This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Today was as bright and sweet and cool and crisp as the apples growing in the yard. The laundry hung on the line soaking it up all day. The sheets and pillowcases still saturated by the breeze, the sun, the change in the air, and I know we’ll sleep well tonight.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

There was one. She craved change. The desire finally got so strong that she did something about it.

And then he appeared. But he didn’t derail her desire, he only increased it.

So she asked him to adventure with her, and he agreed. Neither of them knew what would come next, where they would go, what they would do, but they knew they’d be together.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I turned 40 this year. I don’t feel I’ve aged much in the last 20 years, but I guess it’s happening. I love to travel. I love to see new things, feel new feels, smell new smells… you get the idea.

Most of my travel lately has been to the US. I was lucky enough to get to travel for work a couple of times a year, and with my folks living down there for 6 months of the year I always had a good excuse to go. I managed to see most of the US cities on my list in the past few years: New York, New Orleans, Portland, Austin, San Francisco, Chicago, Seattle etc.

I moved to South Korea in 2008. I went there to try my hand at teaching English for a year, and didn’t have a very good experience, so I came home after 3 months.

In 1999 I did a 3-week Contiki tour through Europe with my future (then) and ex (now) husband. It was a great way to see a lot of stuff and decide where I’d want to go when I returned.

About a year ago I decided that I was done with the status quo of my life. I had a great job that paid well and I really liked the people I worked with, but hated working a 9-5 office job. I quit and put my condo on the market. I decided to move to the East Coast to be closer to my family. But things didn’t go exactly (or at all) as planned. The condo didn’t sell right away. Or even fairly soon. It ended up taking 8 months. In the meantime I fell madly in love with Aldon and we started making a new plan. One where we’d stick together. One where we’d live every day as an adventure.

Here we go!

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog.

What would happen if I were to write a new post on this blog a year and a half later?

I’m not expecting much. Probably nothing. Or perhaps words will start to appear again.

Shouldn’t I just give myself permission to do what I like? To pick up where I left off? Or, rather, to write again with no explanations?

Of course the answer is yes. This has always just been me, for me. Things change, but not that. Not yet, anyway.

While I welcome other eyes I wasn’t really doing it for them.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog.

I had decided that these meetings would not be referred to as “dates,” but “meetings.” And then things went so well with the second guy that I met that couldn’t help but think of it as a date. But I’m stubborn, so I refocused and continued on with my scheduled meetings (and thinking of them that way).

The next guy I met was adorable, and sweet, and I felt like I could be friends with him, but the attraction wasn’t there. The conversation was good, but not interesting enough to spark my interest. We exchanged numbers, but I don’t think I communicated clearly enough that when I said “yes, we should hang out again some time” that I meant “as friends.” He proceeded to send me “good morning” texts the next two days. Is it just me, or is that way too intimate, way too fast, for someone you just met?!

My response was to not respond until later that day the first time, and I didn’t respond at all to the second. The texts have evolved to a more casual state now, which I’m comfortable with. I hope he got the hint, but then I also feel like I should have tried to be more clear with him about my feelings. But it was only a first meeting! And maybe (probably) I was reading too deeply into his response. Maybe this is just the way he is. I don’t even know because I hardly know him. I start to realize that I’m making assumptions about him based on previous experiences.

Does everyone get compared to the ones who came before? Can I help but organize and categorize and compare everyone I meet to other people I have known? This doesn’t seem fair, and yet it feels completely natural. Which means I should probably be suspicious of this habit. Just because similarities exist, doesn’t mean there aren’t a world of differences as well.

I really have no desire to play games or toy with anyone’s feelings. It dawned on me that this whole meeting/dating thing was going to be a lot more complicated that I originally thought. If only because I actually care about people, and I want to be open and honest, but I’m still learning how to do that in a way that is not harmful. And then I realized that I was getting all worked up and worried over nothing. I had to stop and go back to my original intentions (which I’ve made clear to everyone I’ve met). To meet new people. To see what happens. So what if there was no spark? I still had a good time and enjoyed his company. What’s wrong with making new friends? And I know as well as anyone else that feelings beyond friendship can certainly develop the more time you spend with someone. And if his response to me was not the same as mine to him, well, that’s okay too. I don’t need to be so hard on myself. I just need to be as honest as I can.

Deep breath. Continue.

My fourth and fifth meetings were on the same day. First a drink with one guy, then dinner with another afterwards. The drink was nice. Casual, good conversation, a comfortable and enjoyable hour and a half. I was able to relax and get back to the motivation behind this whole dating thing. The dinner was a bit strange, but fun. I knew in advance that this guy was going to be a character, and I had some hesitations before meeting him, but figured it would at least be amusing. And it was. He certainly kept me on my toes, right down to the moment when he walked me to my car and asked if he could kiss me. He was the first of five to ask (or try), and I hesitated for a minute before saying okay. It was a quick, awkward kiss, and we both laughed afterwards and said goodbye.

It was an interesting week. And I was relieved to be going out of town for the following one, which would give me some time to figure out what comes next.

I’m still not really sure.

Everyone has kept in touch. In fact, it’s worth noting how pleasantly surprised I was that each of the 5 guys I met all contacted me again right after our meeting. Two of them later that same night, two the following day, and one two days later. I’m glad that the kind of guys I’m meeting aren’t trying to follow any stupid dating rules. I’m glad that it’s okay to tell someone that you really enjoyed meeting them, that you had a good time and that you’d like to do it again.

I’ve only made one official follow-up date. It’s with the second guy I met, the one I felt the strongest connection to, and it’ll be two weeks from the night we met. I’m pretty excited about it, but I’m still trying to contain myself. I’m trying to remember what I said when I first started doing this,

it seems that every time I think I’m going to try dating I end up meeting someone I really like right away and I suddenly find myself in a relationship. It’s not always a serious long-term relationship, but most of them have been. And they’ve ended up being pretty intense in one way or another. And really, there’s nothing wrong with that, and I’m not actually complaining about my history, but I’d like to give dating a try. I want something different. – On Dating 03/01/13

I’m not sure how to progress with the others. I guess I’ll keep you posted.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog.

With online dating, messages can only get you so far. And this is coming from someone who truly believes that her strength lies in written communications. I’m a bit of a blundering, babbling, buffoon in person. I hate talking on the phone. And yet, I really don’t want to waste a lot of time writing back and forth with someone before meeting them in person. Because I have no intentions of carrying on online only – no matter how awesome our messages might be.

I want real life dating. I want accidental touches that make my heart beat faster. I want to smell his smell and look into his eyes and feel how it feels to stand next to him. I want him to see how my eyes crinkle when I smile and hear my laugh and feel the energy increase when I get excited about something.

I met five guys in my first week out. It was supposed to be six, but one of them cancelled because he met someone else who he felt an emotional connection to, and wanted to give it a chance without adding anyone else into the mix. I appreciated his honesty and commitment to what he was looking for, and told him that cancelling was absolutely fine – he should go for it.

My expectations were low starting out. No pressure on either side. I refused to even call these meetings “dates,” because words matter to me, and the first time you meet someone isn’t really a date. From that point, I decided, if we hit it off, we could then go on our first date. I have a tendency to make up guidelines like this, even though I know full well that life has this way of going along however it’s going to go along, and I can’t control everything just by using the proper words.

Anyway, my first meeting was over coffee on Saturday afternoon. I got there a few minutes early, and scoped out the place, making sure he wasn’t already there. Satisfied that I had arrived first, I ordered my beverage and found a place to sit. Then I moved, twice, seeking a more advantageous location. One that offered a view of the door and a bit of distance between where we would be and other afternoon coffee drinkers. I may or may not have been a little bit nervous. The excited kind of nervousness.

When he came in, I was only about 70% certain it was him, so I just looked at him, smiling expectantly, until that glimmer of recognition appeared on his face. Then I got up and took a few steps towards him and… wasn’t sure what to do. I stuck out my hand and we shook. It was a bit awkward. I told him I already had my coffee, so he went to order and came over to sit with me.

Conversation rambled along in starts and stops for a while. He did most of the talking, and I had a hard time getting a word in without interrupting. He told me that he had just blazed before coming to meet me, which actually explained a lot, but I admit I was taken aback by his confession. I wasn’t really offended, but I thought it was strange behaviour when planning to meet someone for the first time.

Things wound down in the coffee shop and he asked what my plans were for the rest of the day. I told him I had arranged to meet a friend afterwards, but that I still had a bit of time. Although it was raining and chilly outside, we decided to walk around for a bit and keep talking. Eventually I decided it was time to say goodbye and we did. He held out his arms for a hug, which felt a lot less awkward than the handshake greeting and we agreed that we would probably enjoy hanging out again sometime, and left it at that.

I thought it had gone fairly well for my first time out. He had interesting things to say, he was better looking than his profile pictures let on, and I had laughed a lot. However, I didn’t really feel a spark, and the fact that he decided to get high before meeting me was kind of a turn off. Overall, it felt like it was worth my time, and any concerns I had about setting up a bunch of different meetings disappeared.

I had more excitement and anticipation about my second meeting. This was a guy I found and messaged first, and his response was enthusiastic. After a series of messages back and forth that bordered on a comedy routine, in which we tried to coordinate dates, times and a meeting location that was mutually amenable and open on Monday night, we finally settled on a wine bar downtown.

Again, I arrived a few minutes early (this isn’t a dating strategy – I just hate being late), sat in a cozy booth, and ordered a couple of glasses of water while I waited. He texted me that he was on his way in, so even though the lighting was very dim, I was certain it was him when he entered the room. It didn’t hurt that I also knew from his profile that he was 6’4″.

I squeezed out of the booth to greet him, and as he came closer he held open his arms and we hugged hello. It wasn’t awkward at all. We sat, ordered a bottle of wine and proceeded to talk easily and comfortably for a couple of hours. Well, as easily as two complete strangers can. I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt an instant attraction to him that grew as we talked. I wondered if he felt it. Our hands casually touched a few times and I experienced a physical reaction that I hid as well as I could. My inner voice was screaming for caution. “Marsha, keep it casual. Do not get too excited over this guy you just met.”

So I kept it light and fun, while being completely open about the fact that I really had a great time and I hoped we’d see each other again. We had exchanged numbers previous to our meeting, so we just left it open, hugged goodbye and went our separate ways. I didn’t know or have any expectations about what would happen next, but hoped for the best.

I have pretty powerful instincts, and yet, I still don’t always trust them. I don’t fully trust myself. I tell myself a lot of things about who I am and what I want, but those things seem to change so frequently that they sometimes feel like lies. Is it a lie if you change your mind? Or is the mind changing just a lack of understanding of my needs and motivations that make me think I want one thing when I really want something else?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog.

I signed up for OkCupid on a Saturday night. Probably pretty typical. I had been thinking about it for a few days, and finally just decided, what the hell? What harm will it do?

It took me an hour or so to upload some photos, fill in my profile and answer some questions. I got a number of visitors right away (OkCupid will show you your visitors, provided you allow others to see when you visit their profile. It’s a great feature!) and received a message or two that night, but nothing really promising.

I spent some time browsing men, and yes, I felt a bit creepy about it. I saw a few maybes, but didn’t message anyone that night.

I had the day to myself on Sunday, so in between getting things done around the house I’d log in and answer questions, check out some people that the site recommended, added a few more photos and filled out some more of my profile. I got a cheeky message from the last guy I dated (who I met in person, not online), who is also on the site. The more activity I did, the more messages I received, and after a day or so I realized I’d need some kind of a system to keep them under some kind of control.

Overtly sexual or rude: (e.g. “do you give good head?”) Delete and block. Not interested, moron.

Bland, boring and impersonal: (e.g. “Hey how’s it going?” or “I like your profile.”) First I’ll check their profile. If it looks at all promising, I’ll send a brief reply asking them something about themselves, giving them the opportunity to respond with something more interesting. If their profile is also bland, boring and impersonal, delete.

Something interesting, mentioning things I had written in my profile and how we might make a good match, something funny, something honest: I feel like these messages deserve consideration and a response. I’ll check their profile. If I’m not interested, I will thank them for their interest and politely decline (e.g. “Hi, thanks for the message. I had a look at your profile, but I’m not seeing anything that makes me think we’d hit it off in person.”) That’s the hardest one to send, but it seems nicer than just ignoring them. Sometimes they write back. If I haven’t changed my mind, I just don’t continue the conversation.

If an interesting message is backed up by an interesting profile, I’ll reply and suggest meeting in person. Boom. Just like that. Why wait?

I’ve received pretty positive responses to this. A few replied with comments or questions and we had some messages back and forth before making a plan to get together. Some were on the same page and we progressed to finding an agreeable time and place and that was that. It’s been easy, low pressure and fun.

But the most fun, and the best messages so far, have been the ones that I’ve instigated. In my profile browsing I’ve come across a few particularly promising ones. For me, this whole making the first move thing is scary stuff. But I have to admit that so far, the payoff has been great. I’ll keep you posted.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

One of my favourite things about OkCupid is the questions. They have an enormous database of questions (mostly yes or no, a few multiple choice) for you to answer about your preferences, and you also include which answers you’ll accept from a potential match and how important the question is to you.

Then the site uses SCIENCE (well, math) to figure out good matches for you. Every other user’s percentage as your potential Match, Friend and Enemy (based on the answers they’ve completed) is shown. The site also evaluates your potentials based on star ratings you give other users, what you say you’re looking for, and other computational site activity.

This is one of my favourite parts of OkCupid. I like answering questions. And some of them are challenging. And you can skip the ones you don’t want to answer. Since this is a fresh, new profile that I set up last week, I am starting from scratch on the questions. But last time I used the site I remember being surprised that my answers to questions in 2004 really had not changed much in 2010. I felt that I had grown and learned a lot in those 6 years, and yet, I still had almost all the same answers to the questions. And I suspect my answers are still the same now, but it’s fun to go through and answer them again.

I think there might be some people who don’t like this part of the site (and you really do need to participate to get good potential matches, I think). Some people just want to cruise through the photos of who is ONLINE NOW and send them quick messages to see if they might be willing to chat. Some people don’t care about the percentages at all, they are just looking for a pretty face. Now, this isn’t to say that I only rely on the numbers and won’t even consider replying to someone who has a low match, or that I’ll always be into someone with a high match. But I have found it interesting that the people with low match percentages for me, no matter how attractive I find them, usually always have responses to questions that are unacceptable to me. Questions like “Do you think homosexuality is a sin” or “Do you think women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved.” They are usually conservative, capitalistic, cocky, agressive or narrow-minded. Which just isn’t for me. And I’m probably not for them either.

And there are plenty of really high percentage matches that just aren’t going to do it for me either. But I tend to be a little more willing to take a chance with them. After all, it’s pretty hard to figure someone out from an online profile, isn’t it? But put me in a room for 20 minutes with someone new and I’ll know pretty quick what kind of potential we have. I’ve got pretty good intuition. And I’m absolutely willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt, but when you know you know.

And this is why, this time around, I am all about meeting people in person as soon as possible. I’m forgetting about the shy and nervous bullshit and I’m getting out there. I don’t want to drag out a month long message chain with someone and really get to like them, only to find out that there’s something missing when we meet. That “click” when you just know that this is someone you really want to spend more time with. And I suspect that most of the time these connections are going to lead to friendships, not romantic relationships, but that’s okay too. I could use a few more friends. And when one really clicks? Well, that’s when things get interesting, right?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Words matter. I always say that. The first word(s) you need to consider for your online dating profile (and actually this comes before the photos, which I already wrote about) is your username. Almost as much as your profile picture makes a huge first impression, so does your username.

What are you looking for? What are your interests? How would you sum yourself up? How clever are you? These are all questions you might ask yourself when you’re trying to come up with the perfect username. I’ve seen some really great names, funny names, boring names, names I don’t understand, and some really, truly awful ones. And I have to wonder, is it possible that having a username like “makemehorni” gets you what you’re looking for?! If so, great. But seriously, what on earth makes you think that I might even have the slightest inclination to reply to your message request of “wana get banged?” Seriously.

To summarize: what’s in a name? A lot. Choose wisely.

Next is the actual profile. OkCupid has a profile template for people to fill in. There’s the multiple choice section that consists of typical “just the facts” kind of stuff (height, race, body type, income, kids etc.) with a playful OkC twist. Example? Under “Drinks” the options are: Very Often, Often, Socially, Rarely, Desperately, Not at all. I considered selecting “Desperately,” but remembered that these people don’t know me yet and might not get my attempts at humour. I do think it’s really important to be honest in this section. I’ve noticed that quite a few people leave some of these blank, which is fine, that’s your prerogative, and it’s better than lying, but I tend to assume the worst.

Then there’s the long answer, open ended questions: Self-Summary, What I’m doing with my life, I’m really good at, The first things people usually notice about me, Favorite books, movies, shows, music and food, The six things I could never do without, I spend a lot of time thinking about, On a typical Friday night I am, The most private thing I’m willing to admit, another multiple choice question concerning What I’m looking for, followed by a paragraph section for You should message me if…

This is where your personality is revealed (although I’d agree that the right photos can do this too)! Personality? Scary stuff for some folks. How much can/should/will you reveal? What kind of tone will you use in your prose? Maybe you’ll use rhyming couplets! Style absolutely counts in this section. It’s not just what you say, but how you say it.

If you write well, you might have a bit of an edge in this section, but so be it, you gotta play to your strengths. And if I employ an evocative phrase, or try to incorporate some of my strange blend of humour, if I come across as something close to what my friends who know me see, then I’m feeling pretty successful. As far as I’m concerned this is the ultimate goal when you are trying to attract a certain type(s) of person (and to find others to be attracted to).

Don’t skimp out on your profile. Use it to showcase the best parts of yourself. If you’re funny, make us laugh. Sarcastic? Bring it on. Contemplative? Make me think. A non-conformist? Ignore the suggested topics and let me hear what you have to say. Be the best you possible in a page of words. Leave your visitors with something to comment on, a question to ask or answer, a reason to reach out and send you a message. Stand out from all the other profiles by being your unique self. That’s how you make more valuable connections.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog.

Once you’ve decided to take the plunge, the next step is to create your online dating profile. This is really important. It’s the first impression you project to all of the potential people in your new online dating community. And if it’s true that you never get a second chance to make one (I’m not sure I believe this, but whatever) – you want it to be good. No, not good, stellar.

Some people will say that the most important aspect of your profile is your photo. Everyone looks at the photo. Some people don’t even read the information you’ve provided if they don’t like your photo. This is known as judging a book by its cover, and it might not be fair, but it happens all the time. I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to get close to people who judge looks above everything else about a person, but I”m not going to pretend it’s not important to me too. And when you’re online it’s one of the easiest things to go on.

Now, I’m no expert on any of this. That should be clear. But I do have some opinions on the topic (otherwise why would I be writing about it), and when I’m sharing my thoughts if I start to sound didactic just remember that I don’t really know what I’m doing, but this is how I believe it’s going to work for me. You’re probably not me, so it might not be the same for you. Then again, maybe it is. Truth. It’s a tricky thing.

I digress (again. I do that a lot. Stay with me).

So, photos. Each one has the potential to tell a story. You have to consider what that story might be. You might be surprised. Try to consider what someone else sees when they look at pictures of you. On OkC you get one main profile picture, but you can add more for interested viewers. I think I’m a reasonably attractive woman, but I’m a hell of a lot more than that, and I want to be specific about the image I am portraying. Consider this: what does it say if you profile picture is focused on your body, rather than your face? You’re looking for sex? You’ve got a great rack but an ugly visage? You know what brings all the boys to the yard? Maybe. What does it say if it’s a blurry photo of you, grinning like a fool, in a fancy dress, wearing a party hat? You know how to have a good time? You are a terrible photographer?

I want others to see me as I imagine myself: smart, sexy, silly, stimulating, creative, clever, curious… I want to show my best features without coming across as conceited. I’m not trying to hide, so my goal is to show the real me as much as possible, but I’m still trying to attract a certain type(s) of person. This is not what everyone else on the internet is doing. Duh. I might choose not to play those games, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the potential.

I’m not sure how I’m doing with this photo. I think it’s playful and flirty, but not overtly sexual. No one has commented on it on the site so I’m not sure how it’s coming across. What do you think?

I’ve included some other photos as well. Me on a beach with the wind blowing my hair around – not one of my prettiest pictures, but it shows my love for the ocean. One of me posing demurely with the focus on a piece of jewellery I am particularly fond of, a close up of my eyes (windows to the soul and all that), a fairly straightforward (literally and figuratively) head shot so people can see what I typically look like, and one full-length photo for those who want to see my figure. Actually, it’s not revealing much. I’m wearing a winter coat in the picture, but I hope it shows that when I describe my body type as “average,” (as opposed to “thin, “overweight,” “athletic,” or any number of other choices) that I’m not lying. This is the first picture I plan to update/replace, but it seems I lack any recent full-length photos of myself. Speaking of recent, all of my pictures have been taken within the last 3 months. I think this is important too. Go ahead and post that great shot of you at _______, but you should probably include the date it was taken in the description.

So, where’s a single 30-something gal supposed to go to find dates?

OkCupid.com

Seriously, there are really no other options. Don’t talk to me about matches or fishes or harmony or lava. Those sites are not for me. Yes, I am being completely biased and close-minded. This isn’t my typical way of being, but when I believe something this strongly, there’s no backing down.

So. Sign up. It’s free. That’s step one.

I had a profile on OkC years ago. I joined after my divorce in 2004. I flirted a lot, but didn’t meet anyone. I was picky, but hopefully not rude. I ended up meeting guys through other means (at work, at school etc.) and hid/ignored my profile for years. I discovered it and opened it up and tried again in the fall of 2010. I was skeptical of the process, and I think a little afraid to put myself out there. I did end up meeting one guy in person (he was persistent). We had coffee and went for a walk, talking comfortably. I wasn’t instantly attracted to him, but I enjoyed his company, so when he asked if I wanted to get together again, I agreed. The second time we met we grabbed a bite to eat and he insisted on walking me home. I felt like I ought to invite him up to my place, so I did. At some point he started kissing me. It was kind of awkward, and not really doing much for me, so I politely thanked him for the evening and said goodbye. We had tentative plans to see each other again a few days later (he invited me to dinner at his place), but I stopped answering his texts and didn’t return his calls. I wasn’t interested in seeing him again, but didn’t know how to tell him. It was cowardly and not cool.

I ended up meeting a guy at a bar that same weekend. We hit it off, started dating, and it turned into a year and a half relationship. I deleted my OkC profile a few weeks in. A funny side note to this story is that the guy from OkC who I stopped responding to ended up dating my friend/roommate for a while the following year. I came home one evening and they were making out on my couch. The same couch he kissed me on. Turns out they were on a team together and had known each other for quite a while. I was surprised, amused and found the whole thing a bit awkward. I think I was embarrassed at how I had treated him, and continued to avoid all contact with him when he was around.  Things didn’t work out between them, and I’ll admit I was a bit relieved.

But I digress.

So, last weekend I decided out of the blue to sign up for OkCupid again. This time I have different motivations. I’m not looking for true love, a boyfriend or casual sex. I really just want to meet some new people. Okay, so yes, my focus is on men rather than women, but that’s because it’s a dating site and I don’t typically date women. But I’ve stated that I’m looking for “everyone” so I’m keeping my options open. While I’d like a little more romance in my life, I’ll be perfectly satisfied with having interesting conversations with interesting people with no further expectations. When I say I’m doing it differently this time, it means that I’m going into this with an open mind and an open heart. I’m drastically dialing down my inner critic. Who knows what I’ll find!? The plan (such as it is) is to just go with it and see what happens. I’m excited to find out!

I’ve never done it. Nope, never really dated. I’m not even sure it’s a real thing. I see it in movies and on TV, but I’ve never experienced it for myself. I’d like to give it a go.

I would like to point out that I feel like I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I’m okay with being single. This is a good feeling. I have friends and I keep busy doing things I enjoy. I genuinely enjoy my own company and entertain myself with solo activities, but I’m also self-aware enough to realize that I prefer to share certain things with another person. My friends aren’t always available for or interested in all of the fun stuff that I want to do.

So, how is it that I have made it this far in my life without ever really dating? Upon close examination, it seems that every time I think I’m going to try dating I end up meeting someone I really like right away and I suddenly find myself in a relationship. It’s not always a serious long-term relationship, but most of them have been. And they’ve ended up being pretty intense in one way or another. And really, there’s nothing wrong with that, and I’m not actually complaining about my history, but I’d like to give dating a try. I want something different.

Why? Because I’m not looking for a life partner. I’m not even looking for love. OK, maybe I wouldn’t mind if I happened to stumble across either of these things, but I’m not actively pursuing them. I’m looking to dial down the intensity. I’m looking for fun.

So, what do I mean by dating?

Dating is where you give yourself the opportunity to meet a bunch of new people and spend time with them without entering an exclusive relationship. Dating is saying “yes, let’s!” The benefits of dating include: the opportunity to get to know people I wouldn’t normally meet, the ability to try out different types of people without worrying about the possibility of getting stuck with them for a long period of time, and opening myself up to a whole world of possibilities that might not be available if I continue to connect with only one prospective romantic possibility at a time. It’s low-risk, adventurous and fun.

But to be completely honest, I’m really looking forward to the stories. I’m going into it with an open mind, an open heart, and plenty of generosity and excitement. I’m confident that there will be failures and successes, laughter and tears, intrigue and banality. Stay tuned!

I’m very easily influenced.

In high school a friend called me a chameleon. He said I took on the traits of whomever I was most interested in at the time. He meant it as an insult. I thought it sounded pretty good.

What better than to be able to meet new people and absorb the best of what they have to offer.

I’m a pisces. (Go ahead, laugh, I realize that talking about astrology is ridiculous). Even worse, I’ll even go so far as to say that I identify as a pisces.

Pisces is a mutable sign.

Huh?

Mutable is changeable. As a water sign and the last sign of the zodiac, Pisces is the most chameleon-like of them all. Pises absorbs and takes on different traits. Pisces adapts and understands change, feels at home in chaos. Pisces appears to be a kaleidoscope, but don’t be fooled, there is a core sense of self within, even if you (or she) can’t always see it.

So yeah, I identify with that. And while others might see it as a fault, I’m learning to revel in it.

Weak-willed, fence-sitter, spineless, accepting, submissive, indecisive, unmotivated, impersonator, follower, lacking initiative, fickle.

Disparaging words. I’ve heard them from others, but sadly, I’ve probably used them on myself more often.

Open-minded, intuitive, empathetic, impressionable, generous, compassionate, adaptable, easy-going, perceptive, instinctual, imaginative, good at taking direction (an actor thing).

It occurs to me that not everyone considers these compliments, but I do. And I would prefer to focus on the positive influences my malleable traits offer.

Today is not the first time these thoughts (practical as well as astrological) have occurred to me, although they seem to be more common lately as I examine my life and try to understand myself (also a very Piscean-trait, as it turns out, and I probably shouldn’t bother getting my hopes up about “figuring it out”).

But today I did happen to have a very real, obvious reaction that I couldn’t help but notice. It was on my mind all day, and if that’s not a signifier that it’s time to get some words out of your head (and into, say, a blog post), I don’t know what is.

I’ve been wearing a bike helmet all summer. Every single trip since I started biking this season.

It hasn’t always been this way. Last year I wore a helmet when expecting to travel on busy streets (the drivers in this city frighten me), but didn’t usually bother for the trip to work and back (mainly on bike paths) every day. A helmet was an occasional thing.

But this year a few things contributed to my incredibly consistent helmet wearing:

I’m down home for my annual visit. On a whim I drive over to visit with an old friend, but she isn’t around. I don’t want to head straight home again, so I decide to take a little trip into town.

Maybe I can pick up a souvenir or two.

I bought a big pewter starfish on a leather choker from a local store a few years back and I love it. It goes with everything and I still get compliments when I wear it. I stop into the store and spend a while poking around the jewellery and other interesting items they carry. There are some earrings made out of buttons that I like, and the thought crosses my mind that I could make them myself (I’ve been toying around with the idea of making jewellery forever). But nothing else catches my eye. To be honest, the inventory doesn’t seem to change much from year to year.

I head further into town and park down by the boardwalk. It’s quiet. I sit by the water for a while.

It’s a small town. Really small. But they have a few shops, so I walk up the street and pop in and out, smiling at the proprietors and thanking them as I leave empty handed. “Just looking, thanks!”

There’s a gallery across the street. I’ve never been inside. I don’t really know much (anything) about art, and I’ve always let it intimidate me, but I realize how silly that is. It can’t hurt to look. Besides, the sign says they have photography and jewellery as well.

The gallery is in an old Victorian house, which is pretty common for small businesses around here. I open the screen door and enter the porch. I don’t see any other shoppers, just the man working there, and I smile and say “hello.” He’s friendly, but seems to understand that I just want to look around and leaves me to it.

I’m a self-conscious shopper. I don’t really like shopping all that much, and I have some deep-seeded guilt (from who knows where or when) about spending time in a local shop without buying anything. It’s like I’m afraid I’m wasting their time by if all I’m going to do is look. I know it’s silly, and it’s not like I let the guilt actually make me buy something I don’t want (my frugality is much stronger than my guilt), but I still feel it whenever I’m browsing. I don’t feel the same way in a mall or a chain store, only in little independent shops.

I quite like the photography here. It has a maritime feel, mostly scenery. The prints are duplicated many times over in a variety of formats and sizes, but they’re good. As I pick up a matted print I notice that the photographer’s bio is on the back. I recognize the man tending the store as the photographer himself.

There are a number of photos taken in and around dilapidated old houses. Not too unusual, as there are quite a few of these around the province, but my favourites are the ones containing personal effects. There is one of a chest of drawers reflected in the mirror of a vanity that I find interesting, and another of two dresses hanging on the wall, complete with tattered wallpaper and peeling paint.

As I’m admiring the dresses the photographer speaks up, “I was really startled to walk into that room and find those dresses hanging there.”

I imagine. I nod. “It’s strange what people will leave behind. I also really like the one with the vanity and chest of drawers.”

“That was a house out on the Bay of Fundy. I wanted to go back to take more pictures, but some local kids burned the place down.”

I shake my head. Damn teenagers.

“Did you notice the one with the doll?” he asks.

“No.” I hadn’t. He leads me over to another print. It’s incredibly creepy. An ugly clownish doll sitting on a chair in a hallway that seems as it’s about to fall down around him.

“This family built another house closer to the highway and just carried all of their belongings down to the new place, leaving behind anything they didn’t want. I asked them why they left those things, and they told me they didn’t need the chairs and their daughter never liked the doll.”

“It’s kind of creepy” I decide.

“That’s what I thought” and we laugh.

I nod to thank him for sharing his story with me. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes a few words can provide you with a story that leads to a thousand other images.

I continue to wander around the gallery, checking out everything and decide on a 5X7 print of the vanity reflection photo plus three magnets (including one with the two dresses) that I think will make lovely gifts. I bring them up to the cash register.

“I guess you like the abandoned and decrepit ones?” he asks, grinning.

“I guess I do. I’m feeling particularly abandoned and decrepit myself these days.” I smile, and try to look as cheerful as possible, but I wonder if he notices the sadness in my eyes as he rings up my purchase and asks me where I’m from.

I’m overjoyed to be in this great city of sights and sounds and smells. History and culture come alive in the hot, sticky, muggy air. I can (and do) walk the streets for hours taking it all in.

But there’s another purpose for my visit. And at night, together in our dark hotel room, nothing else matters. It’s just us. Here. Now.

Hidden away in our climate-controlled haven the rest of the city, the rest of the world, is insignificant. There is a strange and powerful force I feel when we look into each other’s eyes, when we touch. I breathe him in and feel alive, complete, filled with joy. I feel at home.

Closing ourselves off from the rest of the world we create our own secret, sacred space. No light. Shut the curtains and place a pillow at the base, holding them tightly together so light can’t sneak in through the crack. Unplug the phone with it’s eerie glow. Place pillows over the crack in the base of the door to block out the hall lights.

The fan provides the perfect, steady drone of white noise that we both desire, but the damn toilet won’t stop running. I try to fix it (I’m proud of my practical plumbing skills), but nothing seems to work. The solution is simply to keep the bathroom door closed at all times. An added benefit is that the tile floor seems to retain some warmth for those sleepy middle-of-the-night visits.

The room must be cold if we’re going to get any sleep. As cold as possible. He tells me he always runs hot, and in our post-coital cuddle our bodies threaten to ignite. I move away to cool down. First lying luxuriously naked, then covering myself with the sheet as my fever subsides, next I crawl beneath the duvet, and finally, shivering, I snuggle up to his side and use his flesh to return my body to a comfortable temperature.

I turn over in his arms and take my favoured small-spoon position. We fall asleep.

But I can’t sleep when I’m too hot. It doesn’t take long before I wake up feeling icky. I hate to pry my limbs and peel my body away from his, but we have built up a pool of sweat between us and my back is slick. I turn over again and move to leave a space between our bodies, but stay as close as I can. Not wanting to lose contact, I reach out my hand to touch him, and counter-balance by sticking my leg outside of the covers. The air conditioning attacks my exposed skin and brings relief. I sleep again.

I am in so much trouble. Or maybe just a bit of a bind. I shouldn’t be complaining at all, except it’s the only thing I know how to do at this point.

I don’t know what I want. I can’t figure out what to do with my life. I’m dissatisfied, but I don’t know how or what to change.

Yes, that’s how ridiculous this blog post is going to be. You might as well shut it down right now.

Oh, that poor woman. She’s got a job that doesn’t suck, that pays well. She’s got an education, and on top of that, she’s actually pretty smart. She’s attractive too, especially now that she’s taking better care of herself. And she has a nice place to live, a car, no debt, good friends, enough extra money and spare time to do the things she enjoys. She’s cultured and creative and talented. Oddly enough, she’s got a great smile and a sense of humour to go with it. She’s not stingy with her laugh and is a lot of fun to be around.

Yes, I actually believe all of those things. And the fact that I can believe all of that about myself and still be complaining about my life makes me throw up in my mouth a little. On top of being so awesome, I also make myself sick.

The problem, I think, is that my life has no meaning. I don’t really have any reason to be here. How fucking sad is that? My life is empty, and gee it sure would be nice to be able to fix that, but I DON’T KNOW HOW.

What gives meaning to a person’s life? Where does one find purpose? Am I screwed because I don’t believe in God? Because I don’t want to have kids? Could it be as simple as benefiting others? Of course I want to help people. I mean, in a way, I’ve been helping people my whole life, all of that time spent in the service industry. And I’m not even being sarcastic. I always did (and still do) take customer service pretty seriously. But obviously that’s not enough. So how can I make a difference?

Maybe I just need to find a way to fully be myself. To share my passions with the world. (Did you see that eye roll? I’m pretty good at that too, right?) OH IS THAT ALL?! Well, there’s my problem then. I don’t even really know myself most of the time. It’s like I’m living with a stranger who speaks a foreign language. A roommate that you get along with, but try to stay out of each other’s way. I can’t figure myself out! I don’t know what I want! Do you have any idea how hard that is? I’m not sure what’s worse, knowing what you want and not being able to achieve it, or knowing you could probably achieve what you want, if only you knew WHAT THE FUCK it was. Can you sense my frustration? And it’s all just poor privileged girl whining and I hate that I’m doing it.

Passion. There’s another problem all together. I’m a passionate person. I get excited about a lot of things. But there isn’t anything that really drives me, that I’m drawn towards, and I haven’t found anything that I think I could sustain for the rest of my life (assuming I get to keep working at this for a few more years). And that makes me very sad. Because I want that. I see it in others and I am envious. I want that feeling. And I don’t know where to look and I don’t know how to cultivate it and I don’t even know if I’d recognize it if it bit me in the ass.

You know what would be great? It would be great if I could eventually figure this all out, and then maybe I could help people like me get out of their stuck places. I would do that. Because I’m stuck here now and it really, really sucks, and I’d really appreciate it if someone would help me out. I’m just worried that I’m the only one who can. Because I’ve been trying (albeit only on and off) for a long time. I’m pretty sure I’ve been stuck here for almost 20 years. Ever since I stopped being able to honestly answer the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” In fact, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I EVER had an honest answer to that question. Well, other than “I don’t want to grow up!” but that’s a story for another day.

I really need to stop posting bad poetry. Sometimes I’m 15 again. I don’t even know where the urge comes from – I’ve never been terribly interested in writing poems. I do appreciate poetry, and I enjoy poetic language, but this teen-angsty crap has got to stop! It’s just sitting there, mocking my from the top of the page. I really just needed to post something to move it out of the way. Hmm… do I need embarrassing incentives to keep me writing?

Plus, things are looking up. There is something about this time of year that makes me happy: the extra daylight, the warmer (but not too hot) temperatures, the mosquitoes are non-existent, BBQs, campfires, festivals… Seriously, I have no reason to be whining.

I tweeted this last week:

Friends are awesome, but life is too short to stay home when you don’t have a date. My new philosophy: if you want to do something, do it.

marsha (@amanova) June 01, 2012

I was referring to how I’ve started flying solo at more events, even if I don’t know anyone who’s going to be there. This is new for me, and it’s going well so far. Plus, after putting this out there I got a reply that included a link to an amazing blog post on How to Have the Best Summer Ever.

Yes.

In fact, I’m going to eat my lunch outside right now.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

My heart is an M&M
One of many in a little glass bowl
Placed on a coffee table.
Pick me!

I’ve been nibbled at, chewed up, sucked on
I’ve been peanut and plain
I’ve been red, yellow and green.
I’ll melt in your mouth.

I am a blue dark chocolate M&M
You want to bite into me, devour me, taste me
But I’m the last one in the bowl.
Saved? Overlooked? Unwanted?

Exercising patience you pick me up
Place me in the palm of your hand
Turn me over, studying my m.
Your fingers turn blue.

I soften at your touch
Your heat and the pressure
My shell begins to crack.
Will you still want me if I’m damaged?

Pop me in your mouth
Savour me, feel me, know me
I want to experience you from the inside.
I am not afraid.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Amanova

THEM: Amanova. What kind of name is that?
ME: What do you mean? [I know exactly what they mean]
THEM: Where is it from? What nationality?
ME: It’s not from anywhere, I made it up.
THEM: You what?!
ME: I made it up.
THEM: So, it’s not your real name?
ME: No, it’s my real name. It’s my legal name, I just made it up.
THEM: Huh?
ME: It’s a long story.

And it is, but I enjoy telling it. Just not in the checkout line at the grocery store.

In 2002 I was engaged to be married. It was kind of strange, considering that I wasn’t one of those girls who cared about getting married, but I loved my boyfriend, and could see myself spending the rest of my life with him, so when he surprised me with a proposal, I got caught up in the idea and said yes.

We had a year to figure out all of the details, and one that was extremely important to me was the name. I was willing to call myself his wife, but I did not want to take his name. I had a few good reasons:

1. I’m a feminist
2. I think it’s important to question and challenge traditions
3. His name is very ethnically-specific and hard to spell

Let me try to explain that last one, because it really just makes me sound shallow. I spent the first 27 years of my life as Marsha Jones. One of the most common surnames in the English-speaking world. I had no cultural connection to my last name, in fact, I always thought it was embarrassingly boring. I’m a woman and an only child, so my parents had never concerned themselves with the idea that there would be no one to carry on the family name, so there was no worry there. His was a different story. The Onuczko family is Ukrainian and proud of their background. I think that’s awesome. So it was a lot harder for him to just walk away from his surname. Although I always felt that I was a welcome addition to their family, and I appreciate, respect and enjoy their cultural heritage, I never felt that it was mine, and to take their name as my own didn’t feel right to me. Plus, I’m a bit shallow and didn’t want to have to spend the rest of my life spelling out my last name. Fortunately, my future husband agreed with my reasonings and together we explained them to his family. They were incredibly understanding, and I’m sure it didn’t hurt that they had a younger son who probably wouldn’t marry someone as challenging as I am.

My dilemma was that I didn’t want to keep my name, I didn’t want to take his name, and don’t even get me started on the idea of hyphenated last names. How is this a good idea? Which name do you give your kids? Both? OK fine, so now they have a ridiculously long last name. What are they supposed to do when they fall in love and want to marry another poor kid with a hyphenated surname? 4 names?! So, that wasn’t an option.

And here’s the thing, I may not have been dreaming of getting married since I was a little girl, but I am a romantic. And I really liked the idea of us having the same last name. After all, we were starting a whole new limb on the family tree. So we decided that we would both change our names. The perfect solution. But now the task was to find the perfect name.

We started out trying to combine our two names into something new and awesome. We failed. Miserably.

Jonesko. Onones. Nescko. Ozone? Cojones? Um, no. We even tried adding our mothers’ maiden names to the mix, but we still didn’t find anything we liked.

OK, how about we just find a really great name and go with that? This approach was inspired by a couple whose wedding a good friend of mine had attended. They changed their names to Skywalker. I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

– – –

We searched everywhere for the perfect name. We would each compile a list of possibilities and then get together to discuss them. I focused on literature and everyday words. His fondness for fantasy novels and video games produced a few interesting possibilities, but nothing was quite right. We wanted something that would be meaningful for both of us, sounded beautiful and combined well with our first names. It wouldn’t hurt if it fell near the beginning of the alphabet. We began to talk about not just claiming an existing name, but creating our own word, our own unique name. He had done this for characters in the RPGs he played. I was taking a Latin class at University, and was impressed by how many words come from Latin roots. I wanted to try to create something that would have a deeper meaning.

Amare verb: to love
+
Novare verb: to create or make new
= Amanova

We scoured phonebooks and googled it. We didn’t find much. A professor in San Diego, someone in Kyrgyzstan. We wanted something unique, but were willing to accept that there aren’t too many completely original names. We decided that the few we found were acceptable. We were never concerned that someday someone from the Amanova family would track us down and try to claim us as their own.

Of course, I’m no longer married, but I’m still Amanova. He changed his name back after the divorce, but I wanted to keep it. It’s who I am now.

Anyway, that’s the story of my name. I think it makes for an interesting tale. Most people seem to enjoy it, but I don’t think I’ve inspired anyone else to do the same. There have been a few minor bumps along the road, but nothing that would make me regret my decision. I did have a relationship with one guy who never liked the idea of me keeping the name I created with my ex. And I met one person, a Czech woman, who upon hearing my story was convinced that what I’d done is akin to blasphemy – stealing a name! Fortunately, my irreverence doesn’t keep me up at night.

Every once in a while I’ll search google just to see what comes up: a French musician, lots of Polish pages. I haven’t tried it for awhile, but today ‘s search found something new that’s a bit strange and made me laugh out loud:

I wonder how much it would cost me to buy that domain?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I am a strong, intelligent woman. And yet, I have this tendency to be a bit boy crazy.

I recently felt the need to cool things off with a guy I was pretty into. We had known each other for a while, but had only been on a couple of dates. What I wanted to tell him was,

So… I don’t think I can see you anymore since I’ve fallen head over heels for this other guy I just met who lives with his girlfriend in a different city, and who I’m pretty sure feels the same way about me, but we aren’t going to see each other until July so who knows what’s going to happen, but I wouldn’t feel right not telling you about it, and even though I think you’re really sweet and yes I’m attracted to you, you just don’t really compare to this other guy who I can’t have. Can we be friends?

I mean, that’s the truth. But that’s not what I said. What I actually said was more along the lines of,

I really like you, and yes, I’m attracted to you, but the problem is that I really think I need to focus on me right now. And if we keep going along this trajectory I know what’s going to happen: I’m going to put all of my energy into you. Into learning about you and thinking about you and wanting to spend time with you. Because that’s what I do when I’m into someone. I know it sounds selfish, but I really just need to put that energy back into me. I’ve told you about my recent slap-in-the-face discovery that I need to refocus my energies and reevaluate my life and I don’t know if I can do that while starting something with you. And you know that I recently ended a medium-serious relationship and the last thing I need to do right now is jump headfirst into another one. Can we be friends?

A pretty different story, and yet, still true. I just saved myself the discomfort of having to explain the out-of-town impossible guy that I fell for in 3 short nights to a guy who I had just started dating.

And he was really cool and understanding about it. And I’d like to think that we are friends, even though I still haven’t told him about the other guy. The one I can’t stop thinking about. The one I’ve been putting all of my energy into. The one I want to spend all of my time with. Woah.

So. Time for a reality check. I am OK with the fact that I’ve totally fallen for someone situationally inappropriate, and with the fact that it’s pretty much an impossible situation right now. I’m thriving on all of the energy and anticipation and the excitement of the many optimistic imaginary outcomes that I have been able to dream up. But, I need to remember to breathe. I need to remember to be me. I’m much happier and far more interesting when I’ve got my own things going on.

There’s a fine line between enthusiasm & passion and addiction & obsession. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to stop feeling this way. I don’t want to let go of any of my wanting, desiring, intense feelings; I just don’t want to go over the edge into scary, needy, craziness.

I’m just going to keep it awesome. And keep having fun. And keep singing this song:

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

I have had this book on my bookshelf for over 15 years. I’ve started reading it a few times, but never gotten very far. And yet I can’t bring myself to toss it, recycle it, sell it or give it away, even though that’s what’s become of hundreds of books that I’ve owned in this time period.

I’m a big believer in helping yourself, but I cringe at the term “self-help.” But I bought this book for a reason, and I’ve hung on to it all these years for a reason. So why haven’t I ever gotten through it? It’s not that long. And why can’t I let it go?

I think deep down I believe that I need it. Or something like it.

Is it possible that this silly yellow book could be the key, or even just one of many, that might help me unlock the chains that have been holding me back all of my life? The idea of that is just too scary. I’m afraid of this yellow book. I’m afraid that either it will not help and I will continue to fumble around in the darkness, trying to figure out what I really want, or that it will work and then what? What lies beyond me figuring out what I really want?

I pulled this book off of the bottom of the bookshelf tonight. I opened it and started reading. And I recognized myself in the first few pages. Hope bloomed. And I immediately stopped reading and got on my computer and started typing.

What does that mean? And what happens next?

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The final story I’m sharing here is slightly out of order in terms of the class timeline, but it is also my favourite piece from the class. I found the assignment daunting: tell a non-fiction story within the frame of a specific form not typically used for this kind of writing. She called it a Hermit Crab Essay. A story crawls out of its original shell and finds a new home elsewhere. The form should be unusual for non-fiction, but should fit the subject matter appropriately (I’ve worded that poorly, but I can’t find the class syllabus with the actual assignment). (March 2011)

From the author statement I submitted with my piece:

I had a really great time working on this assignment. I was terrified at first, not sure what form to use or even what I wanted to write about (no surprise there, that’s how most of my assignments begin). I considered a number of different topics, to the point that I completely stressed myself out. I planned to start writing on Saturday, and finding myself unable to come up with anything I decided to have a nap, desperately hoping something would occur to me in my sleep.

Out of nowhere a story from my past popped into my head, something I hadn’t thought about in years. As I lay in bed (not sleeping) the details began to come back to me and I was struck by the appropriateness (and assignment-worthy inappropriateness) of telling my childhood story using a fairy tale narrative.

I thought about how traditional fairy tales are often dark and a bit scary, and also how they have been watered down and Disney-fied for children. I thought about how witches and monsters are pretend, and that some of the people we encounter in real life can be much scarier. I thought about how much I was loved, and the fact that I had a generally happy and safe childhood. I thought about that child-like resiliency that adults often forget children have. I thought about taboos, sex and sexuality, the house I grew up in, and my Flitter-Bit Strawberry Shortcake toy.

It didn’t take long for me to get motivated. I sat down at my computer and banged out the fastest and easiest first draft that I’ve managed to write for this class so far. I read it over. I worried that it would freak out my classmates during peer editing. I decided that it probably wouldn’t, and if it made them uncomfortable, too bad. I liked it. I was pleased.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom not too far away, lived a King and Queen and their only child.  The Princess was a happy girl, but sometimes she got lonely without any siblings to play with.  She spent a lot of time reading books and making up exciting adventures for her toys.  When the Princess was allowed to play with the other children in the court, they seemed to enjoy the games she invented, and even though she was a bit bossy and always insisted on making up her own rules, the Princess was well liked.

There was a large bedroom in the basement of the castle, and the Princess had recently been permitted to move from her tiny room upstairs down to the new bedroom.  Leaving behind the bright colours and nursery-rhyme wallpaper made her feel grown up.  The new bedroom had high windows that looked out into the courtyard and had a ledge just wide enough to climb on.  The Princess now had a huge dresser and a closet large enough to hold all of her toys.  But the best thing about the new bedroom was the enormous waterbed.  It had a headboard with shelves for the Princess’s prized books and a lovely oval mirror in the centre.

The Princess and her friends loved to climb up onto the dresser and leap onto the waterbed.  They had to squelch their screams of joy because they knew that if the King and Queen discovered them jumping on the bed they would be in a lot of trouble.  Sometimes the Princess would have the other children lie down on the bed and she would climb even higher, to the ledge of the windows, and jump from there, making everyone giggle with the massive waves created by her landing.

One winter day the King and Queen received an invitation to a Ball where children, even good little Princesses, were not allowed.  On occasions such as these the King and Queen usually selected a young Noble to stay at the castle with the Princess for the evening.  But this was a very popular Ball, and all of the kingdom’s young Lords and Ladies had been spoken for.  Rather than exploit their royal favor, the King and Queen invited the son of a trusted royal family from a neighboring kingdom to watch over the Princess that night.

The Prince was a handsome young man of sixteen.  The Princess had never met him before and was quite shy when he arrived.  The King and Queen left him with instructions, cautioned the Princess not to pester the young Prince too much, kissed her goodnight and left in their carriage for the Ball.

The Prince smiled at the little Princess and asked her questions about her studies and her interests.  She offered to give him a tour of the castle, and led him by the hand through all of the upstairs rooms, pointing out things that might be of interest.  Then she took him down the tower stairs to show him the entertainment room.  She finished the grand tour in her bedroom.  The Prince was impressed by the large waterbed and proceeded to sit and then lie down on it, rocking a bit to make waves.  Hoping to keep his attention, the Princess started to show him her favourite toys, but he didn’t seem interested.  Instead he suggested that she play with her toys while he worked on his homework in the entertainment room.

The Princess was crestfallen.  She liked the Prince and wanted him to play with her.  She was hoping he would be like her favorite Lady-In-Waiting who always brought the latest albums to play on the record player, turning them up loud while they danced around the entertainment room together.  The Lady-in-Waiting never ignored the Princess to do homework, although she sometimes spent a long time on the telephone with her boyfriend, a Knight.  But the she would always confide in the Princess afterwards, telling stories about the Knight: how he was a total jerk or how she found him incredibly sexy.

So when the Prince went upstairs to get his schoolbooks, the Princess slammed her bedroom door, threw herself onto her waterbed and began to pout.  She hoped that the Prince would feel badly and come to rescue her.  It didn’t take long for her to get bored, but she was a very stubborn little Princess and continued pouting for at least twenty minutes.

Eventually the little Princess could stand it no more.  She climbed down off her bed, inched open the door and tiptoed down the carpeted hallway to the entertainment room to spy on the Prince.  She thought he looked very handsome sitting on the couch bent over his books and papers on the coffee table.  She wondered if he was sexy.

Spying got boring too, so the Princess made just enough noise so that the Prince would look over at her.  She smiled a sneaky smile at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied innocently.

The Princess darted towards the coffee table, snatched up the Prince’s pencil, and giggling, ran away.  She headed toward the tower stairs and the Prince jumped up to chase her.  She screamed as he laughed and roared like a monster.  He caught up with her before she reached the top. He grabbed her, picked her up and started to carry her back downstairs.

The Princess kicked and squealed, “Let me go! Let me go!” but the Prince kept roaring.  He carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the bed.  He growled, “Give me back my magical pencil you little witch!”

The Princess was delighted.  She held the pencil high, shook her head back and forth and screamed. “Never!”

The Prince grinned and replied, “If you won’t return my magical pencil I will have no choice but to… TICKLE YOU!”

He jumped onto the bed, trapping the Princess between his legs and started to tickle her mercilessly.  “I am the tickle monster!” he cried.  The little Princess was very ticklish and she screeched and squealed and squirmed beneath him, but kept a firm grasp on the pencil.

“Stop! Stop!” The Princess finally cried, out of breath from giggling and screaming. The Prince stopped and smiled wickedly at her.

“Will you give me back my pencil?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes!” she cried. “Take it!”

The Prince snatched the pencil from the Princess’s fist and rolled over beside her on the bed.  They had made waves in the waterbed.  “That was fun,” panted the Princess, still out of breath.  She felt funny.  Her body was sore from being tickled, but she also felt a warm tingling feeling inside.  She liked it.  When the the waves started to fade, the Princess got bold. She climbed on top of the Prince and started to tickle him.  He grinned at first and playfully swatted her hands away, but after a moment he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.  Rather than squealing or screaming like the Princess, the Prince let out a low moan.  Suddenly, he threw the Princess off of him and jumped off the bed.  “That’s enough,” he choked.

Once he left the room the Princess felt terrible.  She didn’t want the Prince to be mad at her.  She went upstairs to the kitchen and made two peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  The Queen’s homemade strawberry jam was the best in the land.  The Princess poured two glasses of milk and carefully carried everything down the tower stairs to the entertainment room.  The Prince barely glanced at her when she entered.

“I’m sorry for tickling you,” the Princess said, “I made us some sandwiches.  Are you hungry?”

They ate in silence and, when it was almost bedtime, the Prince told her to go and get ready for bed.  The Princess asked him if he would tuck her in.  He nodded.

The Princess washed her face, brushed her teeth and changed out of her clothes into her nightie.  She crawled into the center of her enormous waterbed, got under the covers and hollered, “I’m ready! You can come tuck me in now!”

The Prince stood in the doorway.  The Princess smiled shyly at him.  “Will you lie down with me until I fall asleep?” she asked.

The Prince seemed uncertain, but he turned off the lights and lay down on the bed.

“You can get under the covers if you want,” she said.

He lifted up the blankets and slid in beside the Princess.  He was lying on his back.  The waterbed was warm.  The Princess turned towards him and snuggled up to his side.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Sweet dreams, Princess.”

– – –

The Princess woke up suddenly with a pain between her legs.  The Prince was stroking her hair.

“Shhh, it’s OK,” he whispered.

As her grogginess began to wear off she realized why she was hurting.  The Prince had pushed up her nightgown and his hand was under her panties.  Something was inside her.  There.  The Princess was scared.  She tried to move away from him, but he held her tight.  She started to sob.  “No, shhh, it’s OK,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

“I want my mommy,” the Princess sobbed, “Where’s my mommy?  I want my mommy to come home.”

The Prince removed his hand from under the blankets, but the Princess kept crying.  The Prince continued to whisper, “I’m sorry, shhh.  It’s OK, shhh.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.  Don’t worry.  Shhh, go back to sleep.”  He held her, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek and whispering to her.  The Princess closed her eyes.

 – – –

In the morning, the Princess woke up with the sun.  She squinted and looked around her room.  The Prince was gone.  In the bright morning light the night felt like a dream.  When the King and Queen asked if she liked the Prince she simply said, “He’s OK, but I like the Lady-in-Waiting better.”

The End

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

For our final assignment we were given the opportunity to re-write something from earlier in the term. It was an opportunity to raise the grade on a particular piece and to tackle a subject from a different perspective. It was supposed to be a big change, not just another round of edits. My goal was to turn the story into a series of vignettes. I think that the pedagogical implications of this assignment are fantastic, and although I believe my re-write is an improvement, it’s still not top notch. Regardless, here it is: Crossing Canada Redux (April 2011)

Traveling eastbound on the Yellowhead the sun begins to set behind us, surrounding Caddy with beautiful light. A rainbow appears on the highway before us as though we’re heading directly for the pot of gold. I believe we are.

It’s dark and well after 10:00pm when the four of us pull into Lorraine and Esther’s little farm outside of Saskatoon. It’s my first visit here and it took us a while to find the place. Everyone is hugged, introduced and offered wine. I am impressed, but not surprised, by how well my friends and my Aunts get along, and the wine and conversation flow easily and much later than we expect. Dan, still hung-over from his farewell party the night before, is the first to head to bed. It’s not easy to find room for four guests in a farmhouse, and he and I end up sharing a twin bed while Wade gets a couch and Andrea a mattress on the floor.

We all move a bit slower than planned the following morning, and enjoy a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and fruit before venturing outside to get our first glimpse of the little farm. The Cadillac’s headlights had not revealed the quaint garden filled with wildflowers and my Aunt’s art, the restored greenhouse, or the shady arbor that had been built for Esther’s daughter’s wedding the previous summer. And there’s a horse!

Just enough time for a few group photos, and then we need to pack up the car and hit the road. I leave a thank you card for Aunt Lorraine and Esther on the bed. It’s the last handwritten note my Aunt will receive from me. When she discovers it, I hope she smiles and remembers the letters we used to exchange when I was a kid.

– – –

The thought of spending this perfect summer day cooped-up in the car is unbearable.  It doesn’t take much for Wade’s Aunt Linda to convince us to go out to Lake Winnipeg for a swim. It’s so hot that we stop for Freezies on the way. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I chew and slurp the cherry-flavored ice. I’m six years old again.

When we get to the beach I kick off my flip-flops and run to the water, arms stretched out to embrace the lake. I’m always the first one in. My screams at the cold shock don’t entice anyone to join me right away, so I swim around to warm up while I wait for everyone else to get hot enough to venture in.

– – –

Northern Ontario, with its long stretches of rocks and trees and nothing else, has gotten to us. Dan is stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over. It’s group therapy in a Cadillac. We drive until we can’t stand it any longer, and Andrea suggests we get out of the car and take a walk near Lake Superior. It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to make each other laugh.

– – –

We’re sticking it to the man in Ontario. Trying to save money, we hit a grocery store and plan to dine al fresco at one of the parks along the highway. The trouble is, there is a fee at every park we’ve passed – a charge to drive in, park, eat at a picnic table, and leave. We are spoiled, having grown up out West. Not to be dissuaded, we find a reasonably large shoulder, pull over, and hike down an unmarked path. It leads to a clearing by the lake. Score! It’s pretty, it’s private, it’s perfect.

Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full. We’ve all been feeling the inevitable tension that occurs when four people are forced to be together for extended periods of time. We drive all day, hang out in the evening and share a hotel room at night. Friendships aside, we are starting to annoy the shit out of each other.

After lunch, Wade and Andrea announce that they’re heading back to Caddy for a nap before we hit the road again. Dan and I can barely contain our gratitude. We haven’t been alone for a few days and the strain must be obvious. Wade gives me a knowing look as he and Andrea pack up a few things to carry back. “We’ll leave the blanket for you guys.”

Once they’re out of earshot we can’t keep our hands off each other. My love for outdoor fucking is no secret, and foreplay is unnecessary. Clothes are off and Dan is inside me in record time. There’s no reason to suppress my moans out here. I share my ecstasy with all of nature. As my first climax fades I relax and enjoy the sensations: the sound of the lake lapping the shore, a gentle breeze caressing my naked skin. I feel the tension between us melting away. Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full.

– – –

Caddy started giving us serious attitude in Ottawa. Nearly every attempt to start the car triggered the anti-theft warning message, which meant we had to wait three minutes before starting her up again. It’s beyond annoying, and we nearly got a parking ticket in Ottawa because we can’t move the car, but it hasn’t kept us from getting where we need to go. I call my dad to ask about the problem. He says we might as well wait until we arrive in Nova Scotia to get it looked at.

Bad advice, Dad. We decide to stop about 75 kilometers from Montreal, thinking gas might be cheaper in rural Quebec. It’s mid-afternoon and we have plenty of time to get to the city and find a hotel. Except this time Caddy decides that we no longer deserve a warning. She flat out refuses to start. Maybe she’s tired of driving. Maybe she’s sick of our bickering. Whatever it is, there’s no way she’s taking us any further. It starts to rain.

We attempt to stay dry and decide what to do next. We’ve tried everything we can think of. We finally nominate Andrea, the closest thing we’ve got to a francophone, to ask the gas station attendant to call us a tow truck and a taxi.

It’s nearly midnight when the tow truck drops Caddy off at the dealership. Our cabbie agreed to a flat rate into the city, but he goes well beyond the call of duty, entertaining us with amusing stories to take our minds off our troubles, and navigating to a number of hotels to inquire about vacancies. He manages to help us turn a terrible situation into an adventure.

The few days we spend in Montreal while Caddy gets fixed are among my favorite of the trip.

– – –

It’s been eleven years since I last visited Nova Scotia. My parents used to take me every few years, but they stopped paying for my vacations a long time ago, and I haven’t had a chance to return. Now that mom and dad have retired and built their summer home at Cameron Beach, I have an excuse. Not to mention the fact that Caddy belongs to them and they want her back.

I have no problem remembering the muddy red sand squishing between my toes. Walking forever on the sandbars when the tide is out, and jumping into the water from the big rocks when it’s in. I keep these memories close at hand as we venture eastward. I’m enjoying the journey, but I can’t wait to get there.

I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and I’m invigorated by the distinctive smell of the maritime air. My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away. I babble on about things suddenly familiar that I had forgotten: the brick building where we need to turn left, that lone tree in the field, Chandler’s corner store. My excitement is contagious and my friends are as giddy as I am in anticipation of our arrival. As we turn on to Toney Bay Road I can barely contain myself. My parents’ house is new, but I have no trouble recognizing it as we approach in the dark.

I see the welcoming glow in the windows and I know I’m home.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

We had a substitute instructor one week in February and she had us do an in-class assignment that I quite liked. She played us a few YouTube videos: some narrative folk songs, and a few poets reading their work. Then we had to take one of the pieces that resonated with us and copy the style, telling our own story.  The poem I liked had the line “this is not a place to linger” repeated throughout (of course, I threw out my notes from the class and can’t remember who it was). I came up with the first four paragraphs, pretty much as is, in class, and added the final two later. I enjoyed the free-writing exercise and was pleased with how it turned out. Although not a formal assignment, I kept it in my portfolio for the end of the year. (February 2011)

Although the orange and auburn leaves in the valley look beautiful this time of year, this is not a place to linger. When the deep, dark days of December descend into that valley, and the cold, coal black skies begin to spit out sparkling snowflakes you will begin to realize that this is not a place to linger.

This is not a place to linger, even if you enjoy the silly, slippery sports like skiing, sledding and skating. There are better places than this to play.

When the twinkling lights and cheerful snowmen begin to appear, you may think that it isn’t so bad. Plied with the spirits of the season (rum and eggnog, mulled wine, hot chocolate with marshmallows and peppermint schnapps) you will believe that all is merry and bright, but don’t be fooled. This is not a place to linger.

A new year brings hope and the promise of a fresh start, but this is not a place to linger. Soon the frost, the cold, the snow, the cold, the ice, the cold, the wind and the cold will convince you: this is not a place to linger.

If you survive the winter you’ll begin to wonder if Crayola has released their special edition Spring in Northern Alberta box of 64 shades of brown and grey. You will forget the beauty of autumn and winter and realize that that this is not a place to linger.

Don’t let the budding leaves and warmer temperatures fool you. This is not a place to linger. Work a part-time job while you finish high school. Find a cheap apartment in the city and leave as soon as you can. This is not a place to linger, and if you don’t get out now you may never leave.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The longest assignment we received was to write about a “cultural artifact.” I had a hard time figuring this out, but eventually settled on knitting (although since it’s technically a verb, I went with “knitting needles.”)

I‘m pretty happy with this piece. I got to write about one of my passions and to connect it and myself to other people. Explaining knitting to non-knitters has always been a challenge for me, and I like to think that this piece gets me closer to that place. My writing prof brought up a really interesting point that I had not (consciously) considered while writing, that the narrative is like a work of knitting itself. I also really hate the title. (February 2011)

Start with two sleek nickel-plated ends that fit perfectly in my hands.  They will be cool to the touch at first, but will become warm with use.  Connect them with a smooth join to a strong but flexible cable that won’t kink, no matter how much they’re twisted.  Taper the tips to a sharp point capable of slipping through the finest yarn.  Make the shaft so slick that the stitches slide with ease, even if they are a bit tight.  Contrast the shiny silver ends with a vibrant purple cable.  These are my knitting needles.

Knitting is my meditation.  It keeps my hands busy so my mind can find peace.  It’s simultaneously relaxing and invigorating.  Once you know the basics you can turn off your brain and settle into the repetition: insert needle into stitch, wrap yarn around needle, pull loop through stitch and remove it from needle.  Repeat.  The act of knitting is quite simple.  On the other hand, the art of knitting is a challenge.  There’s more to it than making stitches.  Consider the many variations to the basic knit stitch, the qualities of different fibers and how needle size and yarn weight affect gauge and drape.  Learning to read a knitting pattern is like learning a new language, and the act of creating something beautiful and practical from two sticks and a bit of string is wildly satisfying.

While I find pleasure in the process as well as the products, I also have a special connection to the knitting tools that I use.  Yarn comes in an endless variety of colors and fibers and weights.  I am drawn towards purples, blues and greens.  I prefer merino wool, alpaca and silk blends.  Knitting is a tactile experience, and fondling yarn is a sensual activity.  Some people have a secret stash of porn; we knitters have our yarn stash.  And not unlike an angler who has her lucky fishing rod, a baker her ideal spatula, or a writer her favorite pen, a knitter has her preferred set or style of needle.

The most familiar knitting utensils are a pair of foot-long straight needles, pointy on one end with a knob on the other.  I learned to knit with a set of these, but I no longer have any use for them.  They are large and awkward and make me feel like a child stumbling around in my mother’s high heels.  My knitting needles are just my size.  I don’t need to worry about jabbing the person who sits next to me on the airplane.  Long straights also limit the knitter to making flat pieces of fabric, which is perfectly acceptable when making a scarf, but three-dimensional objects will require seaming.  Knitting is fun.  Sewing up seams is not.

Double-pointed needles are just that: needles that are pointed at both ends.  They are shorter than straight needles and are usually used in sets of four or five to knit small tubular objects like socks, mittens and sleeves.  Trying to maneuver a handful of small pointy sticks jutting out of a small knitting project is unwieldy and frustrating.  These needles also have an annoying penchant for slipping out of the work, leaving the stitches in danger of unraveling.  Once they’ve escaped your mitten or sock they will burrow deep into the sofa, roll away under someone’s chair or hide in the dark corners of your purse.

My knitting needles are circular needles.  They combine the best of both worlds.  They can be used to knit back and forth like long straights to create a flat blanket, or you can knit in the round to make tubes of any size, from the body of a sweater to the fingers of a glove.  Not all next-gen knitters knit with circs, but I see them used more often by my peers.  I’ve even got my Aunt Marilyn, a traditional knitter who showed me the ropes, knitting socks using the Magic Loop technique on a circular needle.

—

Mary Lillian Guthro passed away on June 30, 2010 at the age of 83.  Cancer.  She was my dad’s mother, my last surviving grandparent and a knitter.  The last time I saw Mary was the summer of 2008.  I had been knitting for a few years by then, and I think she was pleased that we had something in common, but it was hard to tell.  To be honest, we didn’t know each other very well.  She lived in Nova Scotia, and we moved to Alberta when I was three years old.  When I showed her my handiwork that summer she sort of peered at it and nodded.  “That’s nice,” was about all I could get out of her on the topic of my knitting.  Mary was a woman of many words, but in my experience they were rarely complimentary or kind.  I suspect that she always thought I was a little bit spoiled, being an only child, and didn’t want to encourage me too much for fear I might think too highly of myself.

When I was in my twenties, my grandparents came out to spend a couple of months with my parents.  My mom had the idea that Mary could knit me a sweater to keep herself busy.  I remember when I was little she knit beautiful Fisherman’s sweaters for my parents and me.  They were incredibly warm, albeit a bit itchy.  I didn’t think I’d get much use out of a traditional pullover, but when I went to visit one weekend, Mom and Mary and I went shopping.  We found a pattern for a long-sleeved cardigan that I liked.  Mary took my measurements, purchased the yarn and got started right away.  I was excited.  I’d never had the opportunity to see anyone knit up close.  I watched her cast on and start knitting.  She was fast.  I was fascinated by how two pointy sticks could turn a big bag of yarn into an article of clothing right before my eyes.

The sweater turned out to be a disaster.  It didn’t come close to fitting me.  The sleeves were different lengths; the body was too wide and too short.  The stitches were uneven.  It didn’t look like my grandmother’s work, but she behaved as though there was nothing wrong with it.  I couldn’t help but wonder if she really didn’t care.  Maybe she felt rushed or pressured into doing something she didn’t want to do.  My mom thought Mary might have forgotten how to read a pattern since she had spent the last decade knitting mittens from memory.  I was disappointed.  I tried to be grateful for the time and energy she spent working on something for me, and I gave her a big hug and thanked her for the sweater.  After my grandparents went home to Nova Scotia my mom unraveled the whole thing, put the pattern and the balls of yarn into a big bag and put it away for me.  I forgot all about it.

It was a few years before I decided that I ought to do something with that bag of yarn.  I had always thought of knitting as old-fashioned, something that grandmothers did to keep themselves busy, but I was beginning to think that there was something kind of cool about handmade objects.  I remembered some of the awesome knitted items I had been given as a kid: checkerboard slippers with a pompom on top, the rainbow balaclava that kept my head and face warm when walking to school, and best of all – warm woolly mittens.  The attached idiot strings ensured that I wouldn’t accidentally lose one of those handmade treasures.  I began to imagine the practice of domestic arts to be edgy and retro. There was something appealing about having a unique hobby, something different than anything my friends were doing. I decided to learn to knit.

Mary was too far away to be my teacher.  Instead I asked my surrogate grandmother, my boyfriend’s Baba, to teach me to knit while she was in town.  She gave me my first pair of long straight size 7 knitting needles and a practice ball of icky acrylic yarn.  Unfortunately, she was a terrible teacher. Knitting was second nature to Baba, and when it came time to describe what she was doing, it was impossible for her to translate her movements into words.  Instead, she tried to move her needles, hands and fingers slowly while I watched closely and tried to mimic her actions.  It was hopeless.  Eventually I managed to cast on a row, but the stitches were so tight that I could barely squeeze the needle into the stitch to make a new one.  Baba’s visit ended and I became frustrated and gave up, defeated by a pair of pointy sticks and some fat string.

As I always do when I find myself at a loss, I turned to Google.  My preliminary “how to knit” queries got me some decent results.  There were helpful diagrams and a few YouTube videos describing the basics that Baba had failed to explain.  I picked up my size 7 pointy sticks and my squeaky acrylic yarn and tried again.  And again.  I continued to make tight stitches, but in time I loosened up enough to be able poke the needle through the loop without a fight.  I managed to knit a little square that didn’t look too terrible so I figured I could safely move on to a scarf.  I went to Michael’s and bought some cheap white acrylic yarn to go with the many balls of black I had left over from Mary’s sweater fiasco.  The next time Baba came to visit I had finished about a foot of my scarf.  She was impressed with how my skills had progressed, but not as impressed as I was.

I continued to knit boring, flat things and didn’t really improve on my skills until my Aunt Marilyn came out from New Brunswick for the summer.   She helped me figure out tension so I could knit even stitches that weren’t so tight.  She gave me a little booklet called “How to Knit” that plainly portrayed all the basics of knitting.  Suddenly it all made sense. I became insatiable and wanted to know everything there was to know about knitting.  Aunt Marilyn gave me a set of short double pointed needles and showed me how to knit in the round.  She taught me how to read knitting patterns.  I used my new skills to make my first pair of mittens.  I learned to knit the slippers that I loved so dearly.  I started to understand the differences between wool, acrylic and other fibers.

—

I wasn’t able to go to Mary’s funeral.  It was held two weeks before I was scheduled to arrive in Nova Scotia for my vacation.  I had set the dates and booked my flight months in advance.  Before I arrived, my parents had been helping to clean out Mary’s house, and my mom was keeping her eyes open for anything she thought my grandmother might have wanted me to have.  I’m the only serious knitter in the family so my mom called dibs on all of the knitting stuff.  On my second or third day back we went to Mary’s house.  I could not believe the yarn stash she had.  There was more yarn in her house than any one person could knit in a lifetime.

I spent awhile digging through everything, but it was mostly cheap acrylic yarn and it all had the slight scent of stale cigarette smoke, a stinky reminder of my grandpa Herb who died three years earlier.  I ended up salvaging a decent sized bag of yarn.  Moving on to explore the hardware I found a few treasures: needle gauges, tiny rulers and scissors, some vintage patterns and lots of cool old buttons.  The needles were another story.  I am still shaking my head at the number of knitting needles this woman had purchased over the years.  The majority of them had never even been taken out of the packaging.  And most of them were size 7.  How many sets of the same size needle could one knitter need?  I picked out a few for sentimental reasons.  The rest of Mary’s knitting stuff went to charity.

I think she would have preferred it that way.  Mary donated the dozens of pairs of mittens that she knit every year, in every color of the rainbow, to her church to distribute to the poor each Christmas.  While cleaning out Mary’s house, my mom found a Safeway bag with three different sets of mittens in varying stages of completion and asked me if I would finish them.  I admit I have always been a selfish knitter.  I knit for myself, and I’ve only started knitting gifts for loved ones in the last couple of years.  I can’t imagine spending countless hours knitting for strangers, but I did spend an afternoon on my summer vacation honoring my grandmother’s memory by working on the mittens with her size 7 double pointed needles.  I didn’t like the needles, and I didn’t like the yarn, but I did like feeling as though I was helping Mary with her unfinished business.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

Assignment number three is to write about an event (are you sensing a theme?) and once again I know what I want to tackle. The problem is that the event that I want to write about is big. Huge, really, and I only have 1500 words to tell the story. It would have been smart to choose something else: a birthday, a birth, a wedding, anything, but I really wanted to write about my road trip across Canada with friends. I’m stubborn like that. So I tried. And I was not entirely successful.

Word limitations are good, or at least a necessary evil, but it’s important to choose a topic you can fit into the space provided. I had too much to say, too many pieces I wanted to include, and ultimately, I ended up with a fractured travel journal instead of a cohesive essay about an event. But in the spirit of sharing, I’m still going to post it here. (December 2010)

The Destination:

Cameron Beach, Port Howe, Nova Scotia.  I’ve never lived there, but it’s home.  My Aunt Marilyn and her family have owned land here for a couple of generations, and my parents got a good deal on some property a few years ago.  Now that they’ve retired, mom and dad have built a summer home and relocated from Alberta.  It’s been eleven years since I’ve stepped foot on the muddy red sand, walked for hours on the sandbars when the tide is out, or smelled the seaweed-salty air, but I can recall all of these things perfectly.  When I was young we used to return to Nova Scotia every two to three years to visit family, always spending time at “The Beach,” which, despite its generic title, always means Cameron Beach.  We’d stay with Uncle Clarence and Aunt Marilyn at their log cabin cottage that my uncle built in the early seventies.  Eleven years is a long time to be away from home, and I can’t wait to get back.

The Travelers:

Marsha – That’s me.  I’m 31, a recent graduate of the University of Alberta with a B.A. in English.  I’m using my degree to its full potential, working full-time in a chain restaurant. An upscale burger joint.  One great thing about working in the service industry is that it’s easy to get time off, provided you can live without a paycheck.  My boss has assured me that I’ll be welcomed back when I return in two months.  I’m lucky.  This is a luxury not many people I know can afford.
Dan – My boyfriend.  He’s 23 and a current English undergrad.  He’s the moody, artistic type that I find so attractive.  After being “just friends” (occasionally with benefits) for a couple of years, last summer we decided to try being a couple: so far, so good.  Dan also works at a restaurant, although his attitude is more negative than mine.  He’s quitting his job to go on this trip, and planning to spend the entire two months with me.
Wade – My roommate and close friend.  He’s 23, and he graduated with a slightly more employable B.Ed.  Wade is from Northern B.C. and he returned there after graduating to work for the local school board.  It turns out that Fort St. John doesn’t have much to offer an attractive and intelligent gay man.  In less than two years Wade returned to Edmonton, moved in with me, and got a job as an instructor with a private company.  He hasn’t been there long, but he’s still managed to get a full two-week vacation.  I’m thrilled that he’s spending it with me.
Andrea – A friend.  26 years old with a B.Ed. and working as an employment counselor.  She’s banked three weeks of vacation time and is going to spend an extra week in the Maritimes with Dan and I after Wade heads home.  Andrea is our glue.  She’s five years younger than me, but she’s the mother of the group.  Andrea is also our social convener.  She’s the one who plans and organizes the activities and events that have kept the four of us close when life outside of school could have caused us to drift apart.   In fact, it’s Andrea who pulled this whole trip together.

The Vehicle:

1990 Cadillac Seville: white with navy blue interior and leather seats.  If you have to drive a car on your cross-country road trip, you want a roomy and comfortable luxury vehicle like Caddy.  She actually belongs to my parents, but when they moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia they took their Ford diesel truck and left the Cadillac in my care.  It was a win-win situation.  They could make their road trip together in one vehicle, Caddy got to spend the winter months in my heated underground parkade, and I got to drive her.  Of course, mom and dad eventually wanted their car back.   My dad’s proposal was simple: I drive Caddy to Nova Scotia, and they pay for the gas.  It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and the 2006 Crossing Canada Road Trip was born.

The Trip:

Approximately 5500 Kilometers.  Our goal is to do it in twelve days.  We don’t want to rush, but Wade would like to spend a couple of days in Nova Scotia before his flight from Halifax takes him back to work.  We arm ourselves with dozens of maps and tour books from the AMA.  The plan is to stay in Canada the entire way, and not cheat by crossing the border.  Over a couple of bottles of red, we make a rough plan of our route, discussing where we want to go, what we want to see, and where we will likely spend our nights.  Friends and relatives are contacted about spare bedrooms and floor space.  When a hotel is necessary, all four of us will stay in one room.  Dan and I get one bed, and Wade and Andrea will share the other.  We giggle over hotel espionage: only two of us will enter the lobby to book the room, that way we never have to pay for two extra people!  Andrea would like to make hotel reservations in advance, but she is vetoed.  Although we’ve discussed possible destinations and tourism possibilities, Dan has insisted we don’t make any concrete plans, and keep the journey open to the possibility of spontaneous adventures.

It’s all Relative: Edmonton – Saskatoon – Gimli
The trip starts off great with everyone in good spirits, although Dan’s a bit hung over from his goodbye party at work.  The road from Alberta to Manitoba is mind-numbing, but the company makes it fun.  We play car games and sing along to whatever soundtrack is chosen by the current driver.  Friday night is spent at my Aunt Lorraine and her partner Esther’s little farm near Saskatoon.  On Saturday we stay in Gimli, Manitoba with Linda and Eric.  Technically they are Wade’s great Aunt and Uncle, but they’re too young for such grand titles.  Both hosting families are generous, providing us with comfortable accommodations, delicious food, tasty adult beverages, and excellent conversation.  Staying up late isn’t a problem since we can take turns napping in the backseat the next day.  We couldn’t ask for a better start to our trip.

The Long and Winding Road: Gimli – Great Lakes – Niagra-on-the-Lake
We knew that this would be the most difficult part of our trip.  I was not looking forward to driving through Northern Ontario.  Towns are few and far between.  There are a lot of rocks and trees.  This is where savvy travelers veer south into the U.S., but we’re persistent.  As we travel around the Great Lakes Dan becomes moody and stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over.  It’s like being in group therapy.  We drive until we can’t stand each other or being in the car a minute longer and then Dan suggests a walk and a picnic near Lake Superior.  It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to smile and laugh with each other.  We keep going.

In the Niagra region we get to be tourists: we see a play at the Shaw Festival, check out Niagra Falls and take a Wine Tour, which appeals to everyone’s taste.  I’m relieved that we’re having fun again.  However, we’ve also started to have minor car troubles.  Sometimes when we try to start Caddy she gives us a three-minute anti-theft warning.  If you remove the key, wait a few minutes and then try again, she’ll start up.  It’s annoying, but we figure we can put up with it until we get to Nova Scotia.

Je Suis Canadien: Ottawa & Montreal
A road trip is about the journey, but you’ve got to have destinations along the way.  We spend two nights in Ottawa exploring the city streets, Parliament, and the National Art Gallery.  When it’s time to move on, Wade insists we take a quick detour to Carp, Ontario for a tour of the Diefenbunker – a Cold War bunker.  He’s a history buff and this turns out to be the highlight of his trip.  While I have my reservations about spending a couple of hours in an underground bunker, it turns out to be pretty cool.  When we emerge from the underground we head to Montreal.  Thinking it might be cheaper, we stop for gas about 45 minutes from the city.  Big mistake.  Caddy has decided that we no longer deserve the three-minute warning.  She refuses to start.  Maybe she’s tired.  Maybe she’s angry about something one of us said.  Whatever it is, she’s decided that there’s no way we’re going to go any further in her.  We spend hours at the gas station trying to figure out what to do next.  We end up taking a cab into Montreal and get a tow truck to escort Caddy to a dealer within walking distance of our hotel.  After arranging for her repair, we put that stuck-up bitch out of our minds and enjoy our time in Old Montreal.  We shop, we walk, and we laugh.  We soak up history and culture.  We eat amazing meals.  We spend an afternoon wandering in The Village and try, with varying degrees of success, to speak French.  After two days we get word that Caddy is feeling better and is ready to move on.  So are we.

Coming Home: Montreal – Port Howe
I’m excited to get to The Beach and see my family, and everyone else is tired of being on the road.  It’s over 1000 Kilometers to Port Howe, but we haven’t been driving in Montreal and we’re feeling up to the task.  Dan and I get up early, pick-up Caddy from the shop and return to the hotel for Wade, Andrea and our stuff.  We drive straight through, stopping only for gas/pee/stretch breaks.  I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and the distinctive smell of the maritime air.  My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away.  My friends laugh at my childish excitement, but it’s started to rub off on them and they join me in giddy anticipation of our arrival.  As we turn on to Toney Bay Road – the road to the beach – I can barely contain myself.  I was twenty the last time I was here, my parents’ house is new and the night is dark, but I know the place as soon as I see the welcoming glow through the front windows.

I’m home.  And I brought friends.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The second assignment was to write about a place. I knew I wanted to write something about the time I spent in South Korea, but it took me a long time to settle on what story to tell. I really struggled with this one. In fact, I almost dropped the class before this was due. After all, I was only taking it for fun, and the stress of writing, along with the pressures of my work and personal life took me to a level of anxiety that I almost couldn’t handle. I made an appointment with my prof and she talked me down off of the metaphorical ledge and gave me an extension on the due date. This is probably my worst piece from the class, but I’m sharing it anyway. Why not, right? It is a good story. (November 2010)

On my first night alone in South Korea I got trapped in my bathroom.  A new door had been installed in anticipation of my arrival.  I could tell that it was new because there was still plastic around the handle and the doorframe.  The door opened fine from the kitchen, but I guess no one bothered to go inside and close it to be sure it worked from the other direction.  I didn’t usually go to the effort of shutting the bathroom door when at home alone, but the apartment didn’t feel like home to me.

I had been transported to my new accommodations by Lay and Mr. Ko: two Korean English teachers from the school where I would be working.  I was disappointed by the appearance of the building when we pulled up, but I kept a smile glued to my face.  I didn’t want to appear ungracious to my hosts.  The entrance was an unmarked door that faced an alleyway so narrow there was barely enough room for Mr. Ko’s car to drive through.  Looking up, I could see no windows in the three-story beige cement façade.  Not that there was any scenery in the alley other than garbage bags and a few small red and blue plastic pails (which I later discovered were for the disposal of food waste) lining the front of the buildings.  You can imagine how lovely the alley smelled in the thirty-degree heat and humidity of late August.  Welcome to Korea!

Mr. Ko, the strong silent type, wrestled my heavy suitcases up the flight of stairs to a second floor apartment.  He then grinned at me, shook my hand and bowed his head, then hurried back to his car, leaving me alone with Lay.  She showed me around my new home, dutifully pointing out the many items that had been provided for me by the school.  I smiled and nodded and said “thank you” a lot.  Before leaving, Lay gave me a sheet of paper with my new address written in both English and Korean.  She also gave me her cell phone number (in case of emergency) and left me with a hand-drawn map and instructions on how to get to the school the next day.  Although I didn’t want to be alone, I was relieved when she said goodbye and left so that I could drop the brave face I had been wearing all afternoon.  I threw myself facedown on the single bed and cried like a little girl.  I let all of the stress that had been building since I landed in Seoul six days earlier pour out of me on to my pillow.

My little meltdown didn’t last long.  When I ran out of tears and my breathing returned to normal I made the conscious decision to get the hell up and familiarize myself with my surroundings.  After all, I was excited about this adventure.  I wasn’t about to let a little fear and loneliness ruin it for me.  If this was going to be my home for the next year I might as well try to make the best of it.

The apartment itself was dingy, but all of the furnishings were new.  The bedroom was a decent size with a wardrobe, a low table with drawers and a small television perched on top, and a single bed made up with a neon orange and pink bedspread.  It hurt my eyes, but I appreciated the splash of colour in the otherwise dreary space.  On the wall above the bed, up near the ceiling, I discovered an air conditioning unit that was controlled by a tiny remote.  I couldn’t read the symbols, but after a little trial and error I managed to get it working.  The cool air was refreshing and made me feel a little bit better.

Although from the front of the building there didn’t appear to be any windows, I actually had three in my apartment.  One opened out to the hallway and had metal bars on the outside, presumably to deter thieves.  I could see through the window into the apartment across the hall.  The window on the opposite side of the room faced the brick wall of the building next door.  I opened it and peered down into the narrow passage that ran between the two buildings – definitely no view from here.  I sighed and began to accept the fact that my room felt like a prison cell.  The vertical beige lines on the cheap wallpaper didn’t add to the aesthetic.  The only other window in the place was a tiny one in the bathroom.  I closed the bedroom windows and the plain beige curtains and let the air conditioner work its magic while I moved to the other room.

The front door opened directly into the kitchen and was made of thick grey metal.  It had three different locks.  I had learned that the crime rate in Korea is quite low, but between the bars on the windows and the ultra-secure door I started to wonder about the neighborhood I would be living in.  On the wall by the door I found a strange box, bigger than a standard thermostat, with a few different buttons and some knobs.  The Korean words beneath the buttons meant nothing to me, but I suspected the box might control the under-floor heating that I had heard was standard in Korea.  I was half right – it turns out that it controlled my hot water heater.  While I didn’t need the floor heat in thirty-degree weather, I shivered my way through three days’ worth of cold showers until the landlord kindly stopped by to show me how to work it.

I had been provided with a table and two chairs rather than the traditional low table and cushions on the floor.  I was glad, not because I’m particular about chairs, but because I didn’t like the looks of the linoleum floors.  An enormous rice cooker sat on the table – the focal point of the kitchen.  I had also been provided with other kitchen essentials like dishes and a few food items.  It was a pretty standard kitchen.  The only notable thing was the gas stove that Lay had made sure I understood before she left.  You had to open the gas valve on the wall before you could start up the stove.  It reminded me of using a propane BBQ: open the main gas line, turn on the stove gas, turn the knob to light it, and when you’re finished cooking, turn everything off.  I figured I could manage to cook without burning off my eyebrows or blowing up the apartment.

The bathroom was in a room off the kitchen.  It was small, with a standard toilet, which I was relieved to find.  I was not looking forward to using the infamous Korean squat toilets.  A glass cabinet on the wall revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner.  It was a nice touch, although I had brought my own toiletries from home.  There was no bathroom sink (I would be washing my hands and brushing my teeth in the kitchen), but a set of hot and cold water taps jutted out of the wall at knee level and connected to a long hose that led to a showerhead, which hung at hip level.  Showering was going to be… interesting.  The drain was in the middle of the bathroom floor, but there was no shower curtain or designated bathing area.  The entire room was the shower.  I could live with that, but I was a bit concerned by the final piece of equipment in the room – a washing machine with a digital screen.  What if it got wet?   I was going to have to get out of my habit of taking long luxurious showers every morning.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to pee, I turned and closed the door and sat down on the toilet.  Afterwards, I headed to the kitchen to wash my hands.  Except the door handle wouldn’t turn.  I tried harder.  Nothing.  Confused, I bent down and looked closer thinking maybe I had locked it by mistake.  But regardless of which way I flipped the lock the handle still wouldn’t turn.  It dawned on me that I was trapped in the bathroom in an apartment in a foreign city with no way to get help.  I flashed on an image of myself screaming from the tiny bathroom window and realized that I didn’t even know the Korean word for help.  What was I doing here?

My heart started racing and I thought I was going to pass out.  I sat down on the toilet and put my head between my knees to keep myself from freaking out.  I repeated the phrase “everything is going to be OK” over and over again.  If I had to I would kick down the door.  I wasn’t entirely sure that was an option, because it seemed pretty sturdy, but just telling myself that I could gave me courage.  I looked around the bathroom for something I could use as a tool – toothbrush? No.  Maybe I could use the shampoo bottle to bash the door handle off?  Doubtful.

I started to giggle hysterically at my predicament and sat down again to catch my breath.  I kept thinking that when this was all over it was going to make for a great story.  On my fifth attempt, using all of my strength, I managed to haul on the door handle hard enough to get it to turn a bit.  This small success gave me the nerve to keep working at it and eventually I managed to escape.

I was only trapped in the bathroom for a half an hour, but the anxiety stayed with me the entire time I was in Korea.  Although I tried to keep my sense of adventure and stay positive, I didn’t even make it through three months of teaching English in Korea.  I ended up breaking my contract and fleeing home to Canada.  I felt like a failure, but at least I was free.