I often ask my niece and nephew about their dreams. I don't know why. They're just little kids (4 and 2 years old, respectively). Most of the time, Kat (the older one) tells me she can't remember her dreams. (The little one, James, who is relatively new to the business of conversation, just blows raspberries and laughs.)
But last summer, Kat had a nightmare. And I've been thinking about it ever since.
She said she dreamt of a "little alien guy in a shell" with "one eye and a little horn" (to demonstrate, she curled a finger up by her forehead). She said the dream was scary because the alien was a "bad guy."
Katherine's been having bad (or at least unsettling) dreams for her entire life, I think. When she was just a couple of months old, she'd often cry out from her crib, and whimper in her sleep. I always wondered about this. What could such a little baby be dreaming about that might make her so upset? A shortage of breast milk? An especially dirty diaper?
I've always suffered from nightmares. I generally have a couple a week. I can't really remember a time when I didn't have them, so it's not so bad any more. I'm used to it. Sometimes, I even enjoy it. But Kat is still a little girl. And I worry about her. I don't like the idea of her having bad dreams.
So, with her birthday coming up, and the dream still in my mind months later, I wrote Katherine a little story. My friend Patty did some drawings to go with it.
I scanned the whole thing into my computer and am having it printed as a book for a present.
Neat, right?
It's not a great tale or anything. I use far too many commas, as is my wont. The rhymes are forced and sometimes awkward. But Katherine is only 4. I have a feeling she's going to like it.
Having a niece and nephew is great, by the way. None of the work of parenthood, and all of the fun. Basically the best thing ever. I know that makes me sound baby crazy, and maybe I am (a little), but seriously. Cuteness abounds.
If you want to check out the book, I've included a preview below, or visit the self-publishing site I used to lay it out and have it bound: Blurb.
I've always loved Halloween. Always. Even when I was a little girl, and my parents made me wear my winter coat and a cowbell over my costume, I loved it.
I even loved the cowbell.
For my very first year of Trick-or-treating, my Dad fashioned bunny costumes for us, complete with tin-foil ears (as shown). We used my mother's eyebrow pencil to draw on whiskers and rouged our cheeks with lipstick. He seems bothered by this effort now. Thinks he did a bad job. He's become an advocate of the "store-bought" costume.
But I loved my bunny ears. I don't remember feeling that I was missing anything.
Regardless of the friendships I forged at school, Trick-or-treating was always a neighbourhood activity. I tended to troll for candy with a small pack of boys from my street, like Peter (seen above, in the early 1980s, dressed in a sort of Hobo-clown costume that put our bunny ears to shame).
As we got older, he (and the other boy I palled around with -- Dennis) would run ahead, trying to hit as many houses as possible, while I was left struggling with my costume or adjusting my mask and calling, "wait up!" But I didn't care. I still loved every part of it.
Halloween was magical. More exciting than Christmas.
I "made" my costume every year, sometimes using my allowance to buy components from the drug store. My parents didn't have the time (or inclination) to help us out with this sort of thing, so the resulting costumes were often strange, but I think we were lucky. Halloween was about having fun, being creative, and learning self-reliance. It wasn't a fashion show.
This is not to say I didn't wish for the perfect store-bought costume. I did. And at school, when I compared my odd efforts to those of the girls who'd dressed as cheerleaders, punk rockers and princesses, I was embarrassed. But a little embarrassment can be good for you, don't you think? In retrospect, I'm glad I was who I was, and glad that my parents generally left me to my own devices. (And that my mother let me do what I wanted with her scarves and old maternity clothes.)
Sometimes I wonder what it would have felt like to have been a "princess" for a day. I wonder if it would have been as wonderful as I imagined? To head off to school with confidence, feeling that no one could possibly make fun of me in my perfect, store-bought costume? That might have been nice. And I understand parents who'd want to give their kids that kind of peace of mind. School is a battlefield. And kids who conform are generally safest in the wild world of institutionalized education.
This year, Nathan went as Jim Henson and I went (in keeping with tradition) as ... something odd. And it was kind of scary and kind of funny. In other words, everything Halloween should be. But as usual, I felt a bit anxious about my costume. Was it too weird?
Was I too weird?
And then I remembered... I'm grown up. There's no such thing.
Happy Halloween, everyone.
Just returned from another fun-filled birthday weekend away. Thought I'd sum it up in photographs.
There was beach.
There was beer.
There was night swimming.
There was sun bathing.
There were sandpipers.
There were camp fires.
And there was cheese.
It was good.
Being in my 30s is also good. It feels satisfying. Like things are looking up. Don't you feel like things are looking up?
Lots of love to everyone who sent along kind birthday wishes (and massive nose thumbing at my family, who didn't bother to call OR email, which is, if not unheard of, then not particularly shocking either).
But nonetheless, things are looking up.
Don't worry, angst-lovers. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled whining next week. Promise.
Image credits in order of appearance: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 7.
Spent the weekend at the "family" cottage. So, as you might imagine, I'm still recovering.
Preparing to spend time with my family is like preparing for war. You have to be ready with all the accoutrements. Gas mask. Helmet. Squashy, padded, lunacy-repelling flak jacket.
It's also best to have diversionary equipment. Personal music player (to tune out audio). Thick books and newspapers (to hide behind). Getaway car (for moments of desperation).
Sleeping pills. Alcohol. You know. The necessities.
And there's no substitute for a buffer. Though I occasionally feel guilty for using a friend or loved one as a human shield...
Mostly, what I find I need more in order to spend time with my family is a sense of self.
When around blood relatives for more than a few hours at a time, inevitably, who I am becomes mired in the more powerful muck of who they are and I feel myself being sucked back into an impotent teenage mindset; into the darkness of the middle 1990s when I couldn't imagine myself as anyone outside of the context of the family.
In no time at all, it becomes normal to tell people (adults and children alike) to shut up. Normal to abruptly abandon conversations with the parting words that's stupid. Normal to let pass thinly veiled (and sometimes overt) fat jokes, and bits of miscellaneous misogyny. Normal to pit siblings and partners against each other for amusement. Normal to bully. To roll eyes. It feels normal to be rude in the interests of "truth" and to gain the upper hand in conflicts both minute and massive with sarcasm. Actually, it doesn't just feel normal. It is normal. It's who they are. And while pressed to the smothering bosom of family, I fear it's who I am. And this worries me, because what if I'm not just part of the family system in the context of the family? What if I'm like this all the time and I don't even know it? (Because clearly, they don't know it. In their hearts, they're nice, well-meaning people. I'm not so stuck that I can't see that they don't mean to be this way. They don't even notice that other people aren't.) But what if it's genetic? What if you can't escape biology? (Can you? Can I?) Terrifying, right?I estimate that it takes me about half the time I spend in the company of the family to unwind again after each meeting. In other words, a two-hour visit requires one hour of recovery time. So a three-day visit means a day and a half to decompress.With that in mind, I expect I'll feel okay again sometime tomorrow. See you then.
* Creative commons military signage image by Mattox from Stock Xchng.
* Creative commons paper dolls image by Stephanie Hofschlaeger from Stock Xchng.
I don't make a lot of money. In fact, I make very little.
ON PURPOSE.
This makes my parents crazy.
They bring it up every time I see them. Every time! Sometimes, people don't believe me when I say this. They think I'm exaggerating. Especially because my parents are generally careful to bring up my finances only when we're alone. Talking about money in front of guests wouldn't be polite. And as you'll see from what I am about to tell you, if my parents care about one thing, it's being polite.
Anyway. Anticipating charges of exaggeration, more than a year ago, I started keeping a running tally of each time the finance issue came up. And the tally shows that my folks have mentioned my income (usually in a disparaging way) every single time I've seen them in the past 16 months. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
Sometimes the comments are veiled. "Are you working this week?" my mother will ask. As if I might suddenly NOT be working. As if I regulary take off weeks at a time to indulge in sloth and gluttony. At other times, she takes a more straightforward approach. "Young people need to work! How do you live!? You should get a job at the government." These sorts of assertions are the most fun, for obvious reasons.
I do, in fact, have a job, so explaining that I need to work seems rather pointless. As for living... well, I am clearly alive. Sooooo... check. AND the extra 30 lbs I have hanging around my middle would seem to indicate that I'm living quite well at the moment, actually. So.
That said, I have to give her the third point. The government job thing is entirely my own fault. I don't know what's wrong with me. The Canadian government keeps banging down my door with offers of mind-numbingly-dull positions complete with bankers hours and excessive sick days. They're giving those jobs away like candy (sort of like they did for racialized women like my mother in the 1970s), but I'm an asshole, so I keep sending them away. I'm refusing to thrive, goddamnit. It's ALL MY FAULT.
My pop's comments are generally more direct. And while more pointed, they are less obviously critical to the casual observer. He favours a "just in case you're an idiot" approach to my general education, which he still feels responsible for. "Do you realize you spend more than XX% of your gross income on rent?" he asked recently. Or "You know… when you freelance, you still have to make Canada Pension Plan payments. Did you know that?" The good part is that I've learned that I can answer without even listening to his questions. Because the answer is always "yes."
Yes. YES. Yes, I realize these things, I am aware of these things, I know these things. Yes. Indeed. Yes. But thank you for mentioning it. Again. I know you only have my best interests at heart. I also know that even though I've been living on my own since 1998, I probably missed a lot of basics along the way. I am, after all, an idiot.
So... yes.
Sigh.
I don't initiate these conversations, I swear.
Here's the thing: in 2008, when the sub-prime mortgage crisis hit and the recession got going, a lot of people had to downsize. But not me. I downsized my life by choice. When I lived in Vancouver, that is to say, in my previous life, I made quite a bit of money. I had a whack of savings tucked away for my half of a downpayment on a house my then-partner (a total douche) and I eventually planned to purchase.
We slept in separate bedrooms but were still planning to buy a house together. Does that sound smart to you?
Nonetheless, my life looked good from the outside. My parents liked to brag about my job, which they were able to understand. ("Journalist" is so much clearer to them than "writer/editor" for some reason.) I had a huge apartment, complete with two living rooms, two bathrooms and a dining room that we never used. In other words, I had a huge amount of useless space that I filled with equally useful (but often beautiful) furniture.
My life was like a handbag. Does that make sense? Bear with me for a moment while I explain. My life was like a handbag that I had to fill up. Because why carry a handbag if you have nothing to fill it with? And if you're a woman of a certain age in North America, you can't go around with no handbag! What would people think?! So I got my handbag and I filled it up. And once it was full, I began to imagine that I needed the things inside it. I began to imagine that all those things were necessary to my life. The only solution seemed to be to get a bigger bag. Which I did. And I filled that bag too. And it started to get really effing heavy.
Up up up. More more more. That was the only way to go. Spend more. Get more. Buy more. Get married! Buy a house! Get all that documentation in order to PROVE that I'm a valuable person.
What a load.
In part, the drive to acquire was what kept me in a terrible relationship for more than five years. I was afraid of having less. And more importantly, I was afriad of what having less would look like to other people. The idea of downsizing was terrifying.
Not anymore.
For the first time in my life, I have a job I like. It doesn't pay much, but it pays enough. And it leaves me lots of time for other things, like blogging and crafting and going to baseball games and playing volleyball and reading novels, which is all, as it turns out, pretty darn great. Doing things BESIDES working is pretty darn great. Who knew?
And I know what some of you are thinking. That this is just laziness. But it's not. When I work, I work hard, but I don't work all the time. And I refuse to leave a job I like just because it doesn't pay as much as other jobs out there. Finally, I can feel good about the work I'm doing. I used to get home at night and feel ashamed. Ashamed to be part of the consumerist machine. Ashamed of the bullshit I was selling with my writing. And now, I don't. I feel proud of the work I do, and proud of the small contributions I make. And that good feeling is worth more to me than a few extra dollars an hour. It's worth more than several extra dollars an hour. Mor that that, even.
I used to work all the time. ALL THE TIME. And I felt like shit... all the time. Now I work some of the time, and I play a lot of the time, and I feel good most of the time. It's not rocket science.
Oh, and I don't make a lot of money. It's not embarrassing. Why should it be? Rethinking the notions of ambition and success has been nothing but awesomesauce. You should try it. Seriously.
Nate and I live in a smallish apartment, which we rent. And every time my landlord shovels our walk, or fixes a faucet, or mows the lawn, I feel glad to be a renter. And when I hear my friends talking about their mortgage payments and their dry wall problems and their furnace issues and their weeping tile and their vapour barriers and their flooded basements and their condo fees... I feel AWESOME. I mean, no major disrespect to home owners, but sometimes... your problems are boring. And they sound endlessly frustrating and expensive. I don't envy you. Would it be nice to own a house? Sure. Maybe. But it might not be "worth it" to me. And to understand that, you might have to think about worth in a new way. In March, I noticed a lot of hoopla online about ar recent study conducted by UNH psychology professor Edward Lemay and some of his colleagues at Yale University. The study showed that people who feel loved and accepted by others place lower monetary values on material possessions than those who feel insecure and/or unloved. It makes sense, but it's not exactly common sense. According to the study's press release, researchers measured how much people valued a specific item, such as a blanket or a pen. In some instances, people who didn't feel secure placed a monetary value on said item that was five times greater than the value placed on the same item by a more secure person. “People value possessions, in part, because they afford a sense of protection, insurance, and comfort,” said Lemay in his press release. “But what we found was that if people already have a feeling of being loved and accepted by others, which also can provide a sense of protection, insurance, and comfort, those possessions decrease in value.” I now own almost nothing that I couldn't live without. While I love my home and my many (many) things, the thought of getting rid of them isn't daunting in the way it used to be. I'm not saying 'all you need is love' or anything stupid like that, but still. Halloween 2008. Nate is an investment banker/panhandler. I am a Newsie. We are poor, but happy.
Now, it's only fair to explain that Nate and are in a relatively unique position. Eventually, we expect to have to move to accommodate Nate's job, but we don't know where. We might have to go across the country, or down to the States, or somewhere else entirely. And it seems pointless to aquire too much in the meantime. But interestingly, I've also found that our meagre income actually helps facilitate our ethical aspirations. Having less, strangely, allows us to do more. Why buy something manufactured in a sweat shop when you can get something unique or vintage? Why pay someone else to do or make something that I can easily do or make myself? Making stuff, it turns out, is fun! More fun than buying stuff. As long as you have the time, of course. And I do. All these things are connected.
Since we're not caught up in the craziness of acquiring, we been able to realize that we don't need more. And subsequently, we feel able to give more -- by making donations and that sort of thing. Because we already don't have much, so what's a little less? I give more to charity now than I ever did when I had money. It's so strange.
Nate and I sleep in a double bed. I know so many people who cringe at the thought. It seems nobody wants to go smaller than queen-size these days.
I used to feel that way too.
I worried that I wouldn't be able to sleep. I worried about my personal space. I worried about being too hot or too cold or too crowded. And in the early days, I admit, the transition chafed a bit. It took us a little while to settle into a good sleeping pattern. BUT... we got used to it. We evolved. And now I love our double bed. It doesn't matter that our arms touch, or that I sometimes wake up breathing his breath, or that I occassionally kick him with my spazzy jimmy-leg. I like that closeness. He likes it too. We don't want a bigger bed. We don't need a bigger bed. This is something we've talked about
Anyway. This is a very long post and I don't really know what I'm getting at. I started out wanting to call out my annoying parents for being so ceaselessly, relentlessly critical, but the piece has morphed into something else.
I'll try to bottom line it for you, by way of an ending:
For me, having less has driven home a truth about the world that so many people fail to notice: it's no big deal. It's not a hardship. Having less has made my life infinitely better. Having less has amounted to having more. So there. All images licensed under creative commons, from Flickr. 1) Follow your dreams Banksy image by Chris Devers.2) Graffiti house by Miss Muffin. 3) Withou money photo by Toban Black
I don't remember ever being unaware of my weight.
I'm sure I must have been, at one time. I must have been unconscious of it, as children are supposed to be.
I just don't remember.
What I do remember is that even when I was too young to think of weighing myself at home, I took note of the weights and measures quoted to my mother by my pediatrician. I worried about them and what they might mean.
At age ten, Grade 5, my doc logged me in at 72 lbs.
"Too much," I thought at the time. 72 lbs was already much too much.
I don't know why this happened to me. I don't know what made me worry.
It is strange... to hold in your head an encyclopedic memory of weight. The numbers are there, but I'm not sure what they mean.
September 14, 1990: 72 lbs.
October 22, 1993: 117 lbs.
July 17, 1996: 125 lbs.
December 25, 1999: 130 lbs.
September 1, 2007: 173 lbs.
I remember other people's weights as well. My mother, for example, weighed 78 lbs on her wedding day. She is 5' tall and was living in India at the time. She had Malaria.
My sister, 5'2", dropped down to 90 lbs during the first trimester of her first pregnacy. She had terrible morning sickness.
After my 72 lbs weigh-in, I waited until I was alone in the house and slipped my mother's wedding dress out of her bureau to try it on. It smelled of the Irish Spring soap she keeps unwrapped in the drawers. The buttons wouldn't close.
I have wide shoulders, a broad rib cage and a wide back. Even at my thinnest, I need a bra that's close to 38 inches around. And I've never had Malaria. Nonetheless, I felt like a failure. The fact that the dress didn't fit seemed to say something about me. Something bad.
I stripped it off and went outside to smash rocks with a hammer. I turned stone after stone into piles of glittering grey-blue dust. Then I blew it all away.
High school was... traumatic, as it is for so many of us. I went out for track, my signature sport, but didn't even come close to making the team. Girls built like gazelles seemed to sprint past me in the heats with no effort at all.
I did make the swim team. Just barely. I had no real training, but I liked the water and copied the other girls' smooth strokes.
At practices, I was slotted into the slowest lane with an unfortunate, unpopular girl named Bopinder. As her body brushed past mine in the water, I'd shrink away. As if she might rub off.
Once, in the locker room, a girl talked about her body, her pool-white hand pressed across her flat, speedo-covered stomach. "From the side, I'm perfect," she said, "but from the front... ugh!"
I jumped in, eager to make a friend by way of shared experience. "Me too," I said, "But I'm okay from the front and fat from the side." I demonstrated, twisting to reveal my rounded mid section.
Even Bopinder laughed. It took me ages to understand. Those girls were smarter. They saw it right away. We were all women, all young, but we were not the same.
In those early days of high school I dropped from what I considered a disgusting 125 lbs to a borderline-acceptable 115 lbs in less than three weeks thanks to my first short-term starvation diet and fanatical exercise in the pool. I swam every morning at 6 a.m. I ate celery sticks exclusively, and only when my stomach literally ached with hunger or when I felt too dizzy to stand. At night, my pool-sore arms spazammed and shook.
Besides the celery, after each practice, I'd down a half-litre of Gatorade. The most delicious thing I'd ever tasted.
By November, I'd quit the team. At my first meet, I placed last in the 200 metre butterfly. I didn't really know the stroke. My goggles came off on my dive, scraping over my cheeks. I thought I might drown. By the time I finished, the other girls were already out of the pool.
Looking at myself in the changeroom mirror, I remember thinking that my arms looked muscled and huge. I was built "like a freight train" said my very first boyfriend, also a swimmer. He was paying me a compliment.
In University, I was okay at first. I didn't own a scale. But when I realized I was back up to 130 lbs, I immediately went on something called the "Ultra Fit Diet" -- an idiotic thing that involved drinking protien powder and eating as few as 500 calories a day. I made it back down to 115 lbs, at which point my boyfriend at the time said, "I'm afraid I'm going to break you," which was exactly what I wanted to hear.
I left school and stumbled through my 20s and my weight crept up, keeping pace with my growing anxiety. In 2004, right before I moved in with Darrell, there was a constant churninging in my gut, a steady stream of fight or flight adrenaline in my blood. Eating until I was full -- too full to move -- helped slow my fast-beating heart.
In early 2007, I weighed 170 lbs. I lived entirely on simple carbs and alcohol. I had new, angry-red stretchmarks around my belly button. Concentric circles of ragged skin, a result of repeated rapid weight losses and subsequent gains. When I couldn't fall asleep, I'd think obsessively about my stomach and the way it sloped down to rest on the mattress.
And I'd cry.
Back in Toronto, alone in my new, singles apartment, I lost 30 lbs quickly, eating approximately 800 to 1000 calories a day and playing sports five times a week.
But in 2009, I had minor health issue and went on a medication that comes with weight gain as a common side effect. In less than 6 months on the drug I zoomed back up to nearly 160 lbs. New budgundy stretchmaks appeared below the faded white ones.
And it's making me crazy. Because for once, I'm actually healthy. I eat things like quinoa and kale in normal, human amounts. I exercise occassionally, but not obsessively. My partner thinks I look great. But when I see myself, the first thing I think of is "fat." I think of the numbers on the scale and want to cry.
"You are disgusting." That's what I hear in my head. That's what I've always heard.
I NEVER think this way about other people. Never. I don't even like the word fat. Intellectually, I think of it as a kind of hate speech.
I only do this to myself. I only have the capacity to be this mean to myself.
I'm not a stupid person. I know it's crazy. But the knowing doesn't seem to translate. Why am I like this? How did this happen? And how can I keep it from happening? That's the most important thing. It's the thing I think about even more than the weight itself.
How can I keep this from happening to my own little neice, my own someday daughter, every other sad little girl? How can I keep them from being like me? Do you know?
* All images from Stock Xchng, by (in order of appearance) Rockelle Munsch, Phillip Collier, Marcelo Gerpe, Stephan Fleet, Alfonso Lima.
 I keep trying to give blood and the folks at Canadian Blood Services keep sending me away.
Not for any particularly upsetting reason (a few months ago, it was a slightly low iron level and this weekend, it was a recent booster shot) but nonetheless, it's a little frustrating. I am trying to give, people. TO GIVE.
Apparently, a life of charity is not so simple.
It's a busy time of year, what with all the religious hoopla and a whole rash of birthdays, all at once. It means an abundance of "family time" which, as you can imagine, is oh-so-relaxing.
My parents (bless their evil hearts) are on a campaign designed to worry me into leaving my job.
They regularly try to convince me that I make no money and will soon be landing in a cardboard box . I think the long-term goal of the campaign (which, to be fair, is well-designed and insidious, founded on the principle of the sneak-attack) is to get me to return to the golden handcuffs. You know, a fat pay cheque, a good title, a career they can brag about.
In my more charitable moments, I try to remind myself that they do this because they mean well. They're worried and in transferring that worry to me they are only trying to help.
But like I said, that's in my charitable moments. In my regular moments, I think they're being asshats for no reason, as is the Selk family way.
What's the right thing to do? To strive to give, if you can. No matter how many times we are beaten back, they key is to keep going back, sleeves rolled up, heart filled with naivete.
*Image by MPMthe1from Stock Xchng.
 I have to talk to you about my niece Katherine and her relationship with Sesame Street's Elmo. Katherine thinks Elmo is her boyfriend. She hangs on his every word. She pines for him when he's not around. He is often the first thing she thinks about in the morning. Katherine is in love with Elmo.
This is an amazing and amusing thing. Basically everything related to that baby - she, being the cutest baby in the world - is that way. It's the most fascinating thing about very small children, in my opinion. They just get to DO stuff. And it's always okay. Everything is cute. Everything is acceptable. Babies have it made, man. I want to throw things at my boss, insist that other people give me their food, and say no more readily, but I can't. Babies can. It's a racket.
Elmo is also fascinating. Introduced in the mid-1980s to tap into the pre-school viewership psyche more directly (Big Bird being a kindergarten aged four, and therefore a little too grown up to appeal), Elmo is by far Sesame Street's most recognizable and popular monster. I'm slightly sad that Katherine, at 21.5 months, isn't more discerning in her tastes (I admit, I want her to show off her individuality) but at the same time, I have to concede that Elmo is pretty hilarious and adorable.
For those of you who don't know, "Elmo is an furry, red Muppet monster with an orange nose. He currently hosts the last full segment on Sesame Street, called "Elmo's World," which is aimed at toddlers. On "Elmo's World," Elmo is accompanied by his goldfish, Dorothy, and the Noodle Family—Mr. Noodle, his brother (known as Mr. Noodle's brother, Mr. Noodle), and his sister (known as Mr. Noodle's sister, Ms. Noodle).
The character is self-described as 3-and-a-half years old, and refers to himself in the third person. He is seen somewhat infrequently with a favorite toy of his: an orange, monster-like doll named David. Elmo lives with his mommy, his daddy, and an occasionally appearing sister named Daisy." (From the Facebook Fan Page ... yes, such a thing exists).
My favourite bit is the bit about the Noodles. They often "use their noodles" to figure things out. That's comic gold, if you ask me.
Anyway. When I talk about this stuff, or wax on about the baby, people tend to wrongly assume I myself am baby crazy. I am not baby crazy. Not even close. I am fascinated by other people's babies, because (as already mentioned) babies are a racket. Besides that, babies seem to like me and if you know me you know that there are few things I like more than people liking me (I'm so pathetic), but the thought of having my own creepy, parasitic monster makes me want to do tequilla shots. Fact.
I just wanted to tell you about Katherine and Elmo because. Because. That's my reason. It's a love story for the ages. Elmo and Bean: the new Jack and Rose. I love it.
xo,
Auntie Jenny
Today I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I got up early (6:30 a.m.), and immediately went out for a walk and a coffee. Back in Vancouver, when I was writing full time, I did this every day. I woke up early every day (because things were weighing on my mind) and immediately rolled out of bed and onto the street.
Writing is so solitary. And I worked from home. I needed to get out. Without those Starbucks mornings I sometimes wouldn’t see another soul all day.
(Don’t flame me for being a corporate whore. It was Vancouver. Starbucks is just what’s available.)
I like being alone, listening to my music, reading my books, living my quiet me life, but it’s not good to entrench yourself too deeply into that sort of thing. Consider the rhesus monkey experiments. I know Harlow is about maternal deprivation, but so what? The point is the contact and the comfort. Poor little rhesus monkeys. I hate to think of them. And the Romanian orphans. All that stuff. People need people. Most of us are asshats, but that’s just the way it is. I’ve given in.
I got a job. Believe it. I start tomorrow. It’s hard to know what to expect. On some level, I feel I’m taking a risk. I’m also taking a fairly significant pay cut. But apparently a couple hundred people applied, and it’s nice to be picked out a crowd like that. (Showed YOU, naysayers!) I never wanted to be a journalist anyway, right? It just sort of happened. It came easily. But it’s better to get on a new path. The only thing I’m a wee bit bummed about is that I know my lifestyle is going to change. I know what I’m like when I’m working. Focused. I tend toward workaholism. I can’t help it.
So no more sleeping in. No more wandering aimlessly through the days in my pyjamas, reading poetry and philosophy, and sad novels. Back to regiment. I’m looking forward to it, actually. But this lazy year in academia has been good too. Restful. I needed that (more than that) after the way big media broke me down.
Speaking of things breaking, I’ve been very clumsy these past few days. I tripped and jammed my knee into the door frame, bruising it. I tore one of my favourite shirts. I broke a plate, a glass, AND the porcelain rise-cup in my bathroom. I cut my hand on the shards. This is the kind of destruction that makes me philosophic. Makes me think about how quickly things get ruined. Isn’t it maddening? You get something new, something that you really like, and it’s perfect and beautiful and exactly what you need, but it doesn’t stay that way. One wash and it doesn’t fit right anymore. One stumble and it’s cracked. Often, when I get something new, I look at it and think about how long I’ll have with it. How long it’ll be before it’s ruined. I’m generally careful with things, but I can be careless too. I wreck stuff.
I make stuff, but I wreck stuff too. That’s me.
With the new job starting Monday, I’ve been tying up loose ends all weekend. Working on AGENCY. Sigh. I’ve also been doing a lot of cleaning. My family laughs about my tidy tendencies. I apparently live the legacy of my fastidious grandfather. What’s funny is that I used to be terribly untidy. Still am, sometimes. I like to make a mess, maybe in part because I like even better the idea of cleaning it up. Cleaning is so calming. So many things yield invisible results, but cleaning is tangible. I find it soothing to wash a huge pile of dishes, for example, to see the dirt swirl away and everything made right again. I find it peaceful. And clean sheets, I love those. Often, if I’m bummed about something, I change my sheets. That’s the sort of thing that shouldn’t be underestimated.
I know I promised I’d write more coherent, topic-based posts, but this isn’t one. I’m sorry. Stick with me. I’m near through.
I finished watching Firefly, finally. I can’t believe how late I came to the table on this. I should have watched it years ago. I tend to shy from Sci-Fi, but the show charmed me. I rented Serenity last night too, but haven’t gotten around to watching it yet. Kaye and I went to the Jays game today. Despite her threat to heckle belligerently, she behaved relatively well. And we sang the official Ladies’ All American League song, and people turned to listen, and it was pretty. In other words, there were lovely moments. Unfortunately, we were so far up in the bleeds, I was pretty much terrified of falling the entire time. And it was a crap game. Boring as anything. Sigh. It was still good, though. Good distraction.
Let’s wrap this up, shall we? (You know me. I love to end a blah-og post on a deliberately emotional and baffling note, so here goes.)
Yesterday Craig said something funny to me. He said, “Fuck. I hate caring.” I couldn’t help it, I laughed. That sums up a lot, doesn’t it? I hate caring too. But we’ve already discussed this. The alternative is worse. Still, I sometimes wish I could stop. I’d like to rock shut as a seashell. If only. But I’m going to try, I think. My instincts, alas, don’t drive me that way. What I naturally want to do is to open, to DO something. To fix. But I’m not going to. I can’t be the fixer fighter all the time. People have been telling me that for years, and this time, darnit, I mean to listen. I mean to learn. Shut, I say. I shall rock shut.
The true truth is, there’s only one thing I’m heart heavy about at the moment. One thing. And when you think about the world, the terrible world, that’s nothing. One little thing? I can carry that. I can put it in my pocket. I’ll walk along and it’ll weigh me down for a bit, but it’ll get lighter. Eventually, it’ll get so light it’ll disappear entirely. That’s what happens.
Another storm’s coming. I missed this truth about Ontario, but I didn’t realize how much. I missed the violence of it, the sudden blackening skies, the streaming, steaming streets. Last week, on my way home late at night, I got caught in a sudden rain and I was soaked through. Unbelievably. Water literally filled my shoes, my bag, everything. I couldn’t see. I could barely hear above the pouring.
Think how clean you might get, caught in a storm like that.
Jen
Despite the fact that I’ve known this for awhile, it always surprises me when people remind me that they think my job is a bit of a joke. (Or better, that it isn’t a job at all.)
Here’s why I’m on about this: I’ve been interviewing for part time jobs lately. Mostly small magazine stuff. I have plenty of experience, and I’m just looking for a non-taxing thing to put a little extra money in my pocket while I ride out my scholarship. So all in all, I’m not worried about finding something, somewhere. Ideally, something that doesn’t pay sad peanuts.
Now, onto specifics: Early last week, I had an interview that went fairly well. That said, even if they offer me the job, I’m not going to take it because the pay is just too little. Going in, I hadn’t realized, but now that I know what they’re offering, I’m just not into it.
Don’t get me wrong, sad pay in writing isn’t something that surprises me. The industry is like this. The general consensus among people on the inside seems to be that dues must be paid. There’s no a HUGE amount of money to go around (ha-ha, yeah right) and therefore, the “young”, who should be thanking their lucky stars to have found jobs at all, must work for free, for years in some cases, until deemed experienced enough to make chump change. Way down the line, when our hair is grey and we’ve taken to wearing draw-string pants and glasses on a beaded chain, maybe things will be different, but for now… forgetaboutit. And we do. Because that’s the way it is. And there’s always going to be someone younger and with less pride, riding on Daddy’s dime and living at home rent-free who will be willing to those things we refuse. It’s a cycle. It’s bullshit and it’s wrong, but there it is.
I’m not allowed to complain about this. Trust me, people don’t get it.
Here, a little history: My first major story (in a reputable, widely distributed publication) came out in October of 2000. Let’s round up and call that seven years ago. Seven years isn’t nothing. Yet people seem to think I’m just starting out. And by people, I mean my parents, for one. Or two, rather.
When I explained to my mother that I wasn’t much interested in the job with the crap pay, she was obviously confused. The implication being, of course, that I should be GRATEFUL to have a job at all (especially considering that I don’t do “real” work). I quoted the dismal hourly rate to her and she replied, predictably, “That’s a lot!” I responded that it was less than cashiers, bus drivers and jr. administrative assistants made, but that didn’t seem to make much of a dent in her thinking.
Whatever. My mother is crazy. And in the end, it’s her worry about me, her fear that I’m stupid about money (which I’m not) that makes her like this. That’s fine.
But then, today… TODAY I became more annoyed about the issue when, after speaking to my mother, my father joined in by calling me up to reiterate that I’d be stupid to turn my nose up at the low-paying gig. In case you missed it the first time, I’ll remind you that the implication of this is that I should be grateful, that I should consider myself lucky, and that, of course, I shouldn’t get too big for my britches. (I get it, you two. Okay? I get it.) After all, as Pops pointed out, cashiers and truckers might make more than the amount quoted, but then again, they had to work their way up to that.
Remember the years I’ve been working? Quoted above? Remember those? Did I imagine them, or what?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I think cashiers and bus drivers and administrative assistants are great. They do hard jobs for very little money, and that isn’t cool. I’ve been there. But I also think, what does that have to do with me NOW? I went to University, okay? (A good one!) I’ve been working full time for more than five years and writing and editing professionally for more than that. So why, WHY does everyone seems to think that if only they chose to, if only they deigned to pick up a pen or sit down at a keyboard, they could do exactly what I do, only better. That’s the thing that bothers me MOST. The idea that writing and editing aren’t skills. That they’re talents (and not a particularly special ones, since anyone could develop them if only they bothered. Or rather, if only they’d been as lucky as me, and not been forced to “grow up” and get real jobs in the real world).
I never know what to say in these situations, so I don’t say anything and then I get mad, like I am now.
I AM grateful, okay? I am. But I’m not lucky. None of this has been luck. It’s been work. The things I’ve received haven’t just fallen into my lap. I went out and got them. I worked for them and won them. So how many boots am I going to have to lick, exactly, before I’m worth something?
I’m just wondering.
Blogging about this is silly, I know. For one thing, I shouldn’t be fussed about it. I mean, who cares, right? It’s not going to change anything. And worse, blogging about it is only going to make my ridiculous parents mad, which will only make my life more difficult. So I should just quit right not and not post this, I know. Except I’m going to. Because I know I’m write and I know that at least a couple of you guys – you people I don’t really know, in other countries and other jobs – are going to email me about this and agree with me and make me feel better. And that will be nice. I know I’m right, but it will be nice to know that other people think so too. So I’m looking forward to that. Don’t let me down.
Oh, and before I forget, if by chance you disagree with me or have something negative to say, or don’t like it or whatnot, then you can just … well, fuck off and die, basically.
Love,
Jen
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