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December 17, 2008

HAVE PANTS, WILL TRAVEL

I was on the MTV After Show again last night (not sure how many times that makes now) and in addition to being engaged in yet another discussion of my age - "you're 28?! You do not look that old!" - and my "ethnicity" - "I thought you were, like, Latina!" - I was also told for the first time that I bear an uncanny resemblance to American Fererra. That's right, webheads. Ugly. Betty.

UglyBetty

Now, to be fair, the After Show Friends who made this connection were talking more about how I sound than how I look, and they were talking about America the actress, not Betty the character, but still. I'm not sure I liked it.

Don't get me wrong. America Fererra is beautiful. And she doesn't seem like an idiot, so I don't think anyone was trying to insult me. But still. I guess I'm just a bit tired of this "you know who you remind me of?" thing. Am I really such a doppleganger? Am I not me? Am I not unique? People are always mistaking me for someone else, or telling me I look like so-and-so or "that girl from the teevee." (Though these days, that could mean I actually look like... me, couldn't it?)

Here's the latest list of people I apparently remind other people of (celebrity version):

America Fererra


Neve Campbell


Michelle Rodriquez


Eva Mendes


Pocahontas (seriously)

Shall we play that old Sesame Street game? One of these things is not like the others? One of these things just isn't the same? Too obvious?

The first four are flattering, I know. I should be so lucky. As for the last one, all I can say is that someone seriously told me that. That I reminded them of Poca-fucking-hontas. What does one say to that? Actually, what does one say to any of this? I mean, thanks. Thanks for telling me what Not-Quite-White means to you? Thanks, guys.

But back to the America thing. What do you think? Here's a few clips of her in interviews, so you can listen for that uncanny vocal resemblance, at least:

On Ellen.
On Jimmy Kimmel.
On Letterman.

What does this mean? I have no idea. Maybe I can be America's voice double. Maybe dubbing for The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants sequels is in my future. Maybe. I guess the bottom line is that I AM AMERICA. (But wait - wouldn't that make me Stephen Colbert?)

This is getting confusing. Recent clips of me on the MTV will soon be linked to via the film/tv page, if you wanna check 'em out.

Peace Out, Homies,
America! (Jen!)


Decmeber 9, 2008

YOU SLIP YOUR HEART INTO MY CHEST

I've decided something. It's about winter. It's about winter and snow and you're not going to like it. It's about how I love winter and snow and about how you should too.

(You might want to stop reading now. This is just going to get worse.)

Know what else is only going to get worse? Winter. This is just the beginning, people. This is still fall. What's coming is months and months and months of much much worse. And if you can't like it, if you can't try to love it, in fact (in the way you might love a little sibling you're not sure you really wanted) I think you'd better move. Because this is it.This is just something you're going to have to accept. It's an inalienable thing. It's time to embrace the winter. To revert to smart seasonal dressing. (Think snowsuits. Think balaclavas.) To take advantage of the toboggan. To look up and out instead of in and down.


a picture I made for Patty on the dreaded facebook - she is a hater of snow

I didn't always love the winter. It crept up on me, this feeling. But it's here now and I'm in it. All the best things happen in winter, I've decided. All the most delicious moments and most memorable memories. And the snow! The snow, guys! Everyone complains and complains about it, but snow is actually amazing. I mean juvenile poets have been using it as a primary image for ... I dunno, centuries? Those sort of cliches happen for a reason.


photos from wvs on flickr, click to see more

In the winter, Toronto is a city transformed. And when it's snowing, it generally isn't so cold. Really. Put on galoshes and go for a walk. You'll see what I mean.

I'm not being naive here. I know it isn't always going to be easy, this loving the winter thing. That's not how love works. It's going to be really hard sometimes. It's going to feel like it's always winter, never Christmas. Valentine's Day is going to roll around and break your fragile, February heart. It's going to wear you down. But you should stick with it, this hard and heavy love. It's going to make you so much happier, I promise. I know these things. I'm wise. I'm wise nearly in keeping with my years.

I am Lorelai Gilmore. I am Bumbles. I am Jane Frost.

If you're cold, you can slip your hands inside my pockets. If you need to.
Jen

P.S. Search strings that have brought visitors to my site since December 1st include but are not limited to:
  • nude bums
  • nice nude bums
  • nude photograpny
  • cock and bums
  • blood vial necklace
  • complicated kindness
If that's not comedy, I don't know what is.
-J


December 2, 2008

WE'VE BEEN THROUGH FAKE-A-BREAKDOWN, SELF-HURT, PLASTICS, COLLECTIONS, SELF-HELP, SELF-PAIN, EST, PSYCHICS, FUCK ALL

So, I'm a big fan of Post Secret. It's old news, and it's one of those things that I sometimes forget I like, and stop looking at for months at a time. And then when I remember it exists, there's always lots to read and see, which makes it ever-better and sort of extra delicious, which is a nice thing. 

PostSecretLogo

But I'm busy. I forget things. And one of the big things I forgot in relation to
Post Secret. was that I actually submitted several secrets of my own to the project back in 2006. This completely slipped my mind for over a year, until a few weeks ago when I was at a friend's baby shower and saw a copy of the latest Post Secret bA Lifetime of Secrets - on the host's shelf. And guess what was in it?

 PostSecretCover
MY SECRET.

Well, one of my secrets, anyway. I sent about four, and the truth is, I only have a vague recollection of exactly what I wrote, but I remember the styling, the gist of things, and how I was feeling at the time (terrible, truly) and the fact that I went all out in some respects and really unburdened myself. I also TRIED to get published, so I crafted my secrets carefully, and some of them were pretty ... contrived. In a bad way. 

I cannot, of course, tell you which of the secrets in A Lifetime of Secrets is mine, but I can tell you this: Frank chose the best one. The one that was the least contrived and the most true and ultimately, the most me. Which makes me think he's better at his job than I initially gave him credit for. Stupid me. I am so full of myself sometimes.

Anwway, it gave me a thrill. Seeing my little secret printed for the world to see in the book. It's nothing amazing. Nothing truly shocking. Just something small and  sad and true written in a moment when I was feeling small and sad and true. And I'm glad. I'm glad I made it into the book. Even if I can't (won't?) tell you which one it was.

PostSecretEggs

The thing about secrets is this: if something is really secret, (really, truly, fundamentally secret) you can't tell anyone about it. Not even one person. You have to keep it to youself. I know that, and have many many little things that I've never spoken of as a result. It's hard sometimes. To hold onto things like that. When you really can't share things, you sort of have to put them out of your mind entirely to deal with them. Except with Post Secret, you don't.  With Post Secret, you can tell everybody and nobody at the same time.

It feels good. Really good. I feel good.

I love December this year.

Your secret spilling blah-og friend,
Jen


November 11, 2008

LEST YE FORGET

Things are a happenin'. As they tend to do. Fall came, went, and came again in the meantime. It's on its last legs now, even if the calendar says different. I know better. I can smell the winter.

If you've been reading, you know I went to Vancouver for MJ & Kathryn's weddin'. Many future jokes will now have to be made about "keeping up with the Jones." I can hardly wait. Here's me and my homegirls at the reception and me with Craig, who served as my date. Note that I busted out my ten year old prom dress. Believe it!

CraigandJeninVancouver

KathrynsWeddingGirls

What else? My girl Kaye had a birthday and we celebrated with gluten free cupcakes. So here's a shot from that.

KayesBirthday08

And of course, Halloween happened. My favourite of the demon holidays. I dressed up as a Newsie. As in, a Christian Bale, Disney movie, circa 1992 Newsie. It was ... amazing. We partied with Cubans, as the pictures below may show.

Halloween08WithKath

Halloween08WithJosh

There hasn't been any karaoke lately, which is sad, but with the end of the fall softball season looming, that may change. (Yay!)

KaraokewithNeil08

And, of course, I continue to appear on the MTV After Show and to say inane things and funny things and things that have the audience booing me. It's fun, and nerve wracking, and lots of other things as well. I guess I should feel lucky. I guess I do.

JenatMTV

Anyway, there's your visual update. Consider yourselves informed. Go out and take a whiff of the winter. It's coming. It comes.

Love and Pixels,
Jen

November 6, 2008

IF THE LOVE THAT YOU GIVE AIN'T THE LOVE THAT YOU'RE GETTIN'

Fact: I hate concerts.

This is something few people would admit. It flies in the face of all things "cool." To hate concerts is to hate youth, and fun, and the urban and the now. It's much worse than hating hipsters and urbanity and the pretentious (all generally accepted forms of urban, pretentious, hipsterified hate). To hate concerts is - if the criticism I generally receive is to be believed - to hate music. It's like hating ice cream, babies, kittlens and puppy dogs.

If you hate concerts, people think you're fucking nuts.

Well... I hate concerts.

I'm sorry. I just do. I LOVE music, but (and?) I hate concerts. I'd rather go to the symphony than a traditional rock show. I'd rather go to the effing opera. I just hate concerts so much. I hate the mash of people. The way they bump into and elbow me and breathe on me and stomp on my feet. I hate not being able to see (and I never can because I'm only five four and the venues suck and aren't stepped). And I hate the venues! I hate the dingy, smelly, lame-ass, overpriced venues, with their stenchy, swampy bathrooms and bad-natured staff who scowl at you if you order a water (even if you tip). I hate the eye-rolling bouncers and the lines. The lines! Oh how I hate lines. I never want to wait in line, even when and where a line is relatively appropriate, let alone when it's for NO REASON in the blistering cold.

Dear Venue Bars,
Hi. I don't mean to be a douchebag here, but if you don't want me in your bar, then please, don't make me wait in line. Don't want my hard earned money for your overpriced, watered-down drinks? That's fine. I can go somewhere else. Just TELL ME THE TRUTH.

I mean, if there's no one in the bar, then WHY is there a line??? There shouldn't be a line. And if there are people in the bar, if the bar is, say, legitimately full, then THERE SHOULDN'T BE A LINE. Please, Bouncer-Men, tell me the truth. Just say "Sorry, miss. We're full." I'll smile and be on my way, I promise. You don't even have to call me miss.

SIGH.

It's sad, really. The fact that concerts are, in my opinion, so often awful. Awful 90% of the time, actually. Because I really do love music. Music I can hear. Music not played at an obscene volume and steeped in feedback. Concerts are a problem for me more often than not because they taint the musical experience rather than enhancing it. Thanks to the environment, the myriad of problems associated with venue bars, and city life, and selfish and obnoxious show-rat attendees, more often than not, I leave shows LESS inclined toward the band or artist I went to see in the first place. And that, my friends, sucks. It sucks balls. It sucks the bag. Big time.

So what's a girl to do? Suck it up, I guess. I may hate concerts, but no one else I know does, and I love my friends. And I love the sorts of little indy bands that play at the venues and in the environments I abhor. So I suppose I'll just keep going. I'l wear earmuffs in the lines and earplugs inside. I'll invest in steel-toed boots. I'll get over my physical space bubble issues. I'll touch strangers for long periods of time without panic. I hope.

I've seen some decent shows lately. Even considering the headaches, they were okay. I saw this country-type band One Hundred Dollars at Sneaky Dees last week (after a freezing two-hour wait in line). And I saw a friend of a friend's band - Key Witness - at The Horseshoe over the weekend. The music was good even if the overall experiences sort of blew. I like the idea of supporting small groups. So I suppose in the end, despite all my reservations, I am a person who goes to "shows" (as the cool kids say).
 
All I'm really saying here is this: In an ideal world, all concerts would be at places where we could sit comfortably and drink comfortably, and see comfortably, and hear comfortably. There'd be no bleeding ear drums, no sweaty elbows to the breast, no broken toes. Concerts would be less cool and more fun. Is that really so much to ask? In an ideal world? 

Since I'm wishing, maybe I should start with something a little more important, eh?

Curmudgeonly Yours,
Jen (apparently, a 98 year old woman)


October 17, 2008

GOT TO BUILD YOURSELF A LEVEE, DEEP INSIDE

Being in Vancouver again is strange. On one hand, as I stepped off the plane and into the airport, I felt a bit like I was nearly home. On the other, ever since I made it into the city proper I've distinctly felt like the home I had has been sold. Or burned down. Or occupied by squatters. And like if I knew what was good for me, I'd just head right back to the airport and the hell out of dodge.

I never know what's good for me.

A couple of year ago, when I was still living in Vancouver, I wrote a stupid little story for a stupid little magazine called Vancouver View (advertorial CITY) about Vancouver's Identity (or rather, lackthereof). It was a chatty little piece called Vancouver (Un)Defined, largely opinion based, and if I remember correctly, after the most cursory research imaginable, I pounded it out in less than an hour. (I was fast, man.) Anyway, I just reread it (you can read by clicking the link above) and it occurred to me that I was completely wrong. I said Vancouver was changeable, that it had a little of everything. And even though I think that was/is sort of true, my perspective on what that amounts to is totally different now. Vancouver isn't changeable, Vancouver is still. Not stagnant, but calm. Unchanging. Steady.

Despite the proliferating glass towers, the impending Olympics, the seeming diversity of the landscape, Vancouver never changes. It's comforting, this sameness. This mild weather that rides an undulating low wave season to season, this endless construction, this city of evergreens, ever green.

I'm here again and it's like I never left, which makes me all the more relieved that I did when I did. I might have been hypnotized here forever.

My friends MJ and Kathryn are getting married tomorrow up at UBC. I'm technically a bridesmaid, but they're not pretentious people and the wedding party doesn't have to match. I plan to wear my prom dress. My (more than) ten year old prom dress. This may or may not be the best/worst decision ever. I'm just so excited that it fits me again.

And I'm a cheapskate.

ANYWAY.

Being in Vancouver is making me think about a lot of things - like what home means, and who I am now in relation to who I was then and what it means to "be yourself." In 2004 when I was living in Vancouver and still relatively happy here, I saw the movie Garden State and heard the following in regards to home (and I know, I know, it's sort of overrated, but still):

"...When you move out it just sort of happens ... you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist ... You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start. It's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place." - Large

Ten years before I saw Garden State I was in love with the TV show My So-Called Life, and I remember hearing the following in regards to the second thing (the thing about self):

"People always say you should be yourself, like yourself is this definite thing, like a toaster or something. Like you can know what it is, even." - Chase

So that's what I'm thinking about. It's oppressively overcast and wet here, which is what strangers expect from Vancouver, but which I wasn't prepared for. I never felt it rained as much as people said it did.  I'm foolish, I guess. I didn't pack the right sort of clothes and I'm cold pretty much all the time. I miss my new home, actually. As much as I wanted to come.

Oh well. The wedding will be fun, I'm sure. MJ & Kathryn are great, and that will make it great. That's how these things work.

Love,
Prom Fashions Barbie, Alias: Jen


October 16, 2008

IN AN AEROPLANE (not) OVER THE SEA

Things I did on my annoyingly long flight to Vancouver included, but are not limited to:
  • Drinking (a cesear “spiced up”)
  • Watching a little bit of the US Presidential debate (horrendous)
  • Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel (one song, over and over and over)
  • Eating (overpriced sandwich and free bits and bites)
  • Thinking (about dehydration, mostly)
  • Blogging (right now!)
  • Staring (at the window at my reflection)
  • Winking (just for practice – left eye, right eye)
  • Reading (ALL of Augusten Burroughs’ book Magical Thinking)
In regards to the last item on the above list, which is, I suppose, the most substantive thing I did on the flight, I have this to say:
Is it not crazy that it took me a literal MONTH to get through the last book I read, and just a few HOURS to get through this one? I think it is. Crazy, that is. That’s not to say that I liked this one more. In fact, I probably liked the last one more. Lots more. But I’m still disturbed by the time difference. Do the math!* I mean, it took me like, three hours to read Magical Thinking. It took me like 6000 hours to read Disturbances in the Field. That doesn’t even seem POSSIBLE. Conclusion? Math is no good.

My dad loaned me the Burroughs book, probably because I got him onto David Sedaris earlier this year and the styles are remarkably similar. Shockingly so, actually. Upon loaning it to me, he (my dad) remarked that he thinks the three of us (Burroughs, Sedaris and me) write similarly, actually.

I don’t know about that. I really doubt it. I know that I write an inane and sometimes insane little blog about things I’m thinking and things I’m doing and every once in awhile, I’m funny. Or you’re touched. Or whatever. That’s cool. But never have I drowned a mouse, nor have I an alcohol addiction problem, but that’s just me. I’m also not a caustic gay male, prone to rhapsody about the 1970s.**

Sure, I went to Catholic school (which will fuck anybody up) and I was jealous of my sister and I spend many years being profoundly unhappy. I also have some obsessive compulsive tendencies and a need to be liked, but I’m nice to almost everyone and you can’t write a memoir and be nice at the same time.

I see niceness as a sort of life philosophy for myself, and if you’re nice, you can’t always be honest, and if you can’t always be honest then you can’t write a good memoir. That’s just the way these things work.

Not that I could write a good memoir anyway. It’s utterly pretentious to write a memoir in your 20s anyway. Nothing’s even happened to me yet. So were I to write a memoir it would be one of the following two things:

Made up.
Utter rubbish.

Land, you stupid plane. LAND. Love,
The Flying… Jen


* Note: this math is not actual math.
**Which isn’t to say I disliked any of Sedaris or Burroughs’ books. I
didn’t. They’re great.

October 15, 2008

FLIGHT OF THE NAVIGATOR
So I’m sitting on an airplane, somewhere over Minnesota (nearish to Duluth if the West 
Jet LiveMap is to be believed, which of course, it isn’t,since the illustration of the plane is
about 1/10th the size of the illustration total, which makes it seem like I’m on a jet that’s
at least the size of Lake Superior – or something – which I am not, but I digress).

I’m here, on this plane, winging my way to Vancouver and thinking about the fact that it’s
been hours since I ran my last errand, and about the fact that this trip is supposed to be
fun, and about the fact that I’ve had two drinks (one at the airport, one in flight) but have
yet to relax, which is pretty telling when you think about it. Clearly, this adrenaline/starbys
thing has gone a little far. I mean, clearly my life has gotten away from me a little bit.

I figure I can spend the next four days in Vancouver getting back on track.

Now, before you start thinking that this post is going to degenerate into some kind of Emo
Elf’s Lament (what?), I should make a few things clear:

1. I’m actually not complaining.
2. I actually LIKE being this busy.
3. Whenever it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m really (most likely) bragging.

I really am. I really do. I’m really not. Facts, the lot of ‘em.

Ultimately, being this busy (and to a lesser extent, blogging about it) makes me feel
capable and powerful and on-top of everything. And when I say “makes me feel” what I
really mean is makes me realize. Or rather, remember.

I may seem diffident and self-deprecating (particularly in person and maybe to a fault) but
I think I’m like that in part because being like that masks a truer and less appealing truth
about me, which is that I really think a lot of myself.

I mean, if I’m telling the truth, the fact is: I think I’m pretty fucking awesome.

And for all of my prostrating and apologizing, the real truth about me is that I rarely
actually believe I’ve done anything wrong or made any real mistakes. All of my anxiety
stems from the fact that I’m extremely concerned with you. All of you. And the idea that
you might THINK I’ve done something wrong (WRONGLY, on your part, of course –
egregiously so, because I HAVEN’T). And I really want you to like me. And so, I become
concerned. But it’s not really for the reason you think it is.

Dig?

These are commonly referred to as “issues” – as in “Jen Selk has issues.”

I do. I know I do.

So. Yeah. I may be (and most likely am) mentally unstable, but at least I’m self aware,
right?

Anyway. The awesome LiveMap is now telling me that the disturbingly massive cartoon
plane I'm sitting in has crossed the state line into North Dakota, which is relatively
believable considering that there is a lit patch of city with a mottled edge like the
meandering and asymmetrical border of a malignant mole blighting the night below. I’m
guessing it’s Fargo. Or maybe Grand Forks. Or even Bismark. (Stupid LiveMap. I hate it.)

Regardless, I think it’s time to stop blogging. My hand is cramping anyway. And there’s
a long weekend ahead. Must conserve emotional energy.

Vancouver looms, if not literally, then at least figuratively, and along with it will come the
charred wasteland of my former life.

The question is not so much about if you can (or can’t) go home again so much as if you
should. Particularly considering the napalm.

I’m going to listen to some Neutral Milk Hotel on my ipod and wait for wisdom. I’m not
wise, but the right answer might come to me anyway. I’m lucky that way. Whatever else I
may be, I’m that.

xo,
Jen


October 9, 2008

I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW

I know. It’s been a month. What can I say? In my last post, I expressed fatigue, didn’t I? A certain fedupedness?

 

All I’m saying is that you should have expected this. In addition to being fairly uninspired of late, the bottom line is that woman cannot live on adrenaline and Starbucks alone. Sometimes, something has to give. And in this case, the something that gave was the blah-og. I’ve never been very regular at it anyway. I never promised you anything. (Did I?)

 

It’s been so long, I can’t remember.

 

So. What’s new. Nothing really. Or everything. I can’t tell. LET’S MAKE A LIST!

 

1. I’m still tired, but I’m happier about it.

 

2. I’m still on MTV about once a week (links at the bottom).

 

3. I’m still playing softball only once a week, but I’ve begun playing volleyball again and my knee stopped hurting, so that’s all sorted.

 

4. I’m teaching all the time. That’s kind of a weird thing. I like it more than I thought I would.

 

5. I’m going to lots of shows and events and being wildly social, despite resolutions to the contrary.

 

6. I’m watching lots and lots and lots of The Wire.

 

7. I’m reading the same book I started a full month ago (which is insane, because I could have read eight times as many in a regular month, but hey). Love it, but it’s heavy.

 

8. Nathan Phillipsquare is as taciturn as ever. I continue to feed him, regardless.

 

More to follow,

Jen

P.S. MTV Links:

http://www.mtv.ca/?id=1596445

http://www.mtv.ca/?id=1595909

http://www.mtv.ca/?vid=276469

http://www.mtv.ca/?id=1594717


September 10, 2008

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE DONE, OR IF I LIKE WHAT I’VE BECOME

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m tired.

I’m really, really, overwhelmingly, confusingly, soul-crushingly exhausted.

This is the result of a combination of things, not the least of which being that I made a resolution at the end of last year to ‘say yes to everything’. It was a great idea in theory, and initially a great idea in practice, but I feel like it’s starting to catch up with me.

Actually, scratch that. It’s already caught up with me. It’s passed me. It’s lapped me twice.   It’s kicking my ass.

I’ve also had houseguests for the past two and a half weeks and work is busy and nerve wracking and I am going to be on MTV again tomorrow night (The After Show, MTV Canada, 7:30 and 11:30 pm, FYI) and I still don’t know what I’m to wear. And (and this part is just me complaining and having a little pity party, and I don’t really mean it, but…) it feels like everyone wants something from me. They want something, but they’re not necessarily giving anything. And I may be making a lot of bad decisions. And my knee has been hurting for over a month now and though it’s been a bit better since I stopped playing softball three nights a week, it’s not better enough to actually make me happy to not be playing softball three nights a week. ☹

Like I said, I’m tired.

Beams started circulating at CERN today, in the Large Hadron Collider (the world’s largest particle accelerator) which is something I feel I’d like to blog about. It smells like a good metaphor. I don’t really know much (or, okay, ANYTHING) about particle physics or the LHC, but I know it has something to do with the origin of mass, and with dark matter and dark energy and big bang cosmology, and all of that seems like really good material. I just don’t think I have it in me at the moment to write about it. Ironically, the bottom line – which is that dark matter and dark energy are things nobody really understands (hence the “dark”) but which account for nearly all the mass in the universe – makes for the best and most basic metaphor, anyway.

I mean, there’s all this … STUFF, right? And we can’t see it, and we don’t get it, but if we send the stuff we CAN see rushing around in circles fast enough and long enough there will eventually be some sort of collision and that will help us figure it all out.

That works, doesn’t it?

I can’t even tell. I’m too tired to think about it.

Don’t mind me. I’ll be okay.
xo,
Jen


September 5, 2008

LIFE USED TO BE LIFE-LIKE. NOW IT'S MORE LIKE SHOW BIZ.

I have been remiss, guys. I know this. Things have been SO busy lately (though I know that's no excuse). Despite what my spotty posting habits may imply, I love you. You are my web-footed friends. Forgive me for being absent.

OK. The truth is I really shouldn't even be writing this post, so it won't be a long one, but I will give you the big news of the past few weeks. It really boils down to one acronym: MTV.

In the past few weeks I have become a "friend" on the "The After Show", which used to be this pop-culturey talk show about the show The Hills, but which is now not only about The Hills but about other aspects of pop culture and celebrity gossip as well. It's on live on Monday nights at 10:30pm in both Canada and the USA, and from Tuesday to Thursday live at 7:30, repeating at 11:30pm in Canada only. I've been on twice so far (yesterday, September 4th, 2008, and last Thursday, August 28, 2008) chatting and/or arguing with the hosts and the other "friends" about deep issues like if Daniel Radcliff is hot, if Heidi Montag's new music video is tragic, and if Sarah Palin is a horrible person. (Hint: the correct answer to all three of those questions is YES.)

I've also been blogging about The Hills a little on the MTV.ca website. I've written about Hills Characters Off The Hills and Hills Fashion so far. In the second post, a line has been added to my writing. It's something I would never write or say. See if you can spot it.

Editors. They're not always good.

Anyway, that the nooze for the moment. I promise a better update soon. It's September. Back to school time. I'm teaching. There's a chill in the air and I'm going to the beach this weekend. Things are pretty good.

That girl from the teevee,
Jen

August 18, 2008


EVERYTHING GROWS AND GROWS

TreeOfHeaven"It’s an
Ailanthus, known also as the Tree of Heaven. A persistent and resourceful little tree that was brought to New York years ago from Asia, and thrives in urban environments. A tree that can sprout in a crack of the pavement and under porches and decks and apparently, in cars. Dave’s plant will keep growing until it is nearly sixty feet tall. And at the end of every summer it will produce small yellow-green flowers. And in the early fall the flowers will be followed by beautiful, ruddy fruit, bearing seeds with little wings ... like maple keys. Its leaves will come late in the spring and every spring Dave will think his tree has died, until suddenly it comes alive. Every spring a miracle. And every spring when the leaves finally come, Dave will stand in his backyard and think of this summer and the tiny seedling he found in his car. And he will look at his tree and think … that things survive. Even without his presence. Even without him, life goes on. Life has a will of its own and he needn’t worry. His job isn’t to worry or do things. His job is to watch and wonder."- From Stuart McLean's Tree of Heaven

FeverFew"She bought some Feverfew – a plant that looks like a daisy – and she gave it to him to plant in his box. It’s an herb people say can cure fevers. A pretty little plant and the leaves smell good when you work around them and best of all it seeds itself, which means it will grow again next summer. Tough little thing. But you need to be tough to live in a concrete box all winter along with the Coke bottles and the straws. And the Feverfew is tough enough for that and not without dignity. And last weekend when she was grocery shopping Morley spent another five dollars. She bought a box of grape hyacinth bulbs and she planted them one night last week when Emil had left for the night, thinking as she scraped at the hard dirt in Emil’s box, that they’ll come in the spring and they’ll surprise him. Thinking about something she had read by Rohinton Mistry. Something about that fine line between compassion and foolishness, kindness and weakness ... wondering always about how firm to stand, how much to bend." - From Stuart McLean's Emil

Figs"Everyone knows about the tree. Everyone knows that Eugene grew it from a cutting that he brought from his father’s farm in Calabria, wrapped in a piece of linen and hidden at the bottom of his trunk. And everyone knows that every October, before the first frost, Eugene digs a trench in his backyard, three feet deep and three feet wide and thirty feet long. And when he’s finished digging the hole, he carefully bends the branches of the tree close to the trunk and ties them in place, and then he digs around the roots until they are loose and free of the earth and then he pushes the tree over and lowers it into the trench with ropes. The leafless, bound tree looks like a skeleton lying in the hole. The root ball looks like a giant head, Eugene like a grieving relative as he covers it first with planks and then with warm earth. He buries the tree. And when he’s finished, except for the disturbed earth, you wouldn’t know anything was there. And there is where his fig tree spends the winter, bound and buried, underground and out of sight. If he left it standing it wouldn’t survive the frost. So it winters below the frost. Until the warm April afternoon Eugene digs it out and stands it up and cuts the branches loose." - From Stuart McLean's The Fig Tree

AND AND AND ... that's how it goes.

Jen


August 15, 2008

THESE ARE THE DAYS OF MIRACLE AND WONDER?

Apologies for the ugliness.

Stupid fucking website is stupid fucking messed up. Hate technology today.

Argh.
Jen


August 14, 2008

TAKE IT, TAKE ANOTHER LITTLE PIECE OF MY HEART

Five facts about horcruxes:

* A horcrux is a receptacle in which someone has hidden a shred of his or her soul for the purposes of attaining immortality.
* A horcrux can be made of any normal object, including living organisms.
* There is no limit to the number of horcruxes a person can make, but as the creator's soul is divided into progressively smaller portions, natural humanity is degraded and the individual becomes more and more unstable.
* A horcrux can be sealed within another living human without that person's knowledge.
* Horcruxes are extremely difficult to destroy and are impervious to convential means of destructions (smashing, breaking, burning, etc.)

I suggest you go off and think on that for a bit.

In other news...

Here are five things people have said to me in the past five days:
* "Yeah, 'cause when I think Jen Selk, I think STREET. You're the streetest person I know."
* "I wish you could come to the stagette. I am not going to do any of the stupid things people think I should do. 'Fuck you, party girl! Go lick your own stranger!'"
* "I love men. I also love you."
* "Boys have problems. This is what I've learned."
* "What's this Jelmo business? It's cute."

Here are five things I've said to other people in the past five days:
* "I could never look prettier than you. Unless I decided to kill you and wear your skin like a coat."
* "Before you say anything, let me define the moment. This is not a tough love moment. This is not a teasing moment. This is a 'I love you, and everything you do is magical and perfect and you're not bad to look at, either' moment."
* "When you throw something away, you can't expect it to hang around on your porch indefinitely, but that's what I do. The garbage man rolls by and I'm all like, 'It's cool. I'm just gonna chill here until those idiots inside realize their mistake.' It's a problem."
* "All babies are cute. Even the ugly ones."
* "I'm Jelmo because there's always room for ME."

Did everyone remember to wish Harry (Potter) a Happy Birthday a couple of weeks ago? It was on July 31st. He turned 28. Same as me.

I'm just sayin'.

This post has been brought to you by the number 5 and the letter J, which stands for,
Jelmo


August 11, 2008

I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, SOMEWHERE OUT THERE

Man howdy, but the Internet is strange, ain't it?

Case in point: search strings. Here are some of the search phrases that have brought new visitors to my site recently:

"What does it mean when you wake up in the morning and see moving things in the walls or ceiling that resemble leaves or worms?"
"What happens when you drink three beers and take one asprin?"
"Expensive fancy pendants ladybug bootie."
"Dorkhead? You lash me with your words."
"Wooo Wooo Wooo Wooo Woo. Too many sleepless nights."
"Science misconception on cartoon spongebobsquare panteroony."
"Dance selk bum."
"Can't stop shivering, sick, vomit, sleeping a lot."
"Dope smoking monkeys."
"I caught a softball with my ungloved hand. Ow ow ow."

And my very favourite:

"Gay selk suck movies."

Seriously, guys. I'm not making any of this up.

In other web-related news, I got a fan mail the other day. It was kind of nice to get. Some fellow wrote me the following message:

"Hi Jennifer - i don't know you but i love you! read your script on the cruiser culture & thought the world of it. talk 'bought a noble cause ... it's nice to see someone leading the charge on the bike front media, you go girl! you've got your teeth into something bigger than you know! or maybe you do! cheers from california! -kev"

That's sort of adorable, don't you think? I mean, I so prefer to get fan mail than hate mail. (Was that an obvious thing to say? I think maybe it was.)

Speaking of fans, my girl Kaye has been mentioning me a lot in her blog lately, which is also kind of sweet. She's been doing book-themed posts, which I think is working for her. That girl reads like no one else I know. It's pretty impressive. And it's nice that she thinks so much of me. I've also been feeling a lot of love from my friend Kathleen lately. She sent me a surprise bouquet of flowers at work on Friday! WHO DOES THAT? It was amazing. The card was hilarious. Clearly, the person who took it down had no idea what she meant to say because it read,   "Because of you too cool. i Rate to see you sad." No signature. For a minute, I thought I might have an illiterate secret admirer. It wasn't disappointing to find out I didn't. It's nicer maybe, and safer, just to have friends. My urban family hasn't failed me yet. Anyway, that's another story. My point is this: Look at me! I'm foolin' people into lovin' me all over town. SO THERE.

That's the good side of things. The bad side of things is the creepy side. For example, I currently have a mystery web-stalker who works at Aon Reed Stenhouse Inc.
I know nothing about this person other than the fact that they seem to check my site daily, and tend to spend a significant amount of time loitering, which doesn't make much sense to me, since most of the content is static. (Who are you, mystery visitor? Why are you so interested? Do I know you? Are we friends? If so, why don't you just email me?) I'm terribly curious.

Questions to ponder:

1. How can something resemble both leaves AND worms?
2. What DOES happen when you drink three beers and take one asprin?
3. Do you think the person who was searching for "gay selk suck movies" was searching for me or someone related to me, or that selk was just a typo?

This week is, as usual, all about softball. And MTV. More on that later.

The Perdeids Meteor Shower will be happening tonight. If you're out and about and you think of it, look up. I might be looking up too. And make a wish, okay?

Perseids

Love from the inter-ether,
Jen


August 5, 2008

WE’RE ‘BOUT TO OVERDO IT

August, by the numbers. In the last five or so days I have:

Purchased
28 books (almost all from the $1 bin at BMV)
6 CDs (also from BMV, including the soundtrack to 90210)
1 dry salami (delicious)

Read
1 teen novel (The Hunter’s Moon)
1 comic book (Astonishing X Men: Gifted)
1 nonfiction journal (Arden)
1 really touching blog post

Watched
4 plays (Avenue Q, The President, Belle Moral, After the Dance)
13 episodes of The Wire
1 movie (When Harry Met Sally)

Sent
17 emails to Kathleen
9 text messages

Dreamt
4 anxiety dreams (2 ocean, 1 guns, 1 running)

I’ve also had 3 conversations with Nathan, a manicure, and 2 bowls of pasta. I’ve made 2 decent catches at softball, been promoted, told a lie, and been out in the evening 4 times in the last 5 days. And last night, I got 14 new mosquito bites.

Am I overdoing it? I think I might be overdoing it.

I’ve also been losing lots of keys lately. I don’t know what that means, but maybe I’d be better off with things that can’t be locked at all.

Anxiously,
Jen


July 31, 2008

WE DO ALL THE THINGS THEY SAY WE CAN'T DO

What exactly is a Pseduo? You webheads have been asking that question incessantly since my last post (in which I called Craig my Number One Pseudo). And I’m nothing if not accommodating, so here’s a (fairly long-winded) answer.

Fake Boyfriends and Why They’re Fabulous

an explanatory treatise on the Pseudo phenomenon

Linguistics

Pseudo is a shortened version of Pseudo Boyfriend, a phrase I started using (and feel like I coined) back in 1998 when Craig and I first became friends. Craig was not my first Pseudo, but if we’re going to have a linguistic discussion about the relationship between the signifier and the signified, then I think it’s important to note that he is linked to my adoption (creation!?) of the phrase.

The Pseudo Boyfriend (or, if you’re feeling like an inclusionist today, the Pseudo Relationship) despite what you may think, isn’t negative. The word pseudo may seem inherently critical in that it means fake, false or not genuine and is often adopted as a negative modifier, but I don’t believe the inauthentic is necessarily bad. It means not genuine, which isn’t the same as disingenuous, if you see what I’m sayin’.  

I think, as an adjective, the tone of the word pseudo is directly and inextricably related to the noun that follows it – in this case, boyfriend or partner. And a partner, if you ask me (and you did), isn’t a bad thing to have. As for Pseudo Partners, well, in some instances, they’re even better.

Some Pseudo Nostalgia

I adopted the word pseudo into my personal lexicon in the mid-1990s after a boy at my high school (who I particularly liked) began a yearbook quote to me with something along the lines of:

“There’s little beyond pseudo-depth that one can write in a yearbook, but…”

Oh man. Did I think he was sophisticated? Yes. Yes I did.

That boy’s name was and is Todd. (He’s actually a “facebook friend” now, and I’m sure will be shocked (and potentially amused) if he reads this.

He was older than me by, I think, five years. A boy who’d transferred to my school as a Senior to finish up after taking “time off”. I liked him right away. I didn’t have a crush on him exactly, but not being familiar with the Pseudo vibe, I just assumed I did. I had a tough time that year. Felt a little heart break. A lot of social pressure. And out of nowhere (and maybe as a result of that angst) developed this strange friendship that basically involved me and this relative stranger having three-plus hour conversations in which I’d pour my poor little teen heart out, which led to philosophical chatter about the ways of the world. It was oddly comforting.

I met Todd when I was fifteen years old, on the day after Labour Day, 1995. I remember because it was the first day of school. Since then, the truth is that we’ve only had a handful of real conversations. Less than ten, I’d say. But I credit him both with charming me with the word pseudo and maybe even with being my first actual Pseudo. I never wanted to date him. (I considered a five year age difference to be an absolute show stopper, which is pretty ironic when you think about what’s happened since, but whatever.) In the end, my friendship with Todd was essentially vague and distant. We were never truly close. But I liked it. And when the opportunity arose to have that again with someone else (and to make it better) I jumped at the chance.

Here Comes Your Man

Craig is far and away the best friend I made at Queen’s. He is fun. He gives me a hard time when necessary and is a fan of tough love, but also refuses to fight with me about anything, ever. (Which is to say, he never lets me pick a fight with him if my feelings are hurt, which is frankly the best and only smart way to deal with me.) We annoy each other at times (who doesn’t?) but I am never worried that we’re suddenly going to stop being friends, or that I can’t be straight with him about things, even if he isn’t going to like them (which, I find, is an absolute indicator of a good Pseudo Relationship). Craig is charming when he wants to be and makes a good date to weddings and formal work functions and other horrible events requiring dates. And he is one of only a handful of people (maybe five in the whole world) who has seen me absolutely lose-my-shit-fall-apart. He’s since admitted that he found it terrifying, but he’s still here. That’s Pseudo Love. My parents assume he’s either gay or that we’re eventually going to “realize” what’s actually going on and get married. I suppose that’s a possibility, but I doubt it. Know why? Because…

Pseudos Never Hook Up

Yeah. Never. Never EVER. The Pseudo Relationship is inherently platonic. It’s more than a traditional friendship, yes, but a Pseudo is NOT under any circumstances to be confused with any of the following*:

A friend with benefits.

A huckleberry friend.

A fuck buddy.

*with apologies for the use of fairly stupid and vulgar terms.

That’s the whole POINT. Pseudos are NOT THE REAL DEAL.

Hooking up is (literally?) the kiss of death to a Pseudo Relationship. On occasion, you can have an effective Pseudo pairing with someone you used to date. (I have one going right now with the boyfriend who caused the aforementioned teen heart break.) But if you’re crushing on your Pseudo for real, in the now, you’re probably in trouble. Real romance just brings too much drama into the Pseudo sphere. It takes the comfort out of the thing and lowers the relationship to the level of any generic dating drama. And that ruins it. Pseudos are, inherently, something more than all that. Something better.

So What’s The Real (Not Real) Deal?

Pseudos are people you go on dates with. They can be either gender depending on your preference (but to be a Pseudo, one must be of the gender you prefer with exceptions for bisexuality). They are not your best friends, neither are they the sorts of people you hang out with in groups, see at parties, and enjoy, but don’t particularly connect with. Pseudos are basically people you like MORE. They are people who, under other circumstances, you might have dated, but didn’t and don’t and won’t.   As a result, they are people you just … talk to.

The Pseudo Relationship is traditionally a one-on-one sort of thing. Pseudos have a lot in common, or at least a sympathetic understanding of each others' ideals and world views. Each finds the other endearing in some way. And most importantly, as already stated, Pseudos meet for traditional date-type activities (coffee, dinners, long-walks, etc.), but ultimately, it’s the quality of the interaction that counts. Pseudos are people you share secrets with. You discuss real stuff that might otherwise be reserved for actual relationships (serious personal history, family, heart break, deep and abiding views on pop culture, etc.). You see what’s appealing in each other, sure, you just don’t want to go there yourself. Maybe it’s weird, but it works.

Speaking Of Weird, Some Wild Card Issues (Flirting, Set-Ups, Etc.)

I want to make one thing absolutely clear, because I think there are a sticking points where people might pause on the road to buying the whole Pseudo concept: flirting is permitted. Innocuous flirting, I mean. Nothing that might truly be misinterpreted, nothing too aggressive. (Sidebar: I’ve often been told that I am a big flirt, which isn’t fair, really, since I think the judgment is based entirely on the fact that I giggle and smile   a lot, both of which are protective/defense mechanisms and neither of which I reserve for men, but I digress.) Some Pseudos are flirtier than others. My friend Nick, for example, is a flirt. That’s just who he is. But he’s a non-threatening flirt who uses silly, canned-lines for comedic value, and spreads that vibe among his friend-circle fairly indiscriminately. Craig, alternately, is actually not much of a flirt. He tends to reserve his flirting for women he’s actually interested in dating and/or hooking up with.

Strangely, I’ve found that flirting is most common with Pseudos not when both sides are single (which is what you’d expect) but when both sides are firmly linked to other people. I think this is because, if both people in a Pseudo Relationship are single, there’s really nothing definite keeping them apart, and flirting might therefore give rise to scary questions like “why aren’t WE together?” But if both Pseudos are with other people, if you carry the certainty that you’ve both (or even just one of you has) definitely chosen something else and therefore, the certainty that there is absolutely no potential for you as a real couple, Pseudos can partake in a little flirting with no pesky what ifs nosing their way in to ruin the vibe.  

And while we’re talking about vibes and what ifs, I think it’s worthwhile to mention that Pseudos often go through a period where they try to set each other up. I don’t know why. I think it’s an anxiety thing. It tends to happen early on, when the Pseudo Relationship is new and maybe unsettling because, let’s face it, many people aren’t particularly accepting of opposite gender friendships. Deep down, a lot of us are Harrys (as in, Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally) who don’t believe men and women can ever truly be friends. As a result, many new Pseudos pass through a period where they try to prove that they are NOT interested in the other person “that way” by pimping each other out.

In my experience, Pseudo setups rarely work out. Pseudos tend to be good at supporting each others respective Real Partner choices, but terrible at picking those people themselves. I think the mistake made most often is that we pick potentials for our Pseudos who are either just like us, or exactly the opposite, neither of which makes much sense. Nick and I discussed this the other day because he is my only Pseudo who’s never tried to set me up. When I asked him why, he was predictably cute about it. “Because I want you all to myself,” he said. “I don’t want to share you.” (See the Flirt Factor, mentioned above.)

The Oh at the End of Pseudo

In the end, all I’m really trying to do here is explain what a Pseudo is. And before you start thinking me a big pseudo slut, let me say this: I don’t actually have a lot of these relationships. I have a few. At the moment, I also have a couple of male friends you could say I’m Pseudo Dating, but they are not (yet?) actual Pseudos. It’s a small circle. It takes a lot to get in. I love these men because they are kind to me in a way the men I’ve actually dated have certainly never been. They’re steadfast and into the fidelity of friendship, which I love. And most of all, though I expect a lot of them, they never let me down. That’s the criteria. I guess it’s a lot to ask, but if you can get it, why wouldn’t you?


Pseudos are seriously good stuff.

Anyway. Asked and answered. You brought this on yourselves.

Love,

Jen


July, 22, 2008


ARE YOU READY FOR THE REAL REVOLUTION, WHICH IS THE EVOLUTION OF THE MIND?

Remember last week when I said I’d blog again tomorrow? ‘Member that?

I am SUCH a liar, eh?

Oh well.

Know what, interwebs? I just had the BEST birthday week/weekend. Like, it was way better than any of my birthdays have been in YEARS. My 22nd was pretty good, sure, but that was a long time ago, and this was just as good if not better than that. By far, actually.

Actually, by a mile. By a million miles. By a billion miles.

That’s how good it was.

To be fair, I suppose it’s not really saying much to say this birthday was better than the last few. I mean, my birthdays in recent years weren’t exactly a big deal. They were nice enough, sure, but with D’s birthday falling exactly one week before mine, and me being the … nicer (?) of the two of us, July was usually his month.  

That’s okay. It’s mine again now. And. It. Kicks. ASS.

Want to know what I did to celebrate? Okay. Let’s activate something resembling a photoblog.

Thursday Night: French Dinner with Craig, My Number One Pseudo.

Jen&CraigBirthday2008












Friday Night: Karaoke with the Boppers (Which had nothing to do with my birthday, but which I decided to THINK of as birthday related… no pictures survive, so use your imagination).

Saturday Night: Party and Dancing (At Home and the Velvet Underground)

28thBirthday












I got lots of neat presents including LOTS of books from Kaye, a comic book from Neil, clothes and pie and a hilarious bookmark from Patty, and two tickets to Avenue Q from my sister. And there was cake. Oh so much delicious cake (from Emily). And wine (from Elaine, etc.) And at least one Jäger shot from Rob. And generally excessive imbibing, which I regret just the teeniest bit. Most of all, there was fun. So much fun.

Sunday night marked the end of a massive social streak for me. That rainy recovery day was a relief actually. It gave me time to work out that I had been out EVERY SINGLE NIGHT for the past 25 nights. Every night! And I’ve been working every day and playing softball three times a week too. How did this HAPPEN?

I’m social. Or rather, I want to be social, but I don’t always succeed. I’m big on my quiet time too. But something’s just sort of shifted and I’ve become this huge … I dunno, party girl? No. That’s not right. I’ve just become something else. I don’t know what it is yet. Maybe I’m evolving. Or adapting. Something’s happening, that’s for sure.

On my birthday I got an email from my Vancouver friend Andy, whom I rarely talk to anymore, but often miss. His emails to me are some of the funniest I ever get. Anyway, I guess I must have told him a bit about my new busy lifestyle when last I wrote, because one of the things he put in his birthday message was this:

“That is so cool that you have become a party girl. Leaving for Kingston definitely changed me and I think it’s much easier to change who you are when you arrive in&nbspa new place. I know you were always fun, but fun in an antisocial hermit way. Still pretty fun, but with a little bit of ‘If you don't get off my land, I WILL KILL YOU’   mixed in.”

Was I? He’s kidding, of course, but there’s some truth to what he’s kidding about. If that’s who I was, then who am I now?

I am someone who feels like this (by NatalieDee)

DropDeadFredbyNatalieDee

 













And I’m someone who reads stuff like this (by Overheard):

Whispering



 








And sometimes when I play softball I look like this:

SoftballJen  












And I'm thinking for Halloween, maybe I'll be this:

Illyria










And I’m happy, that’s for sure. The happy is hanging on. It feels good.

Love,

Jen


July 16, 2008

EVERY POP SONG ON THE RADIO IS SUDDENLY SPEAKING TO ME
(sixth in a six-part series… which means, it’s over)

Cassette From My Ex
the stories and soundtracks of your earliest loves

Why I Like It: It’s emotional, earnest, and touching. I like it because it speaks. It speaks in the same way High Fidelity speaks. In the same was the first mix tape anyone ever made me spoke.

It spoke, I listened, and that was that. Everything changed.

cassetteMy musical tastes are pretty eclectic. I like almost everything (if we’re talking genre) and a very limited amount of things (if we’re talking songs). I like classical music and serious rap. I like opera, country and punk. I like, I like, I like. That’s me. But the thing I like most is sharing the things I like with other people. And I’m pretty sure that’s because of that very first tape. That very first mix.

I can’t remember if I was already totally enamoured with the first guy who made me a mix tape of if it was the mix tape that tipped the scales. I really can’t. I don’t know where that first tape falls in the chronology. I just know it was important.

So much care used to go into the process. When I look at that first mix, I can see the work he put into it, from the track list, to the pacing, to the deliberate setting of a particular mood. In retrospect, a lot of the music was terrible, but at the time I couldn’t see that. I couldn’t hear it. That small aspect of the bigger thing that was the tape didn’t seem to matter. It was about more than just the music.

I don’t even have a tape deck anymore, and I’ve considered getting rid of the tape (of all the tapes) many times, but the truth is, I don’t think I will. They mean way too much. Nothing, and way too much at the same time. They’re little bits of tangible nostalgia. Little bits of life recorded.

Lately, I’ve been making a lot of mixes. I don’t use tapes anymore (obviously). I tend to burn CDs from MP3s. But I put in the same sort of care I did when I was still making tapes. I make liner notes, covers, little pieces of art. I name the albums. And every time I do it, I take my cue from that first tape. That first tape that was made with so much care, just for me.

The latest mix I made was for my new friend Kathleen. I have a pretty major girl crush on her at the moment, which I guess explains things. I’ve had a lot of crushes lately. There’ve been so many new people in my life this year. As a result, I’ve made a lot of mixes. Here’s a list of last five – all compiled in the last three months:

  • Yesterday That Wasn’t There



  • The Arc of a Love Affair (It’s a Concept Album)



  • On The Other Hand… You Have Different Fingers



  • Beautiful, Sad and True?



  • The Cheese Stands Alone!




It’s ridiculous, I know. But people seem to appreciate it nonetheless. And that makes me happy. It doesn’t even bother me that nobody’s made ME a mix in ages. In years. (In fact, in so long, I can’t even remember the last one.) I really don’t mind. (I’m not being sarcastic here, I swear.) It would be nice, sure. I’m sure I’d be charmed. But it’s not about that. What I really care about - what I really love – is making tapes for everyone else. I like watching my new friends put their earphones on. I like watching their features as the music changes. I like hearing what they hear. It makes things new again. It makes things fresh. And I hope (I hope!) it makes them happy.

Because that – making them happy – is what makes me happiest of all.

ANYWAY.

Thanks for reading the web-series guys. I hope you liked it. It was fun to share some sites with you.

In exactly one hour, it will be my birthday. I feel good right now. Tired, and busy and happy. Happier than I’ve been in ages. I’ll blog again tomorrow.

I’m ready.
Jen


July 15, 2008

MAMMA SAID KNOCK YOU OUT
(fifth in a six-part series)

“My mum is just a mum, which is an unforgivable thing to say in any circumstance, except this one. She worries, she gives me a hard time about the shop, she gives me a hard time about my childlessness. I wish I wanted to see [her] more, but I don’t, and when I’ve got nothing else to feel bad about, I feel bad about that.” – from Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity
(which incidentally, will lead very well into tomorrow’s instalment. Stay tuned.) In the meantime, let’s talk about yo momma, specifically:

Postcards From Yo Momma
a repository of modern day maternal correspondence

On a meta level, I’m actually sort of against mom-bashing. Moms are ultimately and generally pretty good people. They made us, after all. And for the most part, they mean well. They care. They’re earnest. All that stuff is good stuff. But in reality (down in the dirty dugout, where I really live) I’m really all for making fun of the one that bore you.

Making fun of my own mother has made me friends, frankly. (Sorry, Ma.) Sure, the jokes are cheap and not particularly clever, and they capitalize on something that is, deep at its heart, just a wee bit mean, but the fact is: mothers are funny. They can’t help being that way. And if we find them so, maybe we can’t help it either.

Excerpts from the site:

The Launch Pad

Virginity

Ding Dongs

Sometimes, you’re in the mood for this sort of humour and Postcards From Yo Momma can deliver if you’re in the right sort of headspace . That nut-bag quality that seems to exist in all mothers is amusing. It is just is. It don’t mean she loves ya any less.

Admittedly, a ding dong,
Jen


July 14, 2008

I LOVE YOU PERIOD
DO YOU LOVE ME QUESTION MARK
(fourth in a six-part series)

Punctuation = comedy. Who knew?

The “Blog” of “Unnecessary” Quotation Marks
misinterpreting bad punctuation since 2005

Why I Like It: Isn’t it obvious? The “sarcasm”. The “silliness”. The “quotation marks”. It’s all just great, in part, because it’s all kind of inferred and constructed by the viewer. Misused quotation marks don’t automatically equal sarcasm, nor are they inherently funny... except that this “blog” seems to prove that somehow, they are. Good “idea”, “good” blog. I “like” it.

Check it:

Thank “God”

UnnecessayQuotes1






















You are Being “Observed”

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Well, that was “fun”.

“Jen”


July 13, 2008

EVERY LITTLE HEARTBEAT, EVERY LITTLE BREATH
(third in a six-part series)

I like street art. I like art in general, sure, but I especially like street art. I like the cleverness of it, the anti-capitalism of it, the authenticity (though, I’m not so naïve as to think all street art meets those criteria). Some does. This mostly does:

Little People – A Tiny Street Art Project
little handpainted people, left in London to fend for themselves

(also see: Inner City Snail: a slow-moving street art project.

Why I Like It: It’s hard to describe exactly what it is that makes this art so wonderful. It’s clever, yes. Intricate, yes. Smart and cheeky? Yes. And it’s often sad, too. Strangely poignant and beautiful and odd and unsettling. There’s an element of trickle-down inspiration at work here. Knowing that this project even exists makes me want to look more closely at the world. I think it inspires adult-appreciation of the minutiae, which is sort of like being little again. It’s kids, mostly, who looked closely at the ground, at the environment. They know all the blades of grass, all the cigarette butts, all the bugs. They find four leaf clovers and pennies and lost bits of jewellery all the time because they’re always looking, and this art makes me want to look too. That’s worth something.

Besides all that, the Little People project clearly takes a great deal of effort and a great deal of heart. The little people truly are left to “fend for themselves” and they’re often quickly destroyed and/or lost. They don’t last. Considering the work that goes into the hand-painting process, this must be emotionally difficult. Sure, the photos remain, but the art itself goes (though in the grand scheme of the project the photos are an essential part of the art-whole, I know).I really like Little People, because with them, Slinkachu does something hard. If his work is darling (and it is), he doesn’t murder it, exactly, but he does let it die. I wish I could do that.
 
Examples:

Little People in The City   (from his book cover)

LittlePeople1


Rush Hour (from Inner City Snail)

LittlePeople2InnerCitySnail

Slinkachu does other art as well. You can check it out through his “complete profile” link.

Tune in tomorrow for a little more.

In love with all things wee,
Jen


July 12, 2008

SMELLY CAT (IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT)
(second in a six-part series)

I’m going to start this instalment of the web-series with a caveat: I am not really a cat person. I am, in fact, allergic to cats. Not debilitatingly so, but enough to keep me from having one. Besides that, cats sort of freak me out. They’re always looking too intensely at things that are invisible. They seem to hear noises that I can’t hear. They eat bugs. And they bring you dead rodents as presents.

Cats, in other words, give me the heebie jeebies AND the willies. They’re just kind of weird.

Still, there’s some funny stuff on …

I Can Has Cheezburger
lolcats and funny pictures (of cats and other animals)

Why I Like It: I’m not sure I fully do. There’s some truly terrible stuff here. Cutesy, schmaltzy, treacley garbage of the worst unfunny sort is in abundance. But there are nuggets of gold to be found. Neil, who has been introducing me to all sorts of great stuff lately, turned me onto the site by selling me on the lolrus (see below) at a moment when I was particularly in need of a dose of the ridiculous, and I’ve been returning, looking for an equal laugh ever since. Lolcats and the fact that they exist at all is representative. The site ultimately represents a subsection of people who like their pets a bit too much, but at the same time, who are actively participating in an open forum community, interacting with the world, and generally making an authentic attempt to appeal to each other, to discuss, to be part of something. And that, in itself, is appealing.

Some examples:

1.       The Lolrus.
Lolrus

2.       The Lolcat (as related to the Lolrus)
Lolcat

3.       An unrelated comic:
Lolcat-xkcd-comic

This third image is not from I Can Has Cheezburger. It’s from a comic blog called XKCD (a webcomic of romance, sarcasm, math, and language).

It’s a cute site, and I felt this comic was relevant, but I decided not to post a whole entry about XKCD on its own.

More to come. (Not “moar kittehs” though. Fear not.)

Meow.
Jen


July 11, 2008

DOUBLEYOO DOUBLEYOO DOUBLEYOO DOT
(the first in a six-part series)

I’ve long been a fan of sites and blogs like FOUND and Post Secret. I wrote (or assigned/edited) stories on both sites several years ago. I’ve also submitted to Post Secret myself, though I’m not gonna reveal if my secrets have been published, lest you begin to know too much.

Anyway, what can I say? I’m into the internet. But I must admit, in recent years, my enthusiasm for viral web trends and clever blogs (like Stuff White People Like, Garfield minus Garfield, etc.) has waned a little. I’ve just been too busy, I guess. Busy with real life.

Luckily, I’ve come to the realization that real life is lame, and as a result, I’ll be posting a series on some of my wasting-time-on-the-web favourites. Some of this won’t be new to you. I’m not pretending to be a trendsetter. I’m just sharing. Make of it what you will.

The first installment is below, with additional installments forthcoming. I’ll post one a day, every day, until my birthday next week. So expect to read about six sites in total. Ready? Go!

Passive Aggressive Notes
painfully polite and hilariously hostile writings from shared spaces the world over

Why I Like It: What’s not to like? I think almost everyone who’s ever lived in the world has come across notes of this ilk. And we all occasionally fall victim to the overwhelming desire to pen such missives. Life is, and people are, after all, annoying. Roommates fail to wash dishes, strangers pee on the seat, coworkers the world over steal our Hot Pockets when we’re not looking. Such is life. And as such, PAN tells the truth. Mind you, what I really love about the notes on this site is what they say about North American culture, literacy, and the things that preoccupy us.   I love the wonky grammar, the typos, the misused punctuation, sure, but I can forgive all that, and besides, that stuff is only surface-level funny. What I really love most about these passive aggressive notes is that they unfailingly seem to exhibit a tri-part combination of illiteracy, unbridled AGGRESSION, and true insanity/delusion. Brilliant.

A few examples:

1.       To the Mens
PassiveAgressive1
2.       Potluck: I’ll Be Bringing Ribs and Hats
PassiveAgressive2

3.       Like a Clown Out of a Circus Cannon (Rocket Pubes)
PassiveAgressive3-RocketPubes

You’ve gotta laugh, right? Unless you choose to go the other way (which is to say, the way that leads you to weep with dismay at the state of humanity).

More webtastic webbery to come, guys. See you tomorrow. Get pumped!

xo,
Jen


July 8, 2008

COULD YOU PLEASE EXPLAIN THE HURTING?

Sorry the following photo is kinda fuzzy. I am not ambidextrous.

PoorHand

It’s just a bruise. Looks much more striking in person. Especially when compared to the healthy counterpart.

Hurts a bit, though. I admit, it hurts. People keep telling me to go to the doctor, but I ain’t gonna. Nosir.

What else? Well, I also started a fire in my apartment the other night because … well, there’s no because. It’s not like I did it on purpose. The lingering result is that everything I own now smells like burnt toast. My clothes, towels, sofa, hair, the air in general. Burnt toast, the lot of it. This is bothersome for many reasons, not the least of which being that I could totally be having a stroke right now, only ... how would I KNOW?

Ow. That’s what I have to say about that. Just ow.

Jen
P.S. Do any of you want to come to the Jays game with me on Thursday? I’m saddled with an extra ticket I already paid for and I’d hate to waste it. Yes? Email? Yes?


July 6, 2008

NOBODY KNOWS ANYTHING IMPORTANT

Okay, so not only is the blah-og sticking around, but apparently we’re going to pick up the pace a little.

This is… surprising, I know. Roll with it.

It occurred to me today that I haven’t been keeping y’all properly updated. I’ve been doing all this emo rambling, but I haven’t really been TELLING you anything, have I? Bad me. This must be remedied.

Before we begin, a teaser on the topics to be covered (because I want to entice you to read to the bitter end). So, webheads, expect to be enlightened on all of the following:

1.       Sporty exploits
2.       Work snafus
3.       My slow rise to super-stardom and world domination
4.       My deep and abiding love for a Hollywood c-lister
5.       My beta fish and his hotly debated name
6.       Recent near-death experiences (and the painful results)

&nbspReady, steady, go!

Agenda Item 1: Ballin’

My team won the Spring championship! That’s right. The Blitzkrieg Boppers won the recreational division playoffs a couple of weeks ago. We’ve consequently decided to move up a division, so now we’re playing at the intermediate level in the summer season (with a few player changes). Here’s a pic of the team (or rather, most of the team) after our big win:

boppers08Sorta pretty, ain’t it?

Agenda Item 2: Workin’

My office is FREEZING. So cold, in fact, that on Friday my boss offered to go out and buy me a blanket. Only, the lone store close by that carried anything blanket-esque was the dollar store. And the only blankets available at said dollar store were baby blankets. But you know, beggars can’t be choosers. Alas, I forgot I was wearing the darn thing and waddled into the afternoon staff meeting with it wrapped around my shoulders. So now more than half the staff has seen me swaddled in a too-small bit of baby-blue fleece covered with cartoon ducks and the words "quack quack quack". Adorable? Yes. Professional? No. Who wants to take bets on how long it’ll be before I get fired?

Anybody?

Agenda Item 3: Famin’ (Not to be confused with either famine or flamin’, neither of which I am experiencing.)

I’m gonna be on
Cosmo TV again. They’ve invited me back to the show Oh So Cosmo to speak about yet another item of vital pop-culture importance: PDAs. We may be shooting the segment tomorrow. What are your thoughts on the topic, guys? Public Displays of Affection - are you for them? Against? I’m not sure where I stand. I’ve been guilty of participation in the phenomenon of late, which isn’t to say I feel so good about it. Weigh in, would ya?

Agenda Item 4: Stalkin’

I’ve written before about how I love Zach Braff’s blog, right? (I have.) But the truth is, he’s a really unreliable post-writer, and as a result, I sort of stopped checking his site awhile back. It occurred to me last week, when I really needed a laugh, that it had been well over a year (and possibly even two) since I’d even glanced at it. So I spent a little time catching up on him last week and I’m so glad I did because that boy is really effing hilarious. Like, snort-out-loud-wish-he-was-my-interweb-boyfriend hilarious. One of his posts is titled, “Blog. Cog. Snog. Frog. Oh my Gog!” I’m sorry, I just find that so adorable.

Here are some additional choice excerpts:

“I’m not sure when or why the tabloid angle on me was decided that I am a cad. I would have much rather it had been that I am secretly a dentist or that I love soup … Yes; I am dating. When we shoot Scrubs I spend every waking hour of my life in an abandoned and haunted hospital. All I can date there are ghosts and they tend to be horrible snugglers. So anyway, blah, blah, blah. Don’t believe the hype.”

“What is the deal with all these myspace spammers lately? You’d think after Tom sold the company for 100 zillion dollars he’d spend a few bucks of it on trying to figure out how to stop that. Everytime I check my page there’s something like, “I love this fucking ringtone so much I wanna have sex with it all night long. I wanna impregnate this fucking ring tone. I wanna knock up this ring tone and marry it in Vegas, then have the wedding annulled the next day. That’s how fucking excited I am about this ringtone.”

“Remember Romper room when they would say goodbye to a few random names? They never said Zach. Stupid room.”

I don’t know why I like this stuff so much. I just do. Dear Zach Braff, you are adorable. I am a fan. I admit it. I admit fandom.

God, I wish I was funny (like that). I really do. Or you know, that someone equally funny loved me. Something like that. Although, this is a dangerous desire, I know. I read something in a novel about this idea once – this desire to be funny.   I won’t name the book, but in it, one character is sort of giving another single woman character dating advice and she says, “Don’t be funny. Funny is the opposite of sexy.” Later, the advisee protests. “Listen,” she says. “Funny is the best thing I am.” And the wise adviser, being wise, says, “Making jokes is your way of saying Do you love me? And when someone laughs you think they’ve said yes.”

That line gave me PAUSE, lemme tell you.

Okay. What else? (You’ve made it this far! Don’t stop now!)

Agenda Item 5: Namin’

You know Nathan, my beta fish, right? Nathan Phillipsquare? Yeah, him. I really love that little guy. He makes me happy. I named him Nathan for a variety of reasons. For one thing, it seemed a very Torontonian sort of a name and I was down with that. Also, I had no friends named Nathan at the time, so it was sort of neutral. Finally, I just thought it was funny (see above). Alas, over the last year, I’ve met a lot of Nathans. Four, actually. And recently it’s just become a bit awkward. Every morning It's like, "Good morning Nathan! I love you Nathan! Here are your pellets and yummy yummy blood worms Nathan!"

I don’t like it much anymore. So what do I do?

Patty is insistent that I should rename him Oscar (as in De La Hoya). She’s already started calling him that herself. But I don’t know if I can! I mean, I’ve had the little guy almost a year already! In human years, he’s like, 25 or something. What if, when I turned 25, someone had said to me, “Okay, so, the Jen years are over. We’re done with the whole Jen thing. From now on you are … Matilda! Be Matilda. Matilda is who you ARE. Go forth, Matilda. Prosper.”

That kind of thing would have seriously fucked up my identity, don’t you think?

Agenda Item 6: Hurtin’

I hurt myself at softball practice this morning. Like, maybe bad. Like, were I more readily able to cry in public, I might have cried, bad. See, I was pitching, and I guess pitching in such a way as to cause my team mates to hit a fair number of line drives at me. Nathan (see!?) hit two right at my head, basically. Both missed. The first whizzed by my ear in a disturbing way, but wasn’t super close. The second actually grazed my neck. I felt it. Yikes. After that, I was pretty skittish, but I kept pitching. My friend John was last up to bat and the whole time I was throwing to him I had a bad feeling. Tempting fate, you know? And indeed I was. He hit one right at my head, and I didn’t have time to think or duck or anything. I just instinctively threw my (right, ungloved) hand up to protect my face.

Result? Face: saved. Hand: fucked.

It’s taken me about a year to type this post, in fact. One handed, baby.

After this whole thing went down, Neil commented on how strange it is that I giggle incessantly, regardless of how I’m feeling. I did end up doing a lot of giggling immediately after taking the hit as a matter of fact. Some of you will know what that means. Sigh.

Really, it’s not so bad. The ball mostly caught the meaty part of my palm, and I’m sure nothing’s broken. At first, I was a little scared, because my hand sort of curled up in frozen shock at first. I couldn’t move it at all. I tried. My brain told my thumb to move and my thumb said no. (Actually, it said, “fuck off” because it’s mean that way.) That’s a weird and frightening feeling – telling your body to do something and having it refuse. But the numbness wore off pretty quickly. And the boys were all lovely and nice about taking care of me after. Neil brought me a shwarma (yum!) and John gave me strict icing instructions which have helped. I’ve been icing it on and off all day and it feels pretty good now. I don’t bruise too easily, so it looks pretty good too. Just a bit swollen. It’ll probably be way better by tomorrow. (I hope.)

Okay. Gotta stop. For one thing, it’s mental to be typing all this with one hand. For another, it’s terrible to write a post this long. Bad internet manners. That’s what I’ve got.

That, and a messed up hand … and a beta named Nathan … and a crush on Zach Braff … and a date with Cosmo TV … and a dubious work-rep … and a sporty hobby that often gets me hurt (physically and emotionally), but that’s fun anyway.

Yep. That about sums it up. Consider yourselves up to date.

Peace and Love and Pieces of Love,
Jen


July 3, 2008

I'M A FRAGILE TOUGH GIRL

Interwebbers, I love you. What can I say? You rallied. You emailed. You were effusive and flattering and lovely and I love you. I appreciate you. I’m frankly a little bit afraid of some of you (‘cause let's face it, some of you over-zealous voyers are creepy) but for the most part you're just cool people and you've done it. You've convinced me to continue the blah-og. For the time being anyway, jenselk.com shall live on.

You made it happen!

So … now what?

Let’s rap, I guess. This is what we do.

How about a metaphor?

Acclimatization. It’s about getting used to stuff, right? Specifically, it’s about organisms getting used to change in their environment. I’m an organism (I function independently!) so I think it works.

I’ve been thinking about acclimatization because my beautiful, wonderful friend Diana just got back from a trip to Africa (for her honeymoon) and recently wrote me an email about what it was like to climb Kilimanjaro. “We did the climb in six days,” she wrote. “Two of the six days really weren’t fun … I would highly recommend a ten day climb if you want to try Kili. Six days was just not enough to acclimatize … We both felt lightheaded and a bit confused …I felt very nauseated and Dave was ataxic… However, some of this is supposed to be ‘normal’ and I guess things are okay as long as you don't have a headache.”

That’s just perfect, isn’t it? Lightheadedness. Confusion. Nausea. Ataxia (which btw translates to “lack of order” and medically refers to a lack of coordination and wonky muscle movement). And the best bit: knowledge that such things are NORMAL and acceptance of the notion that everything’s okay … as long as you don’t have a headache.

How true. How fundamentally true. I don’t need to climb a mountain for this stuff. This is how I feel EVERY. DARN. DAY.

I like acclimatization much better than adaptation as a metaphor. Adaptation is about evolution and evolution takes too long. I mean, it’s great and all, but it requires so much patience. Acclimatization happens in the now. It’s relatively fast. It’s more comforting as an idea. We can get used to stuff. We might think we can’t, but we can. If we need to, we can.

I can.

Diana isn’t my first friend to climb Kilimanjaro. My friends Craig, Rob and Paul did it last year (and Craig wrote a story about the experience for AGENCY (click to get the issue). Of acclimatization Craig wrote, “Doing anything at that altitude requires a huge amount of effort … even sitting up too quickly can result in an instant headache.” He also wrote of the final ascent to the peak: “As close as we were to our goal, several climbers quit during this last leg. Many had rushed, and we came across them on the trail. Some were vomiting, others looked drunk or confused. I was fortunate to feel relatively clearheaded, though I admit I was forced to focus all my thoughts on propelling myself forward – right foot, left foot – in order to advance.”

Did you catch that? Many had rushed. That’s it, isn’t it? That and the bit about the need to focus on propulsion. On moving forward. That’s metaphorical GOLD right there.

So what, though, right? Big deal.

Looking back over the emails they sent me, I noticed that Diana and Craig ended up expressing similar thoughts about their respective trips. They each had their own take on Africa – Diana, being Diana, focusing on poverty, the kindness of strangers, ideas about social and institutional infrastructure, and Craig, being Craig, focusing on physical challenge, climate change, the environment, and existentialism – but in the end, they both had the same fundamental things to say. Craig wrote, “I wish I could accurately describe the exhaustion, exhilaration and excitement … but I’m not sure I’m a good enough writer. Maybe it’s not something anyone can accurately describe.” Di wrote, “It's so hard to describe Tanzania in words. There's such conflicting tension between so many human emotions.”  

Tell me about it. I guess that’s why I was stressing about the blog. What does it mean, I wonder… all these words?

But just to bring it back around, I’ll leave off with my real questions: How does one acclimatize? Is it controllable? Can I force it? What if it’s not happening quickly enough? What if it hurts?

Maybe acclimatization happens only as quickly as it has to. And only because it has to. Because if it didn’t, we’d die or something. Maybe that’s it. I don’t know.

I’m okay, in case you were wondering. (And I know you were. Thanks for that too, guys. Thanks for your concern.)  

People are resilient. And I’m people.

  Like, plural.

Jen


June 26, 2008

SOMEBODY ALREADY BROKE MY HEART

I've been reading a lot lately. Websites, novels, textbooks, comics, crumbling old letters from my childhood. Sometimes I feel this is a bad thing. All this reading. I should be WORKING, not playing. Not wasting time. Reading is too enjoyable. It doesn't feel like work. But yesterday, I had a conversation with someone who expressed the same concern (MY concern, ironically) and I totally changed my tune.

Reading isn't wasting time, I said, because reading is such a good-for-you activity. One should never feel guilty about time spent reading because reading time is time so well-spent. It counteracts badness in the universe. It helps you understand the world. It's free. One should NEVER, I said, feel guilty about reading. Never ever.

How do I come up with this stuff? And why, when I verbalize it, do I make it sound so absolute? Like I've really thought it all out. I haven't thought it out! I haven't thought anything out! I make things up as I go along. I'm a ridiculous person. Obviously, it's better to think, decide, then speak. Not speak, then think, then decide. What is WRONG with me? I say stuff, in some ways, experimentally, and I often don't really know if I mean what I'm saying until I hear my own voice. This is not smart. Because when you start verbalizing phrases like "I'm worried about" and "I feel" and "I've been thinking", people BELIEVE you. They BELIEVE you’re worried and thinking and feeling. They believe you really MEAN all the stuff you say. Sigh. I often don’t know what I mean until it’s way too late. It sucks. I give the wrong impression so often as a result. It’s all my fault.

But back to reading. Right now, I have three books on the go. The first is a collection of stories that I specially ordered (it's out of print) because I made a connection with the son of the author and was especially curious about it. The second is Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which I've been intending to read for years and am finally getting around to on a recommendation (though it's making me sadder than I need to be at the moment and I might have to stop.) The third - and most happy - thing I'm reading is a comic by Matt Fraction called Casanova that my friend Neil has been recommending to me for months.

[Sidebar: Neil pointed out some grammatical errors in the blog recently, and I referred him to the P.S. section of this post. Have you any such similar complaints, I refer you there too.]

But back to what I was saying.

Comics are not, traditionally, my thing. I like them to an extent, but there are a lot of things about the genre that I don't really get. And the fans are SO intense. I often feel out of the loop with them. They also tend to remind me of Matt and of a whole high school sensibility that I sometimes don't want to deal with.

It's funny - I was really resistant to reading the Fraction comic, but now that I'm in it, I like it. I really thought I wouldn't. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, especially considering the Matt (not Fraction) connection. When I was a teenager, I stole half my personality from my Matt. I learned to like the things he liked and to think the way he thought, and a lot of that has held on. And he likes Fraction. Last year, in fact, he chose Sensational Spider-Man Annual # 1 as his pick for best single issue of the year. In his explanation he wrote the following: “Matt Fraction did something [the] comics world sorely needed: he did a comic about why being in love with someone so much that you can't imagine your life without them... isn't tragic. After all, it's too easy, isn't it, going for the quick dramatic kill of the doomed love affair. Staying put - staying married, and making it work, and showing what that love means - that's the real challenge. Way to go, Matt Fraction. You're owning this list.”

I don’t check my Matt’s site much anymore, but when I do I always find something like this that I like, and in general that makes up for anything I find that I don’t. He’s a strong writer. There were worse people I might have mimicked. Whatever else he is, Matt is brilliant. He always has been. He taught me how to write like myself, in my own voice, and how to love pop culture, and how to talk seriously and to express excitement about things without being overly self-conscious. He taught me to be brave. That was kind.

Of course, as I’ve mentioned before, it does make me uncomfortable at times to be mentioned on the Internet in a capacity I don’t control, but to be fair, that rarely happens any more. Still, every now and again, I show up on his site. (If you click through here, for example, and take a hint from Shakespeare, you might find a picture of me that really shouldn’t exist online but is, in its own way, terribly poignant.)

My favourite thing he ever wrote (that I know of) that refers to me is his retrospective review of Titanic. I stumbled across it in early 2006, having just seen the movie again for the first time in something like 8 years, and the piece totally broke my heart. Or rather, it reminded me of my broken heart, which isn’t as bad, I guess.

I just like it. It’s a review that feels true. It reads real. And being referred to as “a whip-smart teenager” with “the face of an angel, the mind of a scholar, and the sneaky aspirations towards mayhem of the finest of Lucifer's minions” actually feels okay. It’s nice to think that someone remembers me that way, so long after the fact. At the same time, I know no one but me cares about this kind of thing. (Besides the obvious parties involved, I mean.)

Or … do you?

The thing is, now that I’m not writing pop-culture-y journalism anymore, thinking about all this stuff begs the question: does jenselk.com have a future? You guys come back, day after day, month after month, and you write me emails about how the things I say hit home, or remind you of something, or make you happy or sad, or about how I’ve inspired you write, and that gets me. It really does. I owe you, Interwebs. You’re always so sweet, and I admit (selfishly) that the positive feedback feels pretty good. But I’m doing a different kind of job now and I’m just not sure about the blah-og anymore. There’s the lack of professionalism to consider. I need to think about this. I’m considering a hiatus at any rate. I might keep posting regularly, but I might not. I’m not sure yet. I don’t want to do the same stuff over and over again, you know?

Going back is nice sometimes, but maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s better to just go forward. Let the bridges burn and all that.

Onward and upward. That’s what Matt used to say. It was a happy phrase, meant to inspire upbeat action, but I always heard it as vaguely consolatory.  

Jen


June 19, 2008

CRAZY, DON'T YOU WANT MY LOVE?
IT'S A CLOUD, IT'S A BROKEN BOAT,
BUT IT MIGHT MAKE YOU LAUGH A BIT EASIER.

I'm in a bad mood, guys. Maybe I'm just tired, I don't know. Work is going well. I feel like I’m learning quickly. But I’m fatigued. Part of my new job is learning real-time reporting stenography and something called phoenix theory. It's more difficult than I expected. And easier than I expected. And much more interesting than I expected. And much more obvious. It feels a bit like learning an instrument. Or a language. Or something.

The truth is, the job feels pretty good. So far, it doesn’t feel like work. The people are nice. The vibe is good. So what am I so mad about?

Oh, I dunno … EVERYTHING?

The thing is… I’ve been having anxiety dreams again. The old kind. The scary kind. Ones where I’m drowning. Or dying. Or running. Or falling. And it’s making me kind of angry. I don’t want to dream this stuff anymore. It’s exhausting. And it’s unfair. Meaning, it’s so NOT my fault.

That said, I must admit, it’s also kind of interesting. Having not had one of these dreams in a long while, the sudden influx compelled me to hunt down my old dream diary, where for several years, I tried to write this stuff, in the hopes of finding a pattern. Here, some excerpts:

March 9, 2004:
I dreamt I was on a huge ship at night, and looking over the side and into the water, I saw a whale. A great whale, huge and black and bigger than the ship itself. I was afraid of its size. Afraid it would dive down, upset us, suck us under, take me.

November 11, 2003:
I dreamt I was on the beach at Long Point, looking up at the cottages, my back to the lake. A shadow slid over me from behind, and I turned to look and saw the water formed into a great wave, taller than a skyscraper, filled with fish, and trees torn up at the roots, and the rotting bodies of cows and gulls. And the lip of it curled over me. And the bulk of it came down.

July 28, 2006:
I dreamt the apartment was infested with lady bugs. At first, I saw just one or two, before realizing they were everywhere. Thousands of them covering the ceiling, the walls, piled into the corners. And though seeming to be still, they weren’t. They were buzzing and vibrating, writhing and crawling all over each other. So we bug-bombed the apartment, and the ladybugs died. And the buzzing died too. Their bodies marked up the walls like scabs, or flaked down to the floor, crunching under our feet like fallen leaves.

Seriously. What the hell, right? My subconscious needs to FUCK OFF already.

I mean, I know what these dreams are about. Not that that helps any.

In other news, my softball team is going to play in the season championship next week. That's pretty good news, I guess. I love softball. I loved it a bit more about a month ago, of course. My team experience has been tainted a little bit by stupid stuff that's entirely my own fault, but all in all, it's still a pretty happy thing. Sorta. Sorta kinda. It WAS a happy thing. Maybe it still is. I don’t know anymore. Stupid dreams.

The playing part is good, anyway. At least, when I don't suck. In the first playoff game earlier this week, like an idiot, I tried to "guide" a fly ball into my glove with my bare right hand. (I knew I was going to miss it, and just lost my head for a second.) I’m clearly mental. I mean, who does this kind of thing? My new job has EVERYTHING to do with healthy hands and fingers, so what do I do? Fuck up my hand on my very first day. I mean, could I BE any smarter? No. Because I am stupid. Or softball is stupid. Or the gods are stupid.

SOMEbody’s stupid. That’s for sure.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to blog. The blog is stupid too.

You know what? I have nothing interesting to say. I think I’m going to quote fictional characters instead.

1.   Don’t ask me any questions right now. I’m grumpy and I’ll probably make fun of you. – Effie Kaligaris.

2.   Patrick: I’m mad.
Sponge Bob: What’s the matter, Patrick?
Patrick: I can’t see my forehead. – Sponge Bob Square Pants.

3. I. Hate. Everyone. – Angela Chase

Life is so… whatever.
Jen


HERE COMES THE FLOOD


June 15, 2008

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 doorframe, 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. (We’re getting close to publishing the new issue, I promise. I know I keep saying that and it’s become hard to believe, but it’s true, I swear. It’ll come out as soon as is humanly possible.) 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 perfectly, like the classy lassie she is. 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

P.S. Last weekend, we had a 139 Reunion for Daniella's 30th birthday. Photos are on facebook for those who know me, pared down pics on flickr (along with ALL the photos I've been meaning to upload since Janurary - yikes) for those who don't.


June 6th, 2008

FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED MINUTES

It’s my anniversary week. The anniversary of my big drive back to Toronto. The anniversary of the week when I abandoned the idea of one life in favour of something else. I’ve been thinking a lot about what that means. What one year amounts to, really, when you take away all the ultimately arbitrary meanings attached to dates and times that probably don’t really mean anything in the long run.

Memory is a funny thing. When I think too much about it, it feels terrible. The idea of the number of things I’ve forgotten is terrible. It’s overwhelming. So few moments actually stand out to be recalled. So many more disappear. All the mundane day to day stuff fades fast, sure, but the big things fade too. Things you thought you’d remember FOREVER just go. Nothing stays clear.

I feel like my strongest memories tend to exist in ten second fragments. And the things I can actually call to mind are strange and too specific. There’s no big picture. Just flashes. I can see my feet walking the pavement in front of Victoria Hall, in first year, following my last exam. I can see my hand raising a paper cup, and the yellowish tea sliding toward me, on the patio of the Bathurst/St. Clair Second Cup with Patty, summer of 1999. The terrible humidity, and the dim dustiness of the room when Craig and I realized I’d bought the wrong bed frame, and his face, laughing, and me doubled over to my knees, laughing too, because it was just so ridiculous.

The moments I have from this week last year include saying goodbye to MJ and Kathryn in the back doorway of D’s new apartment. (Kathryn’s extra long, extra hard hug, in particular.) The blue of the sky seen from the heavy couch we had to leave in the back alley while D returned the truck. The white of the hotel robes at the River Rock. The looks on everyone’s faces while playing charades when I failed, humiliatingly but hilariously, to accurately portray a Ninja Turtle.

And the view through the rear-view mirror as I actually drove away. The grey view of that particular morning. Everything and the man, getting smaller and smaller, and then disappearing entirely as I turned the corner onto Hemlock. Those seconds are especially clear. That was Monday. Monday of this week last year. By today, Friday, I was here. And thinking about Lori’s funeral. And feeling the ironic luck of having arrived just in time, which wasn’t very comforting, considering.

And now it’s already been a year. At this time last year, I wrote about how I wished I could have stayed in Vancouver, but things look different from this side. It was right for me to come. Everything is better now. At the time, I couldn’t see how it might ever be better. I sort of didn’t believe in better. It’s so clear now, why that was. I couldn’t see anything last year. Things have opened up.

But the truth is, I still don’t know how to measure a year. I don’t know how to add it up, or how to step back far enough to see what it means.   (Daylights? Sunsets? Midnights? Cups of coffee?) Geeze. ;) I need some new cultural references, don’t I? I’m so dated.

It’s been a really surprising, really disturbing, really unsettling, really amazing week. And from a calendric standpoint, this seems significant, but I don’t know if it really is.

It’s just what happens, I guess. You scorch the earth and it looks really terrible for awhile. Black as a scab. And then things grow up in the dark spaces. They grow up and spread out and everything looks new again. Everything looks new (and a little incongruous) in the place of everything you burned down. It’s scary.

The truth about me is that I like scabs. I pick at them to keep them from healing. I’ve always done this. It’s a terrible habit. I have actual scars as a result. Forgive me, because I know it’s weird and gross, but I do it without thinking. That’s what I’m like. I guess I just like to make things last. Even things that hurt, because at the very least, those are things I already understand, and am already used to. Scabs are just things covering up the stuff I’m already sure I can handle, if you know what I mean.

Bleh. Emo alert. I’m gonna stop now, I promise. This sort of earnestness is disgusting. I’m embarrassed to have caved to it AGAIN, but the anniversary of all things new seemed to require SOME sort of memorial.

ANYWAY.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be up early to do the Walk for ALS (which, after the Terry Fox run in September, may signal a new trend for me). My party went really well on the 24th. I had a job interview yesterday that felt pretty decent. I have finally (FINALLY) started watching Firefly. AND I managed a triple at my last softball game. New things are happening. Again.

Reflective (‘cause I’m shiny),
Jen


May 21, 2008

TARZAN WASN’T A LADIES’ MAN

So I’ve been going on all these dates. So many, I’ve lost count. Actually, that’s a lie. I have a calendar. I am sort of particular about recording things. I haven’t lost count at all.

In the last six months I have been on exactly fifty-five dates. Fifty-five. Not with fifty-five different people (obviously), but fifty-five still sounds like a lot, doesn’t it?

How did this happen?

I don’t really know. I guess it’s the result of my New Year’s Resolution combined with a general resolve to be more open, less cynical and more willing to accept invitations.

And it has been fun, to an extent. I mean, it’s been educational at the very least. I’ve met some nice people. But mostly I’ve   just been amassing party stories.

Want to hear ‘em? You’re gonna!

First, there was The Spitter. We met in a blind-date type situation. He was… okay. I mean, sure… he had braces. But so what, right? I’m not shallow and a metal mouth at thirty isn’t really a big deal. But The Spitter, unfortunately, also had a pronounced lisp. That was okay too. Again, I endeavour to avoid unnecessary bitchiness whenever possible. A lisp might even have become adorable in time. Alas, The Spitter was… a spitter. (Duh.) That was the last straw. Over the course of a single dinner he managed to inadvertently spit at me eight times. EIGHT TIMES! And I’m not talking little flecks of saliva, either. I’m talking wet lettuce. Substantially sized bits of wet lettuce flew across the table at me eight times over the course of an hour and a half. I actually had to DODGE some of them.

Now, I don’t want to be unreasonable, but COME ON.

Then there was Captain Pompous. Captain Pompous was a pharmacist. Captain Pompous seemed promising at first. Educated, settled, seemed smart. Was initially charming. Mind you, over the course of our first proper drinks date, Captain Pompous said all of the following things (which I’ll try to quote, verbatim):
•       “You know how it is – most girls can’t really handle the demanding fields. Science, math…etc. That’s why so many of them end up being teachers.”
•       “It’s so pathetic how many adults – grown people, I mean – read those Harry Potter books. I see them on the subway and I always want to laugh.”
•       “Dating gets harder and harder. A lot of girls are pretty desperate, you know. You’re, what? Twenty-eight? Uh-oh! Clock’s ticking!”

I wish I was making this up. Truly, I do.

And The Spitter and Captain Pompous were only the tip of the fifty-five date iceberg. My favourite story is about Construction Guy.

Construction Guy was dumb, but pretty. I went out with him a couple of times, in part because of the prettiness (so I suppose I have no one to blame but myself) and in part because he talked easily and comfortably and a lot, and I liked that. Sure, his eyes glazed over whenever I opened my mouth, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep that up for long, especially after he revealed (on our second date) that he had twice been arrested for shoplifting from … (wait for it) … Canadian Tire. He was also proud to tell me that he was a bit of a pot head. In fact, when he was in high school, he was such a stoner, he told me, his nickname was Dead Guy.

That’s what the other kids called him. DEAD GUY.

Be still my beating heart. I mean, what a catch, right? I could hardly contain myself.

So, at the end of the dinner, I opted to head home on the subway rather than returning to Construction Guy’s apartment to “watch a movie”. That decision caused him call me the next day to say that, sweet and lovely as I was, he didn’t think things were going to work out between us. The truth was, he said, he was “Really more interested in nineteen or twenty year old girls”. The best part was that when I agreed immediately that we weren’t really a good match, Construction Guy seemed pretty surprised. “Wow,” he said. “You’re taking this really well.” What was I supposed to say? ‘Dead Guy, it’s all I can do to keep it together. I’m just being stoic. Really, my heart is breaking.’

I wished him luck and hung up.

Sigh. You’ve got to admit, this stuff is pretty funny.

The aforementioned men are not, of course, the whole story. Obviously, The Spitter, Captain Pompous and Construction Guy are special cases. There’ve been others. Each defective in his own way, but not blatantly horrid.

I went out with one guy for a bit who seemed to have potential as he was sweet, employed,   and smart (though lazy). Mind you, he was also nearly incapable of making eye contact, was often unconsciously selfish, and had disgusting bathroom and a blue, stinking lump of something that I can only assume was, at one time, bread, residing in his fridge for the entire time I knew him. I liked him because he was good at vegging out, and comforting to be around. (As anyone who only ever does exactly what they want to do and nothing more tends to be.) And he was a good guitar player. And he laughed at my jokes. He wasn’t the guy, but he wasn’t so bad.

Then there was a bartender fellow who was also sweet, and fun in an opposite way. The type of guy who goes out every night. Who is incapable of vegging. Who knows a million people. He smiled constantly. He was clearly dangerous and reckless, but intensely interesting to be around. He was obsessed with music. Into dancing. Frenetic and afflicted with ADD, but FUN. So much fun. There were downsides, of course. When insanely upbeat people crash, they crash hard. And the more you get to know someone, the more their fairly obvious substance abuse issues tend to worry you. I still liked him, but again… he was not the guy.

So what's the moral of all this? I have no idea. I rarely meet people I actually like. Craig thinks this strategy of going out with lots of people, regardless of if you find them particularly impressive, is a great one. He thinks I need to be a bit more like him – less picky. So I’m trying. (Mind you, he's been dating for about eight years and hasn't had even a single serious relationship within that time, so maybe I’ve chosen the wrong guru.)

In the end, my life is basically a non stop comedy show. I mean, if you like things that are sort of pathetic and ridiculous as opposed to properly funny. If you like that kind of thing then man oh man, I deliver.

I might take a break from dating for awhile. I rounded out the school year with a straight set of As and a number of bolstering comments in the marginalia, including, “You write with remarkable clarity and have a very compelling style”. I’m hosting a massive party this Saturday night, and I’m loving and playing lots of softball, which always makes me happy.

Dead Guy be damned, all’s well. ;)
Jen


April 30, 2008

I’M STILL BLOODY … FROM LAST YEAR’S WAR

Things have been hard lately. Not hard HARD, but sort of hard. I’ve been writing my face off, trying to finish up my MA. Eighty pages in aboutg.5 weeks. Doable, certainly, but not exactly relaxing.

It’s hard to begin again, but I’ve been doing that too. Maybe for real instead of for fun. I’m not sure. I’m doing it sort of tentatively. Somewhat skittishly. But still. Bitterness isn’t an attractive quality (nor fun for the afflicted) and the only way to avoid it is (naïve?) hopefulness, so I’m trying. I’m slightly hindered by the fact that I’m regularly convinced that everyone is lying to me about everything all the time, but that feeling comes and goes. When I try hard, it goes more than it comes. That’s progress. And there’s something to be said for someone with matching baggage. It makes things a little easier. (Not to mention oh-so-stylish.)

I was actually on a big high for most of the month. Kicking ass at everything, having fun, going out, all that good stuff, and then in a terrible moment of obvious self-sabotage, I let morbid curiosity get the best of me, and did some e-stalking that sent me into a bit of a spiral on Saturday night.

I never claimed to be particularly smart.

I’ve written before about how I’m stupid in this way (here and here, for example), but self-awareness doesn’t lead to more intelligent behaviour.   (At least, not in my case, which makes me wonder how I’ve stayed off the short bus this long.) Stupid Facebook. It’s definitely aggravated the problem. As if I wasn’t a big enough e-lunatic already. Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a major believer in so-called social networking. I’m just very susceptible to all the negative side effects. (I feel like I’m mixing too many metaphors here. Don’t you?)

It’s like rubbernecking, I guess. My friend Christy thinks so, anyway. She was very sympathetic about my idiotic e-creeping. “It's like a traffic accident,” she said. “Nothing good will come from looking, but you just can't help yourself.” She also said, “everybody gets theirs. Even if we don't witness it.” That’s patently untrue, but it’s a nice thing to pretend. Finally, her best piece of advice: “Don’t look anymore, though. Just look at YOU.”

In an effort to do just that, I’ve decided to force myself to be more selective in my e-behaviour. I’ve taken to deleting and blocking people from my “friend list” for instance. I can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner. Some people (see my friend Neil’s recent blog about netiquitte) might think it's rude, but I’ve decided it just makes sense. I’m already such a pleaser. If I let that mental malfunction infect my online life as well, I’m doomed. So… FB Privacy Options, ACTIVATE! Goodbye fake friends (acquaintances from grade school, absentee formers, people I never really liked in the first place). Hello everyone else.

Something I do really love about FB and the interweb in general, though – despite the severe havoc it’s wreaked on my life in the past year – is how it facilitates things. Post a vague status update about feeling bummed, for example, and it’s amazing who pays attention. The people in my day to day life don’t tend to worry about such things. We see each other, I keep them posted, they instinctively know when I’m serious or not. (My friend K, for example, who I called in a post-stalk panic on Saturday, knew right away, just from my hello, that something was wrong, and totally stepped up when I decided tequila shots would be the best coping mechanism.) It’s the fringers, the people I like, but rarely see, who tend to surprise me with their sweet investment in my emotional well-being. When, for example, I wrote something in my status about being “ heartbroken”, I was immediately bombarded with messages from the most unlikely places. And it helped. More so than the sympathy of the expected, in a way. My favourite note came from a friend from high school, who I’ve seen maybe twice in the last ten years and who is currently living in Australia. He wrote, “Jen, you are great and your family doesn't understand you, but you have friends, and even when you think they aren't, they are thinking about you.”

That’s a small thing, maybe, but a kind thing. And it’s all thanks to FB and the world wide web. See, Luddites? Technology’s not so bad.

ANYWAY. In addition to the silly personal stuff, elliptically mentioned above, there are other beginnings worth mentioning. Sarah and I are hard at work at the redesign/relaunch of AGENCY, for example. She’s making it more beautiful than ever, and has taken on the role of lead designer, so expect to be impressed. Initially, I clung to all major tasks related to the magazine, it being my baby and all, but I’m ultimately no designer, and Sarah is very talented. It’s nice to have someone take the visual reins (not to mention some of the grunt work). We hope to put the new issue out before the end of May.

It’s hard to begin again. I said that already. But is that true? Maybe not. Maybe it’s not hard. Maybe it’s easy. Maybe it’s TOO easy. Maybe that’s what makes it hard afterwards. I don’t know. I know nothing. That’s my MO.

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

Here, with my stars out,
Jen


April 5, 2008

I HEAR THE BELLS, THEY ARE LIKE EMERALDS

So didja see it? Did you see my big
Cosmo TV debut? (Probably not.) But you know what? It was fine. I mean, next time I’m on camera I’ll definitely slap on some lipstick and blush or something (because I had a kind of pale and pasty thing going on), but all in all, I think I was okay. I didn’t come off too stupid or awkward, or nervous even, which was my worry.

So… yay me! As soon as I get a digital version I’ll put it online so you can see it. It’s only about 3 minutes long.

What else, what else?

Well, I have some hi-larious posts forthcoming (mostly about all the ridiculously terrible dates I’ve been on in the last few months), but in the meantime, he’s some randomness to tide you over.

FIVERS: Jen’s Random Roundup (Spring 2008 Edition):

Five disturbing foods consumed in the last fortnight:
Jellyfish (surprisingly yummy)
Sea Cucumber (surprisingly gummy)
Bird’s Nest (made of bird spit!)
Pigeon (with heads on the dish)
Sole Bones (fried)

Five books I love, no matter how much you mock me:
Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Judy Blume
The For Better or for Worse Treasury Collection(s), Lynn Johnston
Harry Potter, Rowling
God, The Universe and Hot Fudge Sundaes, Norma Howe
Ariel, Plath

Five songs currently in heavy rotation on my iPod:
I Hear The Bells, Mike Doughty
We’re All In This Together, Ben Lee
Stuttering, Ben’s Brother
New Soul, Yael Naim
New York I Love You, LCD Soundsystem

Five times I’ve courted danger in the last five days:
This morning. (Web stalking.)
Last night. (Tea lights and water don’t mix.)
Thursday night. (Followed the guidance of the immoral compass.)
Tuesday afternoon. (Unadvisable telephone communications.)
Tuesday morning. (What REALLY constitutes academic dishonesty?)

Five upcoming date stories (teaser version):
Dead Guy
The Spitter
These Jeans? ‘96 Baby!
There’s Clean, then there’s Boy Clean
Jewellery Makes The Man

Get ready, people. This is going to be rad.

Love,
Jen

P.S. Isn’t everything just lovely lately? The sun is shining, the earth is melting, and everything is fun. Last week I went to karaoke with some people from my volleyball team and had the BEST time. Now I think I’m addicted, because I’m super keen to go again. I’ve been invited to play softball this spring with a team called the Boppers. (Ha.) I also hope to play with my departmental team (Chapman’s Homer). I have exactly four papers to write in order to complete my program, but almost a whole month to do them, and tonight I’m going dancing at Alfies which is so 1999 it’s not even funny.

P.P.S. Or is it perhaps the funniest thing EVER?



April 1, 2008

WE ALL WANNA BE BIG BIG STARS

Guess what, Interwebs? I am going to be on smellovision this week! That’s right! A few weeks ago I was approached by a producer/reporter from the
Cosmo TV show Oh So Cosmo who asked I’ve I’d be willing to be interviewed as a “pop culture expert” for one of their upcoming segments.

Believe it.

The topic was Geek Chic or Geek Love, which is something I suppose I’ve come to know a fair bit about. I wrote this story on it a couple of years ago at any rate (which is how the Cosmo TV
people found me, FYI).

Anyway. I did it. And now the episode is set to air.

I won’t go on too much about this. If you want to see me in all my sweating, nervous glory, watch Oh So Cosmo tomorrow night (April 2nd) at 9 pm. Don’t let this opportunity to make fun of me pass you by!

People have been asking me a lot about what it was “like” to do the interview, and I guess the answer is that it’s hard to explain. It was strange to be in front of the camera. I guess that kind of thing is always a little strange when you’re used to being behind the scenes. I mean, as a writer, you always have some distance, something to hide behind. Talking on camera is a whole different story. Still, I enjoyed it. I’d certainly do it again. And I think I’d do a better job, frankly, now that my awkward first time is behind me. (Isn’t that always the way? Sigh.)

What is funniest about this whole thing is the idea that people actually think of me as knowledgeable. I mean, I’ve always thought of myself that way, and I know you Interwebbers are down with what I’m selling, but these people from the network … they’re REAL people. Like, people who don’t sit around in their underwear surfing the web all day.

That counts for something, right?

So tune in, okay? April 2nd and 9pm, Oh So Cosmo on
Cosmo TV. This is great fodder for the mock machine, people. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.

Visually yours,
Jen

P.S. Just a few technical details: I’m not sure the
Cosmo TV channel is available to Rogers subscribers yet, but if you have Bell ExpressVu, you should be able to see it. Also, I know some episodes of the show have been playing on W Network lately. I’ll try to get my hands on a copy of the tape for anyone who misses it. And I’ll be taping it, of course, so even if you miss it, fear not. (Eeek!)

P.P.S. This is not an April Fool’s Day gag, by the way. In case you were wondering.


March 9, 2008

THROW YOUR LOVE AROUND

Ever have one of those days where you wake up feeling… great? And the greatness just doesn’t fade away and you end up feeling great all day? You feel great all morning and all afternoon and all evening, and you go to sleep feeling great, and you have great dreams, or you don’t dream at all, and then the next morning rolls around and you wake up feeling great all over again?

I have. It started about a week ago. On Monday. And it’s lasting, man. It’s hanging on.

Shocking, I know.

After the last week of February, which was a bit of a downer, and the self-indulgently depressive weekend that followed, I wasn’t looking particularly forward to last Monday, and then it arrived, and ever since then everything’s just been… good, you know? Light.

It’s so funny when things like this become clear. I spent most of January and February going back and forth about something, agonizing, trying to decide what to do, waking up tense and stressed day after day after day, and all the time knowing, sort of fundamentally, what I NEEDED to do, but not wanting to or not being able to. And then I just did it and all was well.

Why didn’t I get here sooner? I guess that’s hindsight. You never know in advance how things are going to turn out. And you just get around to things when you’re ready, and not a moment before.

It’s Monday again now. We’ve switched the clocks. Today is crazy sunny. Blinding, really. After the deep, devastating snow of the weekend, it’s a bit disconcerting, but I like it all the same. The juxtaposition. Everything is happening, right?

It’s time for me to start thinking seriously about going   back to work. My program is less than a few months from completion, and even though I have a huge number of essays to write and assignments to complete (and even though I’m no longer remotely motivated) I can see the end clearly. I expect to finish strong. But then what? Back to writing? If you read this silly blah-og with any regularity, you might have noticed that I’m not all that great a writer. I think I’m a good editor. That’s something I feel pretty confident about. Even if my own prose is shit half the time, show me yours and I’ll be able to tell you exactly what’s wrong with it. I seem to be able to see what you were thinking as you went along. I have that skill. Maybe because my own prose is so bad and I know what I’m so often thinking??? I don’t know.

I’m ridiculous happy right now. And I have more to write, but I think I’ll save it for the moment. We’ve got time.

xo,
Jen


February 19, 2008

I CAN’T LET IT GO, AND I CAN’T GET THROUGH

Everybody’s giving me advice. Seems everywhere I go, there’s someone waiting to tell me how I might do or think or feel things better. It’s not their fault. I’ve practically begged for tips. I mean, if you market yourself as a spaz for long enough, people are going to start to buy it.

Now, obviously, I AM a bit of a spaz. I am also diffident and self deprecating by nature (to a fault, apparently). These things balance out, in my opinion, and the true truth is that I ultimately think of myself as pretty capable. I do tend to get wrapped up in things. I can be a bit obsessive, and if I care about something, I care a lot. Faith No More stylez, yo.

So I’m not sure about all this advice I’ve been getting. Last week, for example, my friend N said numerous advisory things to me, including, for example, “Go with the flow - worry about making you happy - and no obsessing!”. He also said, “Stop caring so much.”

Now, I love my friends. I love this friend in particular. And I like when they give me advice, because it is in these conversations that I feel most tangibly how much they care about me, and that makes me happy. At the same time, this sort of advice doesn’t really have a lot of practical appeal, does it? I mean, HOW? How am I supposed to do these things? Obviously, if I could stop obsessing about things, I would, right? Wouldn’t you? Isn’t that the problem with obsession? That you CAN’T (physically, emotionally, mentally) take it down a notch? And stop caring so much? I say again: HOW? How, exactly? Is there a Dummies book about this? Will someone buy it for me?

Maybe the problem is that I don’t really want to stop caring about things. I personally don’t believe that I should care less about anything, so much as I believe that the wider public should probably care more.

Another guy has been giving me a lot of advice lately too. (The men are quicker to advise, I notice. They’re less concerned with overstepping, and always more convinced that their opinions are sound. That’s men for you.) This other guy keeps telling me, in essence, to be more selfish. He tells me I’m being too nice. Or too forgiving. Or too altruistic.

This is a bad thing??? Really?

I’m just trying to understand the world. And because I’m pathetically pop-culture obsessed, all I keep thinking about is that movie You’ve Got Mail. The one with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, you know? It’s not particularly good, but there’s something sweet and old fashioned about it. It’s got that patently Norah Ephron appeal. But anyway, in the movie, when someone says something to the Meg Ryan character like, “It’s not personal, it’s business”, she says she hates that phrase. I think she says, “Whatever else anything is, it ought to start by being personal.”

Maybe I’m just a silly little girl, but I bought that, man. That’s exactly how I feel.

I’m taking this very interesting class about biography right now, and in the last seminar, we embarked on a long conversation about archetypal myths and their role in constructing the life as narrative, which it isn’t. (Does that make sense? Probably not. Doesn’t matter, anyway.) One of the things we talked about was how in relationships, women build up and are very much attached to the myth of fidelity, while men are more attached to the myth of heroism. I wish I could rearticulate this idea with more grace, but I can’t. This is just a stupid blog anyway. Regardless, I’ve been thinking about the idea for days, and about how true it is. Fidelity is obscenely important to women. And I don’t mean romantic fidelity, or at least, I don’t mean it exclusively. I feel that myth defining me every single day. And I don’t know why. Why am I the sort of person who thinks it’s important to have something unique and special and (most importantly) faithful and loyal with every single person I know? How did this happen? Is this biologically impossible to escape? And isn’t it a bad thing to hope for, since, if my male friends are to be believed, most people aren’t very nice?

I am a team player. I believe wholeheartedly in the team. And that isn’t to say that I don’t want my team mates to play with anyone else. My friends all have other friends, of course. But from the people I’m closest with, I do expect some sort of loyalty – to the level of our friendship, and our particular connection, at least. I’ve been told I expect too much, but that seems a useless judgement. Expecting a lot is good, isn’t it? Striving for goodness and asking everyone else to strive too? It means, in theory, that you won’t put up with less. And that should, in theory, result in you being surrounded by the best sort of people. (It doesn’t, unfortunately.) What’s funny is that I don’t actually do that at all. I wish for it. I do ask for and expect a lot. A lot of the time I don’t get it, and instead of cutting people loose, I mostly just put up with it. I give everyone multiple chances. And I get mad and sad about every let down, but I stick around. That’s me. I obsess. I wait. I hope for a different result next time. Eventually, sure, depending on how disappointing someone is, I might get around to cutting them off, but it’s rare. It takes a lot. And I’m always on the verge of giving someone who doesn't deserve it a second (or fortieth) chance. I have to force my (better) friends to remind me not to, because without them, I’m likely to forget. Thank goodness for the logical few. Without them reminding me again and again that some people just have to go, I’d be entirely surrounded by assholes.

I wish I could explain this better.

I’m blogging now for one reason: I feel like I should. You guys are coming back, day after day, month after month, waiting for something new, and I feel like I owe you something. Other people might not. If my advisory friends are to believed, most other people don’t give a shit. That’s not me.

One more thing about my friend N, lest you think badly of him.   When I told him that I WISHED I could care less about things, he said something very sweet to me. He said, “ Oh I don't know. It is part of what makes you special Jen, but just remember other people don't matter that much.”

Do you matter? I don’t know. I’d like to think you do. And that I do too.

Fact is, I’m reading too much. That’s what grad school does too you. It makes you overly cerebral and crazy(ier). It’s like pop music after a break up. Everything starts to feel meaningful. Every quote seems to be speaking right too you. There’s this:

The world is too small. I get tired of playing the guitar, of knitting, of walking, and bearing children. Men are small, and passions are short-lived. I get furious at stairways, furious at doors, at walls, furious at everyday life which interferes with the continuity of ecstasy.   - Anaïs Nin’s House of Incest.

And this:

Estrangement shows itself precisely in the elimination of distance between people.   - Adorno

And most appropriately, this:

Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the bug. – Mark Knopfler

I’m doing all kinds of wonderful things, really. My social calendar is ridiculously packed because I’m on a campaign to be more open, to say yes to everything. Tonight, for example, I am playing volleyball (and potentially singing karaoke). This afternoon, I am having coffee with a newish guy friend and evening pizza with a less newish girl friend. This week, I’m seeing a yet-to-be-decided-on girly movie with Patty and on Thursday, I’m Not Here (the Bob Dylan movie) with a Tara, in preparation for class next week. Last night, I watched Gone With The Wind on television, and now all I want to do is cry “fiddle de-dee!” (It seems a hilarious and underrated expression of frustration. Why did it fall out of fashion?) In my head, I’m composing a random blog about my relationship with Nathan Phillipsquare (my beta fish) and painting a new picture for my living room. I’m rereading Sylvia Plath’s Ariel and all kinds of Elizabeth Bishop, and novels that made me cry when I was a little girl (all of which I should probably not be doing, considering how many books I’m supposed to be reading for school, but whatevs). I am overusing italics and think think thinking all the time.

All sorts of things are happening. I’m going to try to cobble them into more narrative posts in future. Posts with scope and substance and direction. That’s what I’m aspiring to.

But I've gone on enough for one day, I think.

Be good. Be happy. Use both hands. That’s my advice.

Love,
Jen


January 28, 2008

REFLECTIONS FROM DAMAGED LIFE

You guys are sickos. There’s no other way to describe it. The more miserable the post, the more interested and elated you seem to become. Maybe it’s just that the sad and emo ones are the ones that resonate (especially around the holidays when everyone is extra sensitive)… but I think it’s more that you’re all just a bunch of emo-loving, angst-eating weirdoes.

Ya. I said it.

Anyway, in case you haven’t been paying attention, what I’m really getting at is that I’m well aware that the blah-og has been a bit - shall we say GLOOMY? - of late. And while y’all seem to be eating it up, I think it’s time to shift the tone a little bit.

Someone recently suggested to me that if I was finding it hard to find the time to write, I should consider turning this into a photo blog. Now, I’m a terrible photographer so that’s probably not going to happen, but I think there’s something to be said for the idea. It HAS been awhile since things over here in the interwebby world of Jen have been very visual. So… LET’S LOOK AT STUFF!

First, a little graphic thing made by my friend Sarah following my post about NYE. I guess I inspired her. It’s called “Jen is Superwoman”, which is sort of rad when you think about it.

JenisSuperwoman












































Next (lest things get too serious again) I bring you some beeyootiful graffiti. The first is a little cartoon I drew for Patty. In it, we are clouds. Guess which one I am.

DudeYouStink


Now here’s one by Patty herself. This one is inspired both by the fact that we are BFFs, and by the movie Superbad.

BoopBoopBoop
















Well. That was fun, wasn’t it?

Anyway, I know I haven’t really told you much of anything here, but believe it or not, there is a lot going on. It just becomes hard to post about things without the buffer zone of professionalism that protected me when I was writing about new publication credits and worky-type stuff. All this “just me” business is a little different. Hard to get used to. I AM writing. I’m just writing academic type papers. Come summertime, I might go back to worky writing, but in the meantime, this will have to do.

School is going well. I’m trying to decide if I’m really interested in doing a PHD once this MA business is over. I keep going back and forth on it. On one hand, I do love the lifestyle and the fact that being a prof (or a humanities grad student) basically means being paid to THINK about the stuff. That’s pretty neat. On the other hand, it’s a long commitment. At least four years. It’s something to ponder.

Anyway, I guess you can consider yourselves updated. And I can say I’ve done my duty. I am going to try to be more present in future, okay? Forgive me my absence. 2007 was a bit of a clusterfuck. Things are back on track now, though. All will be well.

Oh, before I go there’s one more thing: I know a few of you have asked about the titles lately. Yes, I’ve deviated from the ‘lines from songs’ format used previously. Each title is still a quote, but I’ve been pulling them from a variety of places. From everywhere from Buffy The Vampire Slayer to today’s title, which is the subtitle of Theodor Adorno’s book Minima Moralia. One of the aphorisms in the book is “the splinter in your eye is the best magnifying glass”.

I have no idea what it means, but I’m sure it’s true.
Jen


January 1, 2008

THERE’S NO POINT IN DIRECTION

This is what happens:

On the eve of New Year’s Eve, something surprising. The thing itself arriving at your ear over the telephone line like a black fly bite, a little pinch you didn’t expect. But more importantly, what’s surprising is your reaction to the thing. You feel… bad. Worse than you thought you would. Sort of sick about it, really. After you hang up, there’s that churning sort of anxiety in your belly that you remember from when someone says something mean, or from the adrenaline rush right before a fight, or from when you know something unpleasant is happening but there’s nothing you can do to fix it. Those helpless butterflies are batting all around your belly, beating themselves senseless against the sides.

You throw up. That happens sometimes when you’re really upset. That’s the sort of person you are. You have physical reactions to emotional events. But still. It comes as a bit of a shock.

You toss and turn late into the night, obsessing. Bothered by the fact that you’re sure you’re the only one who cares. No one else lets this sort of thing get to them so absolutely.

In the morning, you wake up expecting to feel better but you don’t. That sick feeling persists, runs up and down your spine, gives you a headache. You chat on the telephone, make plans and try to ignore it. You go shopping with a friend. You visit with another. You shower and dress and head to a party you weren’t planning on because it’s New Year’s Eve and you’re sure as hell not going to stay home. Not this year.

The party is fun in the way only things you expect nothing from can be. There are lots of people there you like. You drink three beers and eat homemade dip – the first food you’ve had all day. (Maybe that’s why the feeling’s persisted? Probably. You feel stupid for not realizing. Not eating can make you feel weak. Sicker, ironically.) And after awhile… you feel better. You’re glad. Going out was the right thing to do.

Later, at the bar, you watch drunk girl after drunk girl stumble down the stairs on their way to the ladies’. Their dresses are too short or too tight, or both. Everyone is trying too hard to have a good time. You ARE having a good time. Without even trying. Without even having to think about it. You talk to everyone. People you don’t know. People you used to know. You have a long and fairly hilarious conversation with a boy about serial killers and boats and identification with characters you ostensibly shouldn’t identify with. You intellectualize, but you’re allowed. That’s your job. And no one is going to remember anyway.

At midnight, everyone kisses everyone, but it’s chaste. You feel friendlier than you really are.

But… still. Something is wrong. It’s been hours since the three beers and you’re still dizzy. The bar is stuffy and you have to take such deep breaths to steady yourself. Going outside doesn’t help. Everyone is smoking. You still have that niggling in your belly. You’re still upset.

And you’re bothered by that. By the persistence of that feeling you weren’t supposed to feel in the first place. And it takes the wind out of your sails. Luckily, it’s after midnight. It’s okay to leave. So you do. You leave and walk home (it’s just around the corner). It’s snowing a little bit and there are ambulance sirens in the distance. You think, It’s so different from last year. All that rain.

Your phone rings and rings but you don’t take any calls. Better to start the new year off alone. You’re used to it. You’re superwoman.

Back at your apartment, you strip off the clothes that smell like smoke and don flannel, wash your face and lie down in bed, try to get warm. It feels colder than usual. Forty minutes later you get up and drink two big glasses of water. You take two aspirin. You lie down again, but you can’t stop shivering. And still, that sick feeling. It’s hanging on. It’s getting worse. That happens in the silence before sleep. You’ve been here before. You care too much about things. That’s the problem.

Only it’s not. It’s not the problem at all. Another hour later and you’re throwing up again. Not just once, but again and again. At least five times. And you’re sure you have a fever. And the feeling in your stomach has run around to your back and is punching you in the kidneys, saying Pay attention to me, please! And all of a sudden you realize you know what this is. You’ve had this before. This is a real thing. You need antibiotics and pain meds. Asprin is a joke in the face of something like this. You were wrong all along.

You look online for Walk-In Clinics in the neighbourhood. You haven’t lived here long enough to know where to go. Student Heath is closed for the holidays. You can hold out ‘till morning, but it would be better to have a plan, so you can get there right away. Right when they open. So you can be first in line.

Only, it’s New Year’s Day. Everything is closed. You call clinic after clinic with no luck. Variations on the same robotic voice all tell you the same thing: We will be closed on January 1st.  

So what, though? You’re tough. Superwoman, remember? You can hold out until January 2nd. You can ride it out. You drink another huge glass of water, take two more asprin and go back to bed. It’s 3:30 in the morning. You can wait. You have to.

By 4 a.m. you realize you’ve made a mistake. There’s no waiting this out. By Wednesday it will be so much worse. Unmanagable. You might not be able to make it a clinic alone. So what do you do? Who do you call? The only people you can think of are far, far away. Your family – they should be the default – but they’re sleeping. And what difference could they make anyway? That’s never been your dynamic. You can help yourself as well as they can help you. No risk of disappointment that way.

Your sister is a doctor and –luckily! – you know she’s on call. Working all night at one of the city’s major hospitals. Delivering babies. That could work. You try her cell phone but no one answers. You throw up again. All the water you just drank and probably the asprin too.

What’s that thing they have in this province? Telehealth? They’ll know what to do. Except, the wait time to talk to a nurse is more than two hours long. You explain to the receptionist that you’re just trying to find an open clinic. She tells you, confidentially, that you’d be better off going to the ER. Don’t hold for a nurse. She’ll just say the same thing. Better to try the Emergency Room now.

You resign yourself to wasting provincial resources.

You dress in the dark. Jeans and a fair-isle sweater. A heavy wool coat. Hat and gloves. You have a fever, so walking to the hospital seems like a good idea. Like it might wake you up. You can’t sleep anyway. Might as well not sleep in the ER waiting room as at home, right? You set off into the night.

The streets are fairly busy. It’s still New Year’s Eve, in spirit. You’d forgotten. Half way to the hospital you realize you made another mistake. It’s too far away. Icy rain is falling and it stings your cheeks, it crystallizes your hair.

You hail a taxi. The driver looks back at you when you tell him where you want to go. Looks you in the face, suspiciously. You look back and say, I promise I won’t throw up in the car, okay? Don’t worry. You hope he believes you. You lean back into the vinyl and close your eyes.

At Toronto General, the Emergency Room is busy. You apologise to the triage nurse right away. You know this isn’t a real emergency, you explain. No, she says. You were right to come. Not much else is open. It’s okay. But you’ll have to wait. You’ll have to wait a long time.

They check you in, give you a bracelet (they get your address and phone number wrong, you notice) a biohazard bag, a sample cup, etc. They point to a chair. You take it. You wait.

The room is filled with packs of teens and twenty-somethings, waiting for their friends. There are boys in suits, bleeding, needing sutures. There are girls vomiting into small basins. More than half the people are dressed up, but looking a little worse for wear. Party girls in heels rest their heads on their date’s shoulders, their hairdos coming undone, sweaty strands sticking to their foreheads and the backs of their necks. Two of the young men almost get into a fight. Security guards in big black riot-gear costumes (bullet-proof vests, etc.) separate them.

There’s a man whose pants are soaked in blood, crying, and another, an older man, who looks exactly like Uncle June from the Sopranos. You wait for a long time. You have a book and your ipod. You came prepared. You throw up twice, in the bathroom. There’s a terrible smell to the place. You’re the only one waiting alone.

You play little games with your memory. You scroll back through all the ER visits you’ve ever made. 1985: Fractured arm. 1990: Stitches and a cracked finger. 1991: Cracked rib. Each time, your father takes you to Sick Kids where everyone is nice. Nicer the first time, but still nice even when you’re older. Everyone tells you you’re brave. Everyone smiles. Your Dad is worried about you. You can tell.

Then, in University, you shut your thumb in Nick’s car door, and you’re awake all night with the pain of it. And the bleeding. And when you finally tell someone, it’s Frase, and first he just says, Seriously?, looking hard unto your face, seeing that you’re about to cry. That you aren’t joking. And that you’re only telling him in desperation. And then next thing he says is Let’s go, babe. Suddenly you’re in the car and he’s driving you to Hotel Dieu. He sits besides you in the waiting room. He doesn’t ask you a lot of questions, doesn’t say much of anything really, but he stays with you for a long time. Until you tell him to go. And that’s a comfort.

There are other times. Another broken arm. A friend who needs stitches just above his left eye. Times when you’re the one waiting. Darrell’s ankle is black and swollen and they tell him he has to BUY crutches, only they don’t have any. They’re sold out. It’ the middle of the night. Everything closed. You have a brain wave. You stop in at St. Paul’s. You talk a nice orderly into giving you a set for free. You carry them home in triumph. You help.

But here, in the present, you’re at Toronto General and you’re all alone. This is not the way you imagined things would be. Not in general and not specifically. You play a different game, flicking back two days, to when your plan for New Year’s Day involved skating and drinking hot chocolate, to two weeks before that, when you thought you’d be at a cabin in Collingwood, and two week earlier still, when you thought you’d be somewhere else entirely. You didn’t expect to be alone, anyway. Not that you haven’t done it before. And maybe it’s better this way? Maybe this is how it would have been, regardless. It’s the likeliest scenario, isn’t it? You’ve never been good at choosing care givers. That’s not the natural order. You would have been abandoned, you’re sure of it. Better to be frank with yourself about that. Better not to expect anything less. Or more, rather.

And one part of this feels good! That’s something else you can be happy about. The part where you know you’re really sick. Where the reasons you thought you had for feeling so terrible aren’t reasons at all. You don’t care so much after all. Not this much. You care a reasonable amount. That’s a relief.

You wait for five hours. First outside, then inside, in “fast-track-chairs”. You’re at the hospital from 4:30 a.m. to 9:30 a.m. The resident sees you for less than 60 seconds. You were exactly right about what was wrong. Maybe Dad was right,   you think. Maybe I SHOULD have gone to med school. (You still have a fever.) The doc gives you two prescriptions. One for pain, plus the antibiotic. You spend half an hour out in the wet snow, hunting for a 24 hour pharmacy that will be open on New Year’s Day. You find one, and almost cry with gratitude. You get your meds. You cab home. It’s begin snowing in earnest. A white out. The cabbie takes the corners too fast, and you feel the slide of the tires, but you want him to hurry. You don’t wear your seat belt and you don’t complain.

You over tip. You make your way across the street and up the walk, and the fat flakes gather on your shoulders. The bottoms of your jeans are soaked. Inside, you look into the pharmacy bag and see that the meds must be taken with food. You put a pan on the stove and make two eggs. You don’t even take your hat off. You stand over the stove in your boots, and coat, and hat, and your fair isle sweater and jeans, making a puddle, and you eat the eggs right out of the pan. You drink a glass of milk. You pound one of the prescription painkillers and an antibiotic. You feel sick immediately, but there’s no way you’re letting yourself throw up again. You need this stuff to stay down. You focus hard on the little details. Is the fridge closed? The stove off? Yes? Okay.

You shed your coat, the boots, the damp jeans. You leave them all in a pile on the floor in the hall and you crawl into bed and cocoon yourself, pulling the duvet up over your head, and breathing hard into the pocketed space, warming the air.

You wait to feel better.

When you wake, it’s past noon. You feel a little better, but tired. So tired. Outside, the snow has continued. It’s the sticky kind, and has gathered on even the smallest branches. Everything is clean and white and brand new. It’s dead silent. It’s one of those winter days. Perfect for starting again.

You putter for less than an hour, take more meds, nap. When you wake the second time, it’s dark. The wind throws a thousand ice pellets against your window. You stay where you are. Your bed is warm. You do feel better.

This is the first day of 2008.

Jen


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