my face, struggling to get a good grip to bounce off the bed.

Nowadays Mark does not get that many nightmares anymore. It may have something to do with the cat relocating her sleeping grounds nearby his shoulder. Either way, we sleep much better than we used to.

Clean Slate

I have not spoken much lately. I have kept most everything bottled up inside for fear of dulling the pain I feel. My mother gently let go of life at Christmas, quietly, without warning, without bothering anyone. Even though I had often wished I was ride of her, it had never occurred to me that one day, she would actually be dead. I just wanted to escape her ascendancy over me. And now, I have no one to fight. Fighting was the luxury of the livings. My destiny is now mine to live, except perhaps for the fact that this is also utopia. We are linked now, stronger than ever, and I’m surprisingly fine with it. I wish she had a better life, I wish I could have done more for her; I wish I was a better daughter. But she was my mom, she came first, she was the example, the teacher; she thought us life, love, character, but she desperately lacked intrinsic knowledge of these matters. She guessed. We learnt what we could out if it. I have gotten to know her more in death than I did in life. We were unexpectedly very similar. We missed our shot. We made a mess of it all. In spite of life’s curveballs, my mother leaves behind a legacy through her children, and she deserves for her children to be inconvenienced by pain for a little while, as I am sure, it will dull on its own fast enough.

The Language

It is interesting to listen to English speaking people talk about the French language. In their mind there are different types of French; amongst others, the proper French and the French-Canadian. It hardly ever occurs to people that indeed accents, colloquialisms, or education may play an important part in clarity or delivery of any language and that ultimately, it is but one language: French. Anyone who speaks French will understand a French speaking person. Sometimes there is struggle, but it is no different than a Canadian guy trying to understand a Welsh or a New-Zealand guy. Yet, it would never occur to most Anglo Saxons to split the language into the proper, the American or the Canadian. In people’s mind, it is the same language. Somehow, they seem to believe that if they were to learn French-Canadian French, they would never be able to understand or be understood by French from France. Little do they know that generally their English accent is so strong that either way, nobody can understand them.

Facebook

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sadly enough, it is true. Recently I became an active member of Facebook. It happened after a childhood friend contacted me. At first I was quite put off, she was after all a bully. What made me reconsider accepting her as a friend was her comment that she had such wonderful memories of me. It took me a while to realize that although she was indeed a bully, I never was her victim. I was also quite curious to find out what these - wonderful memories - could be since I had so very little myself. Almost right away, a flood of old high school buddies started to appear, people who had apparently been looking for me while I was pointlessly in hiding. High school years were good to me and I remember them quite fondly. Once I opened the gates, it was only a matter of time before others showed up.

I reconnected with the girls I used to hang out with, those same girls I had spent countless of hours with, dreaming of the ways we would change the world. Some stayed put, some others moved away, some got married, divorced, some had great career, but none of them had children. What more might we all have had unknowingly in common? I wonder. Although almost thirty years had passed, they all looked more beautiful than ever. The years had not taken its toll of them. However, the same was not true for the guys we used to hang out with. I could hardly recognize any of them. We had countless of times fought against the terrible prejudices that awaited us, future women of the world, but we had never realized how much pressure there was on boys to succeed, to provide, to make things happen, and not all of them had the ability to do so. It was sadly obvious.

I also reconnected with old flames, dear friends, endearing acquaintances, previous neighbors, old colleagues. At first, everybody’s life looked amazing, fulfilling. Gosh, I felt like a looser. How was it that I had done so very little? That is, until I realized that people put up a good front. Their lives were just as ordinary as any other. They put their best pictures up, their best smiles, and hope to convince themselves even more than others.

Some old friends quickly became precious friends again. Some others took the opportunity to use a faraway sounding board to share strenuous details of their lives with someone they had no risk of inadvertently encountering on the streets. Others, the castoffs of those years, those who invested much of their time into successful careers, in an attempt to prove to the world that even then they were worth it, are now investing themselves into fantasies where the past is being avenged by an imaginary present, yet stumbling still on the same rejections.

It is an interesting tool, to observe human behavior certainly, but also to compare, to appreciate the distance traveled. It helped me realize that once upon a time I was amazing, and I lost sight of it during my college years which were in retrospect, truly the worst ones of my life. Even though at first my life felt rather pale in comparison, it turns out that it’s not that bad at all. And as they say, I’m not dead yet, am I.

Mr. Rabbit

I have been looking at all these old pictures for almost three weeks now. Actually, I have mainly been looking at the young girl I was. She holds such mystery to me. I even asked my father to send me all the pictures he had of me before the age of twenty. Childhood pictures are quite a rare commodity in my household. Although I am sure we must have taken as many as any other families, a bitter divorce and later on the flooding of our basement, where the photo albums were kept, impoverished the collection even further. The pictures, I was told, glued together face to face, forever hiding their content. Only those that were secured away prior to any of these events remained accessible.

My father sent me two dozen pictures, half of which I had never seen before or at least, not in a very long time. The memory of these days was still very vivid, except perhaps for the fact that I had not thought of them since they happened. However, the impact of those days on my life lives on, sometimes rather clearly, other times more subtly. These were the formative years. They contributed in shaping me into the person I became.

My father’s pictures, added to the ones I already had, provided a good sampling of my early years. Once they were all scanned and arranged by date, a few patterns started emerging. The first one: there are no family pictures. There are pictures of individuals or pairs, only twice is the entire family gathered in the same frame, each times I am under the age of four, and both times my mother is distancing herself from us. Several pictures were taken during the same family gathering. I was obviously young and obliging enough to be passed around from hands to hands, since I am being held by a different person in every frame. Everybody is holding me at some point, except for my mother. Even though she often appears in the pictures, she systematically looks away from me. She would be standing between her two children, turned away towards my brother.

Another noticeable aspect is the fact that nobody ever smiles. Until I am about four years old, I am obviously out of place as I smile from ear to ear without restrain. Afterward, I just look sad; there is no hint that attempts were ever made, except once or twice and it looks rather more like a forced grimace. My face starts lighting up again late in my teens and the pictures then, are never in family settings. There is an exception I must reveal. I must be about seven years old, I am holding carefully a small white rabbit in my arms and there is a glimpse of unrestrained joy in my eyes even though my smile is reserved. Later on that day, Mr. Rabbit will become my first little companion.

I also noticed that whenever a few of us were forced to pose for the camera, we hardly ever touch each other and, in the rare occasions we did, the discomfort was palpable.

The saddest realization of all came from a group picture of nine little girls goofing around like eight years old do. I am sitting in the middle of the crowd and I look as if I am fourteen years old while indeed, I am the youngest of all these jesters.

I am sure anyone could argue that if I look and scrutinize long enough, I could detect almost anything I want from almost any expression I see in these pictures. It might be true. But others have reached the same conclusions without enticement. I also understand that we live in different times and back then, abuse was not something we talked about, least of all, interfere with.

Still, I cannot help but see a brave and strong little girl who faced something terrible and somehow manage to extirpate herself from that situation, all by herself. No wonder they stayed at bay, they failed her in every possible ways. Fortunately, childhood can only last so long and one day we wake up and it’s all over. And sometimes it takes a little while longer.

Spring Cleaning

Spring seems to rhyme with cleaning. This year, I have set my mind to scanning all the old pictures and burn them on DVDs before shredding the hard copies. I am not sure why this task suddenly appears important or even necessary. Perhaps it is part of the purging process. Never-the-less, I have been scanning all of them one by one, watching my story unfold frame by frame. Although it can be heavy at times, it’s also interesting to notice the progression.

The incredible thing about a picture is that no matter how long ago it was captured, a fleeting look will transport you back in time, making that moment eternal. If for no other reason, one should never take a picture in vain as good times will be remembered with vivid clarity, but so will be the bad ones as well.

I did allow myself the privilege to tamper with some of the evidence, destroying a few pictures here and there. After all, the 80’s were cruel years, but so were the forceful smiles which never quite reached the eyes. Although I did - Photoshop - my past a little, I have no desire to completely eradicate it. This is, in spite of everything, the only true comparison I have with the present, the only way I have to attest of real progress. On print, it is easier to observe changes more objectively.

The most peculiar discovery so far is the fact that each and every one of my old girlfriends resembled my mother in some ways, and the fact that I never was quite myself with any of them. Most of these friendships entailed making much compromises on my part, and continuously walking on thin ice.

The other interesting discovery is the fact that my mother did not always look like a malignant and reprobating witch. There were times when she looked light and rosy. But even then, the emotion did not seem to be directed at the photographer, rather at the opportunity to portray a perfect moment. It seems that objectivity has no place between mother and daughter. My mother and I always had a very enflamed and harsh relationship completely void of respect. It feels as though I spent my life erupting at my mother’s perfect stoic. How could anyone remain so professedly indifferent to her child suffering? Unless the goal is to make the child suffer more still. I think early on, some deep instinct and intrinsic awareness alerted me to a profound and irreversible imbalance between us. And not unlike others, I spent an important part of my life trying to prove myself wrong. She did, in moments of rage, tell me that she never loved me, but who ever means it? However, it must have been true and I felt it. It might also explain why I never sought her for ally in difficult times and why she never volunteered.

It is puzzling to look at all these pictures. Her posing betrays very little. Yet, for the most part, I remember quit clearly how miserable, how cornered and guilty I felt moments before these pictures were taken. The fighting and bickering were too savage to underline deep love and after years, it left but a feeling of modest discomfort. When I look at these pictures, my heart feels like a mushroom left in the fridge for too long.

When I started scanning these pictures I wanted an easier access to them. Who ever takes the time to flip through envelops and boxes stored at the bottom of an old trunk? Will I look at them more regularly now? Probably not. These pictures attest only of my past.

As far as I am concern, the past, although interesting to understand, analyze, comprehend, accept and finally to let go of, is by no mean a clear indication of the future choices to be made ahead. It certainly is, in great part responsible for shaping a person’s character, values and choices in life; but the response to all these stimuli remains unexpected as human beings learn, grow and overcome.

The Catharsis

Writing this blog does much to clear my mind of emotional dust bunnies. In a previous blog – The Soul – I was surprise that my mother’s lack of love for me was still something I cared about. I thought I was well over it. It seemed to go against pretty much all the work I had done with John over the years. It’s only later on, once the story was posted that I understood. It was not a cry for her love, but a farewell.

It was the fact of writing it which confirmed its conclusion. So long as there is hope, however faint, there is no moving on, but hope is a private emotion which lodges deep inside oneself. It is rarely shared, because just as deep inside, we know the hope is vain. The admission, though sad, opens the way to letting go.

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another." - Anatole France

The Soul

The eyes are the mirror of the soul, they say. But when the soul overflows, it taints the entire face, the entire body. People’s lives are engraved on their face. Was life kind and gentle or filled with sorrow? Was love and kindness the main sentiment or sadness and loneliness? A face will tell it all. It cannot hide its spirit.

A week or so ago, I received mail from my mother. She had purchased a digital camera and took a few pictures of herself which she sent to me. I assume she chose the best ones, those that she really liked. When I opened the envelop and retrieved the content, my heart sunk. There was so much pain and loneliness. I didn’t know who was that person looking straight at me. The image of that poor old woman seemed so different from the one who still haunts me. She is a stranger now. So much has been missed. I will never know who she was, who she is. I almost cried. I almost cried because I felt nothing; pity perhaps, sadness but not love. Where did the love go?

There was a time when she was not so old, so lonely, when she was young, alive, joyous sometimes, there was a time when she was my mom. And I needed her so much. I needed her to love me. Is it some twisted revenge of the heart I am experiencing now? I don’t think so. I think I just dried out, waiting.

I wish I could do something to appease her life as she is getting older. I wish I could take upon some of her discomfort. But I also know that I am the only person she would never accept any kind of relief from. She would like for me to offer, only to be able to reject it, to reject me. She will never be able to embrace anything from me. I was the chosen one. The one she chose not to love.

Still, it pains me to see how her life was lived. I hope whatever lesson she was meant to learn was learnt and that next time her life may be softer. I hope in spite of all the pain she caused, she will be free to move on without repay. If there is a judgment day where one sits and review the good and the bad of the ending life, I want her to know that as hard as I tried, I never stopped wishing she could love me, but understood that she simply could not and forgave her.

The Idiot

I went to Starbucks to get a coffee. I desperately needed one to get me through the afternoon. Work was totally uninspiring. With a – few - minutes to spare, I sat down and browsed through the sex-advice column of the local newspaper. I am a fan. I find it absolutely fascinating what people will come up with. Sometimes it’s sad though. People really are quite isolated, especially when they are in real kinky stuff living in farmland somewhere in some conservative town. Other times it seems that people simply need someone to talk to.

Anyhow, as absorbed as I was with the story of that girl who was looking for a way to leave her boyfriend for his sister, I started eavesdropping on the conversation going on at the next table. The guy was recalling with gruesome details, for the benefit of his buddies, an accident he had at work. From what I gathered, he was a house painter. According to him, while attempting to paint an unreachable part of the sunroof, he had removed his boots, and jumped on a tiny ledge to prove to his work buddies that – he – could do it. The glitch seemed to occur when he fell off the ridge and landed thirty five feet below, barefoot on a concrete block, breaking a leg and shattering his wrist. He apparently failed to notice the extent of his injuries until someone pointed to him that his femur was protruding awkwardly from his trouser pants and he was covered in blood. He had been on disability ever since, baffling the Inspector as to how he could possibly have lost his shoes in the fall. Since then, he had lost the use of his right hand and after several surgeries, still walked with a bad limp. The real funny thing was that now every time he walks through a metal detector at the airport, the alarm rings. Since he can no longer do that job for a living, he was considering going back to school. He wanted to become an electrician…

Snapshot

Throughout the Winter Games, I exchanged mails and pictures of my everyday Olympic endeavors with my dad who has a computer. My mother, on the other hand, decided on the day of her retirement that she would never, ever deal with a computer ever again. To this day, she has been true to her words and thus, isolating herself every day more from the rest of humanity. Nowadays, it is very hard to maintain close contact with someone living in a different time zone or lifestyle. Harder still when the motivation just really isn’t there. Calling her suggest impeding on hours of prime time, usually during weekends. This wouldn’t be so bad if the exchange would not systematically be pervaded with contempt. Before John, these phone calls would torment me for hours afterward. Now, not so much, I space them better, so she doesn’t really have a choice but to be on a better behavior, knowing that it may otherwise take months before she hears from me again.

Unfortunately for her, my mother is her own worst enemy, and always will be. There is really no point in punishing her for wrongdoings when she is so much better at it than I could ever be myself. She has been torturing herself every minutes of her miserable life. It’s quite sad, really.

Still, at some point, my mother clued into the fact that the Olympic Games were going on and asked if I could send her some pictures I took during that time. Well, I knew I would be exposing myself to utmost scrutiny so I chose carefully an array of subjects from crowds, landscapes to me and my friends, and picked only the best ones. Nothing good would come out of it, from either end, but I obliged. I had thirty or so printed and shipped to her.

It must have been last week when she left me a voice mail. She had received the pictures and wanted to discuss them. I figured since I would have to call on Easter, I might just as well wait and be ride of it all at once. I was prepared for the worst. I have long ceased to expect anything else.

She was thrilled, the pictures were beautiful, the landscapes marvelous, the crowds as impressive as on TV and as for me, my new hair cut made me look like a cancer patient in remission…

“Gee mom, no wonder you don’t have any friends if you talk to people like that”

“I never talk to people like that!”

“Humph…”

Ouimzie

Much happened since my last blog, back in November. At the time, introspection seemed rather more in the way of things. I had put it aside for a little while so I could actively experience life without reflecting on it. At times, I lost my bearings, but I also discovered that I was much better equipped than I thought. In fact, my instincts were quit sharp.

I constantly forced myself out of my comfort zone. I made a point at deliberately choosing the route which unsettled me the most. I met people, went places and enjoyed activities new to me. I involved and uninvolved myself from fantasy relationships, losing virtual feathers but gaining real insight. I made friends, buddies, acquaintances.

Was the pasture greener on the other of the fence? Not really, just a little different.

Not unlike pendulum movements, I was bond to experiment the extremes of either side before I could find a balance, a rhythm where all facets of my life could be intertwined and fluid. Have I achieved that? Of course not, this is the work of a life time. But I think I got glimpses of it.

This was also the longest period I went through without reaching out to John for coaching. I wanted to test myself. I had to make sure I could move forward of my own accord and seek guidance only when facing unusual ordeals. It all went well, that is, until I hit a wall, but that’s another story.

There was a program I used to watch when I was young. The main character was a cool little puppet girl with blue antlers called Ouimzie. Her friend, in an attempt at being - just like her - had glued herself some antlers. The moral of the story was, of course, that the little girl was just as good in her own ways. We all know that it usually isn’t true. For the longest time I wondered if I would become the hero of my own life or if that role would be held by someone other than me. Well, I might not be Ouimzie, I might never get to be Ouimzie, but being me is not bad at all.

The Living

For a while, I found myself incapable of writing. During the last couple of years, I focused much on the dead, the ghosts, the broken bones and putrefied corpses of my early years. It had to be done. It was the only way to move forward. But for a while, I needed time away. I needed to find my place amongst the living.

A while ago, I asked a friend if we always come out stronger of tragedy. Although I suspect he was himself facing his own tragedies at the time, as he usually adorns his answers with more faith than the plain – no - he delivered that day. According to him, strength comes from hard work and most are unwilling to commit. Much time had gone by between the question and the answer. Distance had further convinced my friend of my readiness to give up, to discourage, to resent the injustice, the pain, the loss. Yet, he was wrong. I survived. No matter what happened to me, I survived. I made it through. And from there, I could only move forward. Whatever I experienced, I rise above it a little more each day. It turned out that I may have been much stronger than I ever considered.

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars - Kahlil Gibran

Trials and Tribulations of Dating

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a – single – evening of wine and cheese tasting. The wine selection was honest, but I guess it was only a pretext to gather and meet new people. It was a nice evening. Most guests were charming, especially one with whom I had a good time. The conversation was easy, the mood comfortable; we seemed to have much in common. At the end of the evening, he asked if he could take me out to dinner. “I would love that!” A good answer! We exchanged phone numbers and promised to call.

A couple of days later he left a message on my voice mail stating how nice it was to have met me. I returned his call leaving pretty much the same message. The following day he called again wanting to know what kind of food I enjoy in order to make reservations. “I’m just not too keen on seafood. Allergies, you know.” We agreed to get together the following Thursday. On Wednesday he called and confirmed the plans; he was to pick me up at 7, the location was a surprise. “What should I wear?”

“Casual.” Casual…? If only I knew where we were going. A quick survey with all the girls at work confirmed that I shouldn’t wear a dress, too much for a first date, but pants, something classy. After work I rushed home, got changed and walked out the door. He was already waiting for me in his sharp Armani suit. Not casual! Not by any standard! He had brought me flowers, a gigantic bouquet which must have cost half my weekly salary. It was a little much. Then we drove off to La Clarinette, the most expensive French restaurant in town, where he insisted he order for the both of us. He chose the seven course meal with a bottle of Bordeaux. It turned out he had chosen the seafood meal… Great! This meal cost more than my weekly salary. Did I mention it was only a first date?

The morning after, I was writing a thank you note when I noticed I had received an e-mail from him. He was thanking me profusely for such a wonderful dinner and evening, hoping we could get together again soon. It would have been nice if he had let me do it, instead it turned that it was my pleasure, really… Twenty nine e-mails followed on that day.

Saturday morning comes along; I was curled up on the couch after my morning run, enjoying a nice cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was eight thirty. He wanted to know if I had plans for the day. An hour later, we finally hung up. We were to get together later on. A couple of hours before the scheduled time, he called again, determined to cover the gap by talking on the phone. I’m not good at that. Talking on the phone is a laborious task for me. Eventually we hung up and met at the beach for a stroll. By then, we had not shared any kind of familiarity. His first move was to kiss me on the lips, but I dodged brilliantly, the second, to hold me by the waist as we walked. This time my dodging wasn’t as subtle. I’m not keen in public display of affection, especially when there isn’t any. To discourage further fumbling, I put my hands in my jeans pockets. We walked for a while and then ate at a local Mexican cantina. I had a lime margarita with rock salt on the rim. Mid-sentence, he took his paper napkin, unfolded it, wrapped it carefully around his index finger and wiped something off my face. I almost jumped out of my skin. It ought to have been something really gross. It turned out it was a grain of salt. Who ever does that? How about “You’ve got salt on your lip” It reminded me of my mother who used to put saliva on a tissue to clean something off my face.

The following morning, the same routine started again, only this time, I didn’t answer the phone, and went about enjoying my day. By six o’clock he had left several messages. I called him back and gently told him that I felt slightly cornered. It was a bit intense; I would rather take things a tad slower and perhaps lighter. “Sure, it’s not a problem at all, I’m glad you told me.”

Two days later I received an 890 word e-mail of sheer panic. An e-mail about the size of this post! He was so, so terribly sorry he had made me feel so bad, he hoped he had not jeopardized the relationship. Since our last conversation, he had this terrible knot in the stomach. Funny enough, it ended with “sincerely”, and had been sent in the middle of the night. Although I had no ulterior motive when I asked him to slow down a little, his e-mail certainly made it clear that I should run away as fast as I could. A week later he left a message on my voice mail and again the following week, which I never returned.

Talk about being intense. It’s too bad, he was nice.

Home Run

In early summer, after a miserable winter of introspection and careful examination of my life, it became quite evident that it was time to make crucial changes. I had to broaden my horizons, to enrich my life with new people, new interests, and new ways; I had to become part of this world I knew nothing about.

In the past Marco had been very present in every aspects of my life, but it changed when he had children. Although predictable, it still caught me unprepared. His absence left a void which knocked me off balance, combined with the assimilating and distancing myself from my past, its influence and perpetrators, it was a forlorn time which left me exhausted. Nevertheless, I plunged head first into action, feeling a little shaky at first perhaps, but mostly resolute.

For years I wanted to run, but I never did anything about it. This summer it suddenly occurred to me that nothing prevented me for doing it. So one morning I rose with the lark and went running down the beach. It was that simple. Since then, every morning I get up early and go running, rain or shine, tired or not; I haven’t missed a day yet. Some days are more difficult than others, but I feel so good afterward. I started attending Yoga classes held in the park near the beach, and in the fall, I’ll enroll in a gym. I also got into more social activities, where I have met quite a few people, some more interesting than some others. Every day I have to make the conscious decision to step out of my comfort zone, to open up to people, to get involve, to take a chance, and people response differently to me. I am less – inaccessible - than before, even with people at work. Little do they know that I was simply terrified of them before. In meeting new people, I have also met a lot of available guys. This as you can imagine, is a little bit more challenging to me.

In bygone days, several of them would have been quite attractive and close to what I was looking for. But when the opportunity presented itself I had no desire to move forward. The interest just isn’t there right now. Last time I saw John, he had told me that I should date, date and date some more until I figured out what I really wanted or needed. Until recently I never felt like I had a choice when it came to involvement. We all know where that comes from but, the spell seems to have been broken. Still, I can’t help but feeling guilty at time, as if I owed these guys something. I realized that even though my mind might not remember much of my childhood trauma, my body’s memory is now very acute and rebelling. It might take a while before I am ready for relationships.

A friend recently asked if the – setbacks - I might have experienced were affecting my determination to embrace new opportunities. I think of them more as a way of testing my determination, to see if I really mean to change my life, or whether I will yield at the first hindrance sent my way.

I read somewhere that "life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming “WOO HOO what a ride!” I think it is the wisest think I have read in a while. I’ve played it safe all my life and see where it got me! Now it is time to Live.

The Ring

My mother has always been a little strange. At the time these events took place, I was well into my teens. She had been separated and divorced from my father for many years, and was quite happy to be rid of him. It was after all of her own initiative. But somehow, she never got over the flaw of being a divorcee. She felt abandoned and perceived herself as a failure. I have to admit that we did so too, but for entirely different reasons. Anyhow, being divorced at that time was far from being unusual, actually it was getting to be rather the norm in our social environment.

When the separation occurred, my mother was still a relatively young and fairly beautiful woman who could have met someone and built a new life for herself. She tried. She actively and sometimes quite obsessively started looking for a new companion, to no avail. After a short while it became clear to all, if not to her, that her mind was too filled with contradictions and constrictions for it to happen. Her fears outweighed her desire. She was convinced that my brother would deliberately pick fights with him while I would necessarily seduce him.

Although she never claimed to have given up on the concept, over time she started feeling as if by putting herself out there, she was advertising that she was untaken! To remedy her discomfort, she bought herself a used wedding ring from a pawn shop, so she wouldn’t look discarded. To this day she still wears it, and no matter where she goes, there are no available men around…

Karma - The Never Ending Cycle

The law of karma says that beneficial effects are derived from past beneficial actions and harmful effects from past harmful actions.

I believe I can sincerely affirm that I have paid for many bad deeds before I was even capable of making some myself. Of course, I shall not picture myself as a saint, as I have since certainly reached the same level of mischievousness as most. Although, it might prevent Santa from visiting me on Christmas Eve, it certainly would not justify incessant fateful retributions. So why does – he - keep on reappearing in my life? Or should I say why is it that in spite of all the venom I threw at him, he still insists on getting some more?

Indeed, I received another e-mail from him last Friday. This time, I must say all pretenses we left out. The gist of his missive was pure and simple: begging me to take him back. Apparently he had realized he made a few mistakes and would do better this time given the chance or as he phrased it himself “I should not have been such an asshole about many things”. It was both sad and pathetic. Worsen by the fact that so much time as passed since we dated that I can barely remember what these mistakes might have been. Then again, I guess this is precisely the strength of his strategy. He did warn me way back then that he was very persistent. No kidding! Perhaps it could have worked in another lifetime, but not anymore. The big question remains though, how could anyone believe that by reducing themselves to this state of absolute inconsequence they might remain in some way appealing to others? Sadder still is the fact that I am forced to become the villainess once more. It would be nice if at least I could extract joy form it, alas it only brings boredom. Boredom and some degree of discouragement as he clearly understands the uselessness of his action and the unavoidable result “Please don't be too vicious. I know you don't beat about the bush. You tend be devastatingly dismissive of things you are done with.” Obviously he understands the words just not quite their meaning. As you can see, it is quite clear that in not so distant a future, I will be repeating the same speech all over again: seriously, it’s high time you moved on. Whatever we may have shared at some point years ago is long gone, and irremediably so. I thought I had been abundantly clear. Now, be kind enough not to contact me again, ever.

So this karma thing… I wonder, am I paying back right now or cashing up?

Cruise Control

About a week ago I went to a local store to purchase a present for Billy’s birthday: Mr. Potato Head and a box of chalks, which had much success on her parent’s dark hard wood floor, almost as much as last year’s xylophone. When I got to the store, there was a car parked next to the only available stall. The driver’s side door was open; the owner standing next to it was holding a plastic jug, window washing fluid I guessed. The moment I was parked, he came running to me with an unexpired parking ticket. “Gee, you’re far more honest than I am. Thank you” I never bother purchasing these time allotment parking tickets; my patronage should be more than enough to these establishments. The only time I was ever caught red-handed, I expressed my dissatisfaction with such vocal clarity, and attracted such a crowd of curious, that the manager kindly made it disappear. Never-the-less, since it was freely provided to me, I put it on my dash and left without as much as glimpsing at the donor. When I came back, he had left a note on my windshield asking that I call him if I was as single as he. Given that that very same morning I had decided that from there on, I would embrace all the opportunities sent my way, I thought a certain leap of faith was in order, so I gave him a call. I got his voice mail and left a message for him to call me back after work. He was evidently a very eager man for he returned my call almost immediately, requesting that we meet for lunch fifteen minutes later, for coffee in the afternoon or that we spend some time chatting about ourselves over the phone, all of which were impossible at the time. Not only was my schedule crammed with meetings, but I also work in an open office where walls are inexistent, therefore preventing any private conversations from taking place, let alone an introductory one. Eventually we agreed to meet the following day at a café. Keep in mind that although he knew exactly what I look like, to me this was a blind date.

When I arrived, he was already waiting for me. He recognized me right away, introduced himself, we shook hands and he kissed me on both cheeks. Bad, bad, bad! Major faux pas if there was ever one, you never kiss a girl you meet for the first time. How gross! We ordered coffee and went to sit by the beach. By that time, he had removed his sunglasses in the hope that I would do the same so that he could further check me out and ensure there was nothing unpleasant hidden behind them. Unfortunately, this was the hottest, brightest, sunniest day of the entire year; I simply could not remove my sunglasses without risking getting blind. It obviously did not impress him much. However, by then I was drenched with perspiration, and my only desire was to hit the pool as fast as I could. My singlehood was the least of my worries.

All and all, he wasn’t bad. He was all right, you know… nice. Not amazing, average. He was by no mean a loser. But he was the kind of guy scared of getting old. He was as tall as I, which is bad given that at best of time, I wear four-inch heels. I have to give him that, he had beautiful eyes. The conversation was hard coming, for even though he had initiated contact, he was trying to play mysterious and withhold the most pathetic of information. Thankfully this meeting was only supposed to last half hour. It’s easier to look forward to the next one, rather than hope eternity could somehow come to an end. Until then, he had been spectacularly blah, regrettably that was not to last. A surge of typical Vancouverite male hit him. “How is it possible that such a beautiful woman like you is not married?” meaning - what’s wrong with you? Well… Where should I start? Or the most typical “Do you have a lover then? I mean, how do you satisfy your personal needs?” I should be shocked, but I’ve heard that one from almost every man who ever talked to me or any of my girlfriends. “I manage just fine.”

“Is it something you ever considered?” Let me guess, you would be ready to sacrifice yourself to the greater good! On that evening, Vancouver reached an unprecedented 35˚c. There was not a gust of wind or a cloud in the sky. My brain was frying, my patience was running low and I was starting to smell like a three-day old dead trout. “Well, if I was looking for an occasional lover to satisfy my needs, I would be looking for the Paul Newman type my friend, not Jiminy Cricket.” And then there was the pool.

Florida - The Sunshine State

My family and I were roaming through sunshine Florida, all packed up in the family car, visiting the mandatory tourist attractions. One night after an exhausting day at Disney World, and a long frustrating drive back, for my father had as much difficulty navigating himself landlocked as I would on water with the North Star as sole reference point, we finally returned to our motel room. A non-descript room with a kitchenette, a few mismatched utensils, a broken coffee machine, two kitchen chairs covered with green and yellow flower plastic material, a kitchen table with stainless steel legs, and a chipped brown Formica top burned in the middle by cigarettes butts, beige shaggy carpet permeated with the smell of humidity, one of the lamp had no shade, two double beds covered with flower bedspreads in red and green tones, a bureau which top drawer hosted an Anglican bible and a dead beetle; a motel room that defied description. That my parents saw fit to lodge their precious heirs in such bleak setting tells much about their nurturing nature.

The sleeping arrangements were also of an intriguing nature. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I would always share a bed with my mother and my brother with my father. My parents never slept together in the same bed, despite the fact that in real life they spent very little time together. My family was quite financially comfortable, there was no apparent reason why we couldn’t have occupied two rooms, especially of this caliber, providing them with a bit of intimacy, and us with a good night sleep, since my father’s snoring was so excessive and I must say, repulsive that there was no dozing off possible, thus exacerbating the general crankiness. However, that night was slightly different. My brother had found a dubious looking pee stained fold-away bed in the wardrobe and decided to spend the night on it. In my opinion, such decision had to be motivated by some level of desperation. More so, given the fact that there were no sheets provided for it and he had to wrap himself up in one of the bedspread.

In the middle of the night, once we had all sunk into a sleep deprived coma, I had a dream. A vivid dream punctuated by some degree with mild somnambulism. I was found kneeling behind my mother, who was sleeping in a spoon shape facing away from me, pummeling her with both fists while screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother, along with everybody else no doubt, woke up abruptly and wondered what was going on. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, are you mad?” To which I apparently replied “Oh! Sorry! Sorry mum! I thought you were Richard (my brother)” upon which I peacefully went back to sleep.

The following morning, the incident was told and retold to whoever would listen. It had become the liveliest moment of the holidays. Everybody thought it was quite hilarious and cheeky. Ah, my dear parents…

The Family Car

My mother is known for her impractical and often ridiculous choices. She makes them in the hope of impressing people, neighbors, bystanders, all in all, people she doesn’t know, but whom opinion she cares a great deal about. That my father went along with her choices is another proof that they both truly deserved each other.

At the time of purchase, my brother and I were both in our teenage. My brother was involved in several organized sports and required rides to and from wherever, several times a week. Each sport involved bags of equipment and usually team mates who also had bags of equipment. Although I was more self-reliant, there were times when I desperately needed a ride home. My mother was then working at a popular college downtown. Over the years she provided free rides to most of the neighboring kids, except for me, for she had had enough by the time I started college. Thankfully I had already turned sixteen and by then, purchased my own car. Still, we both left home at about the same time in the morning, returning, at first, at about the same time at night. Freedom of transportation, however, soon allowed for less rigid return times which I took full advantage of.

Naturally, the wise choice for a family car would have been to acquire a spacious and solid four-door sedan with a large trunk, a safe car where everybody could have been comfortably seated. But my mother never considers others. Her vision is limited to her own needs and desires. Instead she insisted on a two-door grey Camaro with red leather interior and a huge eagle on the hood. That car had a big V8 engine which she never drove faster than 50 km/h, even on the highways. As a matter of fact, she even managed to get a ticket for impeding the flow of traffic…

Sit by a gorgeous woman for an hour and it will feel like a minute, sit on a hot stove for one minute and it will feel like an hour, said Albert Einstein while explaining the theory of relativity. Sit with my family in a confined space for a month and you will understand the true meaning of eternity. At some point during the time we owned that racing car, my mother decided that the entire family would go on a road trip down to Florida. In the middle of winter, four people, none who spoke English, two heavy smokers, one asthmatic (me), one over six feet tall (my brother), a large cooler on the back seat between the children, no back windows, two doors and four weeks later, we hated each other with pure raging passion which lasted to this day.

Oh Boy!

It started over a year ago. There was this very handsome guy, whom I would see almost every day walking by my office building during lunch time. After a while, we started nodding hello to each other and one day, as we were walking alongside, we introduced ourselves. The ice was broken. From there on, our hellos were voiced and supplemented by a few words, a few sentences and eventually by full paragraphs. The connection was slowly refining itself. After a few months of this enlivening exchange, while in the middle of a crosswalk, and rather unexpectedly, prince charming turned into a toad. Vociferation of outrage and disbelief burst out of his formerly tempting lips “How can you behave like that when you have a partner!” I was dumbstruck. Me? How was I behaving? Who’s partner? What? Or more eloquently: Huh?

“I don’t have a partner!” Needless to say, I almost ran to the office. That guy is completely crazy! His outburst had seized me like an electric shock. I was relating the story to a few colleagues when Linda started howling.

“I can’t believe it! This guy is just as datingly inept as you are! He was obviously trying to find out if you had a boyfriend.”

A few days later, we were both standing on opposite sidewalks waiting for the traffic light to change. When I saw him, standing still and smiling at me, I freaked out and rushed back to the office. Since then, I have bumped into him with a melting ice cream cone which bounced on his dark Armani suit. In hope of remedying the situation, my dirty napkin only managed to spread the mess from shoulder to shoulder. One afternoon, his little dog, until then pleasantly strolling along, suddenly took a bit at me and left with a chunk of my suit pants, I almost took one of his eye out on a rainy day with my umbrella, and managed to drop the entire content of a sweet foamy tall cappuccino on his leather shoes, the day he stopped me from inadvertently throwing myself into incoming traffic. I also stabbed him with a blue marker, staining his crisp white shirt, and we banged heads the day his rain coat belt got tangled with my scarf. It seems that the level of anxiety amongst us had built to an unmanageable level. For a while, we tacitly agreed to avoid each other. It was working well until recently. A few days ago I saw him walking alongside a gorgeous brunette. When he saw me, he turned around and waved, while colliding with a stop sign pole that got him a nose bleed.

Now imagine if this had blossomed into a relationship.