Everything Else!

I’m good at something. Now what?

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Scene de Cirque by Marc Chagall

When I was in high school, I read an essay in English class about a girl who wanted to grow up and play with Lego. When told that “playing with Lego” wasn’t a career like being a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer, the girl was undaunted. She went to university, eventually completing a master’s degree in architecture (incidentally, her final project model was built with Lego), and somehow or other she landed a job with the Lego company developing the new Lego sets. Now her office is filled with every Lego piece she could ever need (with people on call to provide her with additional pieces if required) and she makes her money playing with Lego all day long. The moral of the story for all of us high school students preparing to go out into the world and seek our fortunes was “Make your vocation your vacation!”

I guess this means that we’re supposed to find that thing we’re really good at doing, our calling, so to speak, and make pursuing it as fun and awesome (and lucrative) as possible. Appealing, but easier said than done.

The fact of the matter is that many people, like me, are decently good at several things but aren’t necessarily geniuses in any one thing. Our vocation is not obvious, and the means to turn whatever our calling is into our livelihood (i.e. into money we can LIVE on) are vaguer still.

It has now been almost three years since I finished my BFA in Theatre Performance, and finally it has begun to become abundantly clear to me why I have not jumped at every performance opportunity (for the most part unpaid) that has come my way since. At first, of course, I said I couldn’t possibly get time off work to audition or rehearse, and then, of course, I couldn’t quit my job because I had over $20 000 in student loans to pay off and then, of course, I moved into Vancouver from Burnaby and rent was simply too high to allow me to give up my job and then, of course, I got hired on a continuing contract WITH BENEFITS (and you’d be a fool to give those up), and then, of course, I was travelling, and then, of course, and then and then and then.

The result of all of these “and thens” is that I am not an actor right now. And you know what? I think I’m not supposed to be, at least not as my vocation. Obviously there are many actors in this city who aren’t acting all the time, but they are trying– they are getting flexible jobs that allow them to fit in rehearsal schedules, they are auditioning, they are continuing to train through workshops and intensives, they are performing in every damn thing they can perform in, and when they aren’t performing, they are itching to fulfill the artist within by getting back onstage, sinking their teeth into a role, and performing the hell out of something.

These people are actors. These people are not me. Firstly, I am either too lazy or too cheap (or maybe both?) to find a more flexible (i.e. less secure and well-paying) job, audition, pay for workshops (which are pricey!), etc. Secondly, and more importantly, when I have gone through static, less artistic periods of my life, it wasn’t performing that I itched for. It was creating.

Although I’ve always loved performing, and when I do perform I will always try my damndest and have lots of fun, I’m not itching to be Blanche DuBois, or Electra, or Lady Macbeth (well, maybe Lady M because WHO WOULDN’T?). I’m not really itching to be any character, or any thing. I’m itching to be the one to call amazing things into being.

Being an actor seemed to be a natural choice for me because I always loved to play pretend. But was it being somebody else that I enjoyed, or was it the creation of these other versions of my childhood self (their world, their powers, their adventures) that I loved? I think somehow I’ve always wanted to be all the characters, I’ve always wanted to make their whole world. I want to manifest what exists in my imagination and try to communicate it through language. I want to tell stories. I want to plant images in people’s heads. And I don’t just want artistic fulfillment, I want intellectual fulfillment. I want to write.

And that is why I do. That’s why I blog. That’s why I loved co-creating Troika! last year with my friends. That’s why I’ve got a bunch of (mostly crappy) unfinished work languishing in notebooks and, more recently, on my computer. That’s why I agreed to adapt a Greek tragedy for some theatrical friends of mine. That’s why I went back to school to study English literature and am currently studying writing poetry. THIS is what I’m not too cheap or too lazy to do. THIS is what I’m itching for.

And you know what? I’m decently good at it. I’m not being vain. I’m just owning up to what is becoming more and more obviously my vocation. Funnily enough, it’s in poetry that it has been suggested that I pursue graduate studies. Apparently, I’m decently good at it. At poetry. Huh.

I know I’m no genius poet. I’m not Inger Christensen, whose alphabet (brilliantly translated by Susanna Nied), a 70+ page poem based on the Fibonacci sequence, is the most elegantly constructed piece of literature I have ever beheld (and all this intense mathematical form without sacrificing contact and image at all!). I’m not Franis Ponge, whose obsession (and faculty with) describing the thingness of things has been intriguing and inspiring to me this semester. But I’m decently good at writing poetry. I feel good about it. Writing poetry is, to me, a delicious act.

I found something I’m good at! Yay!

Now what?

The last time I checked, being a poet was not a…lucrative…career choice, and unlike acting, there is no way to “make it big”. Studying poetry at the graduate level would be incredibly artistically and intellectually fulfilling. It would also financially impoverish me (and let’s not forget I want to continue to study other creative writing forms too! $$$!).

I am at the point in my life where I have realized that I can’t live my “double life” forever: the life of a responsible full-time administrative assistant combined with the life of the unpaid creative. Though I’m delighted that I’ve found a vocation (and delighted that I have a job that allows me to live comfortably for now), there’s no vacation in working at work and then going home and working on my creative pursuits. It’s taking its toll on me, and when I’m older and have kids and a mortgage and backyard chickens or what-not I simply won’t be able to do it all.

I’m also at a point where I realize that to go any further into any kind of career (except within my admin job, I guess), I need to further my education through either graduate studies or professional certification. While on the one hand I am worried that it would be irresponsible to spend money and time on an education that will not advance my career and earning opportunities (like a graduate degree in poetry), I am even more uncomfortable with the idea of spending time and money obtaining certification or a graduate degree in something that will not make me happy, especially when it’s not really the thing I’m really meant to be doing anyways.

So what to do? I’m not sure. At the moment, I’m grateful that I can make my life work for me. I’m grateful that I’m beginning to understand what my goals are. I’m grateful for my job and for all the amazing things that I’m learning in my classes. I’m grateful for my theatre degree–without it I would not have cultivated the work ethic and artistic questioning necessary to be as creative as I want to be. Hopefully I’ll find my way. We can’t all play with the proverbial Lego all our lives, but I’ll build my magical cities for as long as I can. I’m meant to.

Leap Day 2012

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

February 29 everybody, it’s February 29!!!

This is not an amazing blog post really, this is just a post to say HOLY CRAP IT’S FEBRUARY 29, WHICH IS A LEAP DAY, WHICH ONLY HAPPENS EVERY FOUR YEARS!

This year has 366 days in it y’all, and I simply cannot let Leap Day pass me by without posting something for the future me to look back on. Now that Facebook has that snazzy (and embarrassing) timeline thing, I was able to check back to see what, if anything, I had posted to the world the LAST time it was February 29 (2008). Ahem. According to Facebook, I said, “Lauren Kresowaty is feeling flexible.” Huh. Not exactly profound stuff.

And neither is this. But it’s Leap Day. LEAP DAY! Which means that today is the one day in every four years that people who are born on February 29 actually get to celebrate their birthday on the correct date. Some people might complain about this but I think it is pretty freakin’ magical. Like Brigadoon, every four years the birthdays of Leap Day babies rise out of the mist, and then disappear from the face of the calendar, not to be seen again for another four years. In years that are NOT Leap Years, the true birthdays of these Leapies would actually be the stroke of midnight between February 28 and March 1, at the precise moment when February is turning into March and today is turning into tomorrow. At this time, and only this time, Leap Year babies would be able to catch just the smallest moment of their real birthday, caught in the witching hour between evening and morning, between one month and the next.

I am in fact so taken with this idea that I actually bothered to figure out that if I were to conceive a child around May 29, 2015, there is a VERY good chance that my baby would be born on Leap Day in 2016 and an even GREATER chance that they’d be a Pisces, which would be great, because apparently Pisces are psychic. Which is cool, if you’re into astrology and stuff. Which you would be, if you were a magical psychic Leap Day baby.

This is not to say that I would actually do this, as timing is everything, you gotta be ready, “kids are a big responsibility and you shouldn’t have them just because you think Leap Day babies are cool”, blah blah blah. But the thing is, today is the NIFTIEST day of the four years, and though I try not to do things just because they’re cool, it’s hard to avoid giving into that which is nifty. And what day could be niftier than February 29?

Think about it. And enjoy the rest of your Leap Day. It needs to last you four years.

In Defense of Valentine’s Day

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Happy Valentine's Day! I made it myself!

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! Whether you have a sweetie to share this particular Valentine’s Day with or not, the point of this non-holiday holiday is to celebrate love (at least, I think it is, though commercials seem to be hinting that it’s about me receiving a jewellery thing called an “Eternity Band” or some such).

While I’m not all that supportive of the idea of FORCING people to be loving on a particular day of the year, or making people feel like dummies if they happen not to have a paramour at the moment, I am very supportive of love. It makes my world go round.

And you know what? I’m sick and tired of Valentine’s Day having a bad rap. Sure, it’s been hijacked by jewellery stores and florists and candy companies and the people who make those shiny heart-shaped balloons. But hey, some people like shiny heart-shaped balloons, and those that don’t do not have to buy them.

When I was in elementary school, everyone had a little paper Valentine box on their desk and it was customary to give a Valentine to everyone in the class (even icky sticky boys…). I thought this was fun, and I also always loved making Valentine cards out of paper (folding paper in half makes PERFECT hearts and paper doilies make great fake lace). When I was in grade 4, our teacher sent pieces of paper around the class, one for each student, that said, for example, “I like Lauren, because…” and everyone else wrote something nice that they liked about the person whose name was at the top of the piece of paper. On Valentine’s Day, in addition to the homemade cards we got from everyone, we also got this sheet of paper. It was lovely, at the tender and impressionable age of nine, to read that I was liked because I was intelligent, or because I could make someone laugh, or because I was cute. I wish we still did that now.

And why don’t we? Sure, a lot of people focus on the romance of Valentine’s Day, but for most of my life I haven’t actually had a sweetheart on Valentine’s Day to be romantic with. What I have always had are friends. Last year I went to my friend’s house to celebrate Valentine’s Day and we ate heart-shaped sugar cookies (with pink icing of course!) and gave our (usually very intellectual) brains a rest by watching “Wedding SOS” and “Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta”. And that was perfect.

Another year one of my bosom besties sent me a picture of a whale that said, “Have a WHALE of a Valentine’s Day!”. What’s wrong with that as a celebration of love? NOTHING, that’s what. I love my friends and family. And I’ve been lucky enough to have their love and support as well.

So you don’t have a special someone or a significant other this Valentine’s Day? I know it can suck sometimes, especially since we all do want a little romance once in a while, and since advertisements seem to be force-feeding us “romance” by the bucketful, but there’s no reason to hate an entire day just for that. You may not have a “someone special” this year, but I bet you have special people in your life. You may not have a “significant other” but I bet there are people whose friendship has made a very significant difference over the years. If you don’t have a paramour this year (or even if you do) why not tell THOSE people they’re special and significant on Valentine’s Day?

Stop hating Valentine’s Day. It’s not designed to make you buy things, or feel bad. It’s definitely not about hate. It’s about love, the people you love, and the people who love you, whether it be platonic, familial, or romantic.

I have a lot of special and significant people in my life, and while my TC is certainly one of those (and we will be celebrating today–a rack of ribs has been marinating since last night, woot!), I am also lucky to have my parents, my sisters, my bosom pals, besties, and childhood friends, great coworkers and a good community to fall back on.

So Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! I like you because you are smart, you are kind, you are cute, and you lift my spirits. I hope February 14 is a a smiley and warm kind of day for you, whether you feel like celebrating anything or not.

xoxo,

NiftyNotCool

About Town: Nifty at the Vancouver Club

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

Grand Ballroom, Vancouver Club

Ever since I discovered that it existed (during a Neworld Theatre Podplay as part of last year’s PuSh Fest), I have been intrigued by the Vancouver Club. I had no idea what it was, except that it was a club, with members (rich members), and that it was fancy schmancy. Call them what you will (the upper crust, the 1%, old money, or rich snobby A-holes), a certain kind of person becomes a member of the Vancouver Club and, economically at the very least, I am not that kind of person. For this reason, never in my wildest imagination did I think I would ever be inside.

Until last weekend. Turns out, my TC’s former employer is a member and he threw a fancy bash at the Vancouver Club to which my TC was invited. I was invited too, as a very excited and curious +1. I was going to a rich person club that would have rich person things and be full of rich person details!

Rich person details like tastefully good-looking coat check girls in tasteful shoes and tastefully fitting aprons. Rich person details like a “Grand Ballroom” for the drinking and the dancing, and a room called the “Georgian Room” for sitting by the fireplace and the chocolate fountain.

Chocolate fountain!!!

In case you missed that last part, there were rich person details like a FIREPLACE and a CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN. In fact, TWO chocolate fountains: one dark, one white. With whole strawberries, pieces of pineapple and melon, and square powdered marshmallow (no store-bought Jet Puffs for us) for dipping into the fountains with fancy long sticks. Rich person details like more tastefully good looking people wearing tastefully well-fitting aprons bringing out delicious eats like vegetarian spring rolls, and tiny mini pulled-pork taquitos (in addition to the chocolate fountain and the cheese table). Rich person details like random antiques and pictures of the Queen filling the hallways.

Probably the most exclusive rich person detail in the whole place was the beautiful foyer with the glass doors at the very end that said “Members Only” on them. Even though I have now been inside the Vancouver Club, I very much doubt that I will ever pass through those particular doors.

And to be honest, although I enjoyed my swanky night at the Vancouver Club very much, and it seems to be a very well-run establishment, I very much doubt that I would want to.

Funnily enough, it was not anything I encountered during my night on the premises that turned me off the Club. It wasn’t even the extremely prohibitive cost (I mean, if I was super rich and had time to sit around in posh clubs, maybe I would enjoy the use of the beautiful facilities available). It was the information on the Vancouver Club’s own website, on their Membership page, that soured me on the idea of clubs for fancy folk.

Think even a posh old club in Vancouver would be a little more progressive than posh old clubs back east? It doesn’t seem like it. Instead of simply outlining the many luxurious amenities of the Club, the Vancouver Club has decided to make it a little easier on its potential members by separating certain amenities and activities into “For Women” and “For Men” categories. For the gents, what could be better than a “Black Tie Lobster dinner” followed by a visit to Bar 3, a space which evokes “a more gentlemanly era”, where the guys can pull out “a bottle of single malt”, “shoot some pool”, and “talk shop”? There’s even a barbershop where you can get a shave!

For the women, however, the first amenity mentioned is the fitness studio where the ladies can attend Pilates classes and consult with a personal trainer. Then they have the privilege of moving on to the candlelit Bar Lounge where they can plan “quirky and sophisticated” parties for their friends’ birthdays. And let’s not forget that “Next week is a port and chocolate tasting hosted by colleagues and fellow Run for the Cure volunteers.”

Though there is absolutely nothing wrong with the various elegant (and charitable) activities listed, as a grown woman in the year 2012 I do tend to resent the suggestion that some activities are better suited to me based on my gender, especially when the guys get to eat lobster, shoot pool, and talk shop, when my role appears to be keeping my figure, planning parties, and hosting fancy charity events. Perhaps I’m being overly sensitive (and for those membership fees I think I’d have a right to be), but it just seems a little out of touch with the times, doesn’t it?

It also weirds me out when, of an entire website featuring beautiful photographs, only one person pictured is non-white (or maybe two, there are a couple blurrier shots). Even given my own obvious pallor, a club whose promotional material gives the impression that they are mainly trying to appeal to white people does not appeal to me. I am going to give the Vancouver Club the benefit of the doubt in this post and assume that this is not intentional, but in these times of rumored declining memberships for the Club (“rumored” being the operative word here) and ever-increasing multiculturalism and celebration of diversity in Vancouver (obvious to anyone who is paying attention), this is a PR mistake they can’t really afford to make.

So thank you for a wonderful and classy evening, Vancouver Club. You have a beautiful building, on-the-ball employees, and gorgeous facilities. But should I ever become a billionaire and veritable Vancouver VIP, I’m afraid I shall have to give your Club a pass. You see, in my adult years I belong in 21st century Canada. A club where predominately white men sip single malt and talk about their high power jobs and predominately white women look pretty and plan parties does not.

Smell the roses? I’m too damn busy.

/ Lauren / 4 Comments

Illustration by Sonja Kresowaty

People say it’s important to stop once in a while to smell the roses. I’m not sure what exactly that entails. Are they suggesting that we should break or postpone commitments, flake out on assignments and prior engagements, so that we can make a date with our thorny smelly friends? Or are they suggesting that in addition to all the other things we do in our lives, we are supposed to take one more morsel of time away from the already diminished time we have to eat and sleep and sit on the toilet once in while, and add “smelling the roses” to our To Do list?

Eff the roses. I’m too damn busy.

I’m not saying that I don’t like roses (I love them) or that I didn’t bring this on myself (I did). What I’m saying is that I am too damn busy. Between work and class (poetry this time) and aerial silks and mentoring (with the Vancouver School Board Making Contact mentorship program–you should check it out!) and blogging and trying to have the occasional sit-down dinner with my TC or drinks with the girls, it seems I have time to sleep (not quite enough) and dress myself (albeit not all that well) and That’s About It. My extreme busyness then pairs up with my more natural tendency towards laziness and together they conspire to take me down. This is why my Christmas tree is still up (it’s now simply a Magic Evergreen), the pictures I meant to hang in November are still piled on a shelf, and the keyboard I am supposed to ship to my sister is sitting in my kitchen.

As those of you who’ve been reading my blog for a while may know, this time last year I was experiencing some capital S Sadness, and in order to cope, I filled my life with things: Twitter and blogging, volunteering as a creative writing mentor, theatre projects, etc. This was a very good decision and being constructively busy really helped get me through a rough patch. But I’m feeling better now. I’m once again comfortable with being left alone with my own thoughts and rather than needing constant occupation, or a return to the extreme stasis that contributed to my being sad in the first place, what I need now is BALANCE.

Balance is a tricky thing. I’m not sure if it’s an actual state of equilibrium that it is possible for me to achieve or whether a busy person simply finds balance through being organized and scheduling their time well. Maybe “finding balance” really just means finding a way to make it all work. If you are the kind of person who enjoys being on the go all the time, doing lunches, getting it done, keepin’ in real in the big city, etc., I’m sure being really organized is all you would need to find a groove that works for you.

But here’s the thing: contrary to my cheery nature and my deep and abiding love for my friends, NiftyNotCool is also NiftyNotExtroverted. I’m not. I do not require a non-stop parade of outside forces for stimulation in my life. I require rainy afternoons with books (I just started Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus and it’s killing me that I can’t finish it right now). I require being able to cook while listening to music on Sunday evenings. I require cheery but frustrating nights of learning to play “Rainbow Connection” on the ukulele while my TC plays guitar. Or, you know, a little time to go the post office or vacuum or WHATEVER I WANT.

Life’s short. Dealing with that fact sometimes means packing what little time you have with adventures, learning things, and working on projects or causes that mean something to you. Sometimes it means a really long phone call with your childhood bestie. Or heading down to Wreck Beach just to watch the sunset. I’m trying to balance my busyness with my laziness. I’m not there yet. I need time to figure it out and unfortunately I have very little of that at the moment.

And that is why the roses, beautiful as they are, will just have to wait.

New Year’s Resolultions Now, Then and Totally Irrelevant

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Every year I make New Year’s resolutions, and almost every year I break them. Likely because mine are always so broad and vague that I don’t have a concrete way to keep track of whether I’m sticking to them or not. Apparently it’s easier to keep resolutions when they are clearly defined goals, and more easy to accomplish. This is also supposed to be better for my self-esteem, or something, because apparently not meeting goals makes us feel bad.

Eff that. I don’t see any point in making resolutions that are easy. The easy ones won’t be of  use to me. So here are my resolutions for the year 2012:

  1. Try not to be so grumpy so often. This is a resolution I’ve made a few times, because I know I have a bad habit of letting little things (like being late) get me down, and then letting my swearing and banging around of household utensils rain down on any innocent bystander who is unlucky enough to be in my path. Great stress relief for me, uncool for the people around me.
  2. Drink more water. Eugh. I never drink water. And then I get headaches. The simple solution is obviously to drink water BEFORE I get a headache but I hate drinking water because water is BORING. This may just be something I’ll have to put up with.
  3. Make my friends a priority.  When I get busy I live at the mercy of whatever I wrote on my calendar, and sometimes that means going weeks without seeing my closest and dearest friends, the ones who are always here for me when everything else I’m doing ends, winds down, or disappears. And that sucks, because I love my friends, and generally speaking they’re more fun than the obligations on my calendar.
  4. Finish what I start. Lately I’ve been feeling a little smug that some of my 2011 plans actually came to fruition, like my European Adventure and the fact that I’ve kept up with this blog. In reality, I am a procrastinator, a lazy-bones, and a scaredy-cat, and most of my plans and ideas barely make it past their inception. Which is a shame because whether they be writing, art, or home improvement projects, some of my ideas are actually good ones and I’d probably enjoy seeing them through.
  5. Be nicer.  This is a big vague goal and probably goes along with not being as grumpy, but when my TC and I were talking about resolutions this is one of the ones I came up with almost immediately. I think I am a nice person, but I also think that part of being a nice person is not resting on your laurels. To really be a nice person means making a continuous effort to have empathy, to maybe not share that retort that’s on the tip of your tongue, to donate what time/money/resources you can spare to make someone else’s life better, and basically to try to comport yourself in a way that does as little harm as possible to the people around you and your planet. And it’s not easy! When I have a shitty day there’s a part of me that wants to make it the world’s problem, that justifies my snappy remarks and occasional lack of charity, patience, or understanding. Which isn’t nice. And that part of me will always be there, making life interesting, but I am determined to soldier on nonetheless.

Because I am currently back at my parents’ house with my boxes of old diaries and journals at hand, I thought it might be fun to see if I’d written down any resolutions in junior high. And I did. On December 31, 1998, at the age of 12, I made the following resolutions:

  1. train more for skiing
  2. work harder in school + extracurricular
  3. get all the social life stuff worked out
  4. stop being such a grump
  5. try new things and try my best
  6. be healthier + nicer

I’m actually quite surprised at how many of my resolutions were the same as they are now, though I did make a couple resolutions that are no longer relevant. With regards to getting my “social life stuff worked out” I think I was referring to a friend at school who had found a new group of friends that I didn’t get along with and I was having some problems with the new pecking order in the class. I also had a mad crazy crush on a cute little Grade 7 boy who in turn had a crush on the new best friend of my old friend. Sigh. Grade 7 was complicated.

To my credit, since being 12 I have been doing better at trying new things and at being healthy. Success!

Since I found some resolutions in my Grade 7 diary I assumed I would also find some written around the new year in Grade 6. Alas, James Cameron’s seafaring masterpiece got in the way of making New Year’s resolutions. In the interests of reflection and exposition, I am posting my first entry of the year 1998, written when I was 11 years old:

Jan. 8, 1998

Dear Diary,

I watched Titanic this holiday and, omigod! I’m going crazy for Leonardo DiCaprio again. Only this time it’s worse. Almost everything reminds me that he died at the end of the movie. Somehow, it’s way worse than Romeo + Juliet. At the end, the girl he was in love with is 100 or something, and she dies and goes back to the Titanic and she’s young and with him again. It’s so sad. Someday, I want to get Leo’s address and write him a letter. That would be neat.

Lauren

And then, inexplicably, I stuck a sticker from a glycerin soap bought at the SoapBerry Shop into the diary at the end of the post. Three months later I devoted an entire page of my diary to little pictures of “Leo” that I cut out of magazines but if writing Leonardo DiCaprio a fan letter was my resolution for the year 1998, I never did do it.

Huh. I wonder if “finishing what I start” means I ought to write a letter to him now….

I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I wish you all a very happy New Year, and I hope the year 2012 brings great things and good changes to your lives. Get excited! I know I am. I mean, omigod!

Omigod what a dreamboat.

Christmas is a Feeling

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

Saskatchewan, December 2010. Photo credit: Daina Zilans

CHRISTMAS IS COMING, and it’s coming soon. Holy smokes.

Given the utter lack of snow outside and lack of anything resembling a winter solstice (besides the dark) or Canadian wintery-ness in Vancouver, it’s hard to believe the Yuletide season is once again upon us. In these past few years Christmas has just kind of snuck up on me before I was ready. This year it’s been the same story–how can it be Christmas time already? I haven’t made a paper chain yet! I never placed a frantic phone call to one of my sisters to make sure we didn’t get the same things for other family members! I’ve HARDLY “ballet-danced” to the Nutcracker in my apartment! I haven’t been nearly drunk enough! I haven’t watched “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” (the animated one narrated by Boris Karloff of course), “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” (narrated by Burl Ives of course), or “Mickey’s Christmas Carol“!

My lack of preparation caused me to be afraid, despite the lovely Christmas parties I have attended, and the many cookies I have prepared and eaten, and the fact that I have now read Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, that I somehow wouldn’t be able to get into the Christmas spirit in time to really celebrate the big day (which is December 24, Christmas Eve, for my family). This would have been horrible because Christmas is my absolute favourite holiday, combining so many of the things I love: my family, good friends, good food, good spirits (both emotional and liquid), beautiful music, nostalgia, MAGIC, warmth, pretty sparkly things, snow, and the traditions we have established that make Christmas an incredibly special time for my family. To be out of step with my traditional “getting into the spirit of things” preparations because I have a job now, much less time, and no VCR created a fear in my heart that I wouldn’t be able to give this time the specialness it deserves.

My anxiety was unfounded. Christmas isn’t about watching slightly creepy stop-motion reindeer (though I’ll be digging up that VHS as soon as I get to my parents’ place). Christmas isn’t even about snow (though I’m crossing my fingers for some weather magic). Christmas is a feeling. Christmas is when I can’t stop smiling because I am TOO EXCITED. Christmas is a little light being turned on inside me that makes it possible to feel like a kid again. Christmas is always, every year, an overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude.

And my traditions? They’re important to me. They shape my experience of the holidays and provide me with a sense of continuity year to year. Christmas is a time to hold these old traditions very dear, and I do. But Christmas is also a time for new traditions. For example, this year my TC and I welcomed our friends into our home for our very first Christmas party. Both my TC and I will be spending Christmas apart with our own families this year, so on Monday we also had our own pre-Christmas dinner, and exchanged presents with one another under our own little (sadly fake) tree.

Ribriffic. Happy Alcoholidays!

And did Christmas come to us on December 19? Without snow, or a live tree, or even a day off work? As Dr. Suess wrote, the lack of a few things “didn’t stop Christmas from coming. It came. Somehow or other, it came just the same.” Greek ribs had been in the oven since the afternoon. Potatoes were mashed with cheese and garlic. Granville Island Winter Ale was sipped from novelty glasses that had the word “ALCOHOLIDAYS” printed along the rim. Presents were exchanged, the rabbit was given a carrot, and Jim Henson’s “Muppet Family Christmas” was watched on YouTube.

Our evening was merry and bright, cozy and lovely. Christmassy? Very. There’s something to be said for new traditions.

Our tree is the best. December 2010

But there’s nothing like the old ones. Meeting my family at the airport (my mom is an air-travel-booking magician, so all three of us “kids” usually arrive the same day), a chilly three-hour drive from Saskatoon to my childhood home in the Prairies, fantastic food and drinks with neighbours, sleeping (or trying to) in my tiny old twin bed bathed in the glow of the yard light and listening to the dog howl at Something, being scalded by the shower if anyone else in the house turns on a tap to so much as wash a potato, re-reading all of my childhood favourite books, cross-country skiing, family photos in which we pretend to be rappers or monsters or something, and most importantly, having the BEST CHRISTMAS TREE EVER–these traditions are my Christmas.

My family and I don’t always follow ALL of the traditions and little rituals I’ve assembled in my mind every year, and some of them will likely fall by the wayside over time. One day my sisters and I will have families of our own, and our Christmasses will look different from the ones we have now. It is a loss–observing your Christmas traditions through the frosty panes of a Christmas memory instead of living them year to year–but I am comforted by the idea that my favourite things about Christmas will never be lost. Christmas is a feeling. Year after year, there will be traditions (new or old), there will be family (new or old), there will be love, and there will be much to be grateful for.

And now I’m feeling sentimental. It must be Christmas. I wish you and yours a very merry Christmas, however you love to celebrate, and I wish you the very best and happiest of Christmas feelings.

Photo credit: Daina Zilans

[Note: I did not coin the phrase “Christmas is a feeling”. I remember it from a song performed in the Turtleford School Christmas Concert when I was in Grade 3. I cannot remember what the song or the play was called. I believed it involved the smallest and most humble evergreen in the Christmas Forest conveying the true meaning of Christmas through the aforementioned song. In fact, now that I think of it, the song was probably called “Christmas is a Feeling”. Classic.]

Happy Birthday, Blog! : One Whole Year of NiftyNotCool

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

This the where the magic happens (yep, my mousepad is a paper bag).

It was this day last year (November 29, 2010) that I posted “NiftyNotCool: A Whine and Cheese Introduction“, my first-ever blog post. That makes today the first “bloggerversary” of NiftyNotCool. During this year I have been committed to posting at least once per week and I have kept to this goal (a small feat for some but a big feat for me). I had decided, at the time, that I would keep this up for a year and if I didn’t like it I would stop. Today also marks the one-year anniversary of my first-ever tweet on Twitter, again, with the condition that if I hated it (and I thought I might) I would stop (HA!).

The idea of marking my time as a blogger with a bloggerversary is one that I stole from my friend Raul Pacheco-Vega, of Hummingbird604.com. He celebrated his five year bloggerversary this past spring and it was a pretty big milestone for a major Vancouver blogger who has, for the entire five years, been blogging entirely for free.

As my own small bloggerversary approached it occurred to me that the thought of quitting NiftyNotCool hasn’t crossed my mind at all lately. I’ve put in a year’s worth of learning and writing, attending the YVR Blogger Meetups and talking to new people. I’ve learned that blogging (good blogging) is more than just banging out a post every once in a while and expecting fame and recognition to come pouring in. It’s about hard work, and not being obsessed with watching my site stats. It’s about making decisions like whether or not to sacrifice good SEO for titles and introductions that satisfy me as a writer but won’t necessarily bring Google searchers to my blog (most of the time I say to hell with SEO and just write the way that makes me happy).

Over the year, I’ve written a few things I’m quite proud of (and some I’d be content to sweep under a rug), and a few things that unexpectedly struck a chord with unexpected people. Every once in a while someone has told me that something I posted interested them, or made them laugh, or was helpful to them. When someone does that, it’s pretty much the most gratifying feeling I could hope for as a blogger.

And I’m having fun! Blogging and tweeting has allowed me to engage with new people, and brought some fun opportunities my way. If you blog for perks and recognition you’ll quit soon. If you blog because you like to write and you want to share, you’ll enjoy yourself and the perks that do happen to come along will be just that…perks. I’ve stuck with this for a year and I gotta admit that writing some posts has been like pulling teeth. But overall it’s been an interesting experience, a good challenge and a lot of fun and I don’t feel like stopping anytime soon.

But I do think it’s time to step up my game. I’ve been blogging and tweeting and going to tweet ups and similar events for one year and it is about time I stopped being such a Luddite and started making this easier on myself. It’s time for a smartphone.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Georgette von iPhone (“von iPhone” is of course her married name, sadly, Count von iPhone passed away from technological dropsy some time ago). This brand new piece of techno-social gadgetry is my one-year bloggerversary present to myself.

Technological! Ooooh!

Georgette is an iPhone 4S and I am happy as a clam with my bright shiny toy. I’ve stuck with this for a year and proven to myself that I would make good use of a smartphone. Now I can blog and tweet all over town! And find myself on Google maps when I get lost tweeting all over town! And record voice memos like a Private I. Watch out world!

With all sincerity though, happy bloggerversary, nifty blog of mine. It’s been a slice so far. Welcome to the family, Georgette. I love you already. And to all of you who have read my blog over the past year or given me any pointers or brought cool opportunities or ideas my way, thank you. You’ve all made it so much fun and I’m nowhere close to finished yet. Cheers!

P.S. The stage-managing, truffle-baking, theatre-blogging entity that is my friend Lois Dawson is celebrating her THREE YEAR bloggerversary very soon at www.loisbackstage.com. Happy bloggerversary, Lois!

Moving out, moving in, moving on

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

On November 21, 2010, I moved into a sweet little nifty apartment in East Vancouver’s Hastings Sunrise area. I made the move for emotional and financial reasons and my snug little place welcomed me in a cozy embrace of mirrored closets perfect for impromtu vanity dance parties (with or without air guitar) and east-facing windows that allowed my poor little light-starved houseplants to double in size during my year there.

It was also around this time that I started making the necessary changes in my life to allow my poor little timid heart and mind to double in scope and experience and the world around me, when I ventured out of my little Hastings Sunrise nest, welcomed me with new people, new places, support from all sorts of unexpected corners, and a new sense of self I hadn’t had before.

It was quite a year.

Now, a year later, I am moving out. Not because I don’t love my little nest with all my heart. Not because I wasn’t happy there. But for two good reasons:

1: My apartment has been up for sale for quite a few months now. I knew this, and when my landlady called to tell me it had been sold to someone who wanted to move in in December, I was ready to accept that (and of course, I had to, ready or not). I hope the new owner loves her snug little place as much as I did.

2: Regardless of whether the apartment sold or not, it was time to move on. New adventures await me following some recent changes and sometimes that means a new location. I will still be in East Vancouver. My houseplants will still have lots of light. My new place will be pretty nifty once everything is unpacked. But it is time to say good-bye to the nest that cradled me and to create a new kind of home with a new kind of happiness.

Funnily enough, as I was packing up my belongings to move and sorting through what would stay and what should be sloughed off, it was not the loss of my east-facing balcony that saddened me. It was not the loss of my tiny but perfectly proportioned kitchen that made cooking a dream (EVERYTHING was within reach). It wasn’t even losing the neighbourhood with East Vancouver’s best views (visit Wall Street or Burrard View Park if you don’t believe me). The loss I grieved over was an old empty bottle of Blasted Church Gewurztraminer.

It was a bottle an old flame and I purchased in an old life, three years and four apartments ago. At the time, I was collecting wine bottles, and Blasted Church’s labels are certainly worth keeping the bottles around for. This bottle survived every cull as I moved from home to home and until recently had occupied a prized spot in my credenza flanked by William Nicholson’s Wind on Fire trilogy and Neil Gaiman’s Stardust.

When I removed this bottle from the shelf I looked at it for a long time. I looked at the label, a drawing of a priest fishing and a russet-coloured dog standing on alert. I tapped my fingernail on the glass. I woke up a lot of ghosts–old memories and old dreams. Memories of another cold November night, being warm inside with wine, wondering through my blushing haze if this was going to be love (and already being quite sure that it was). Dreaming a lot of things but never dreaming of the life I actually have now. Being another girl, in another time, a 22-year-old who thinks she knows with complete certainty that what she wants in life is just to make rusty carnival-like plays with accordion music in them (and to hell with money!) and maybe, just maybe, that the next time she says “I love you” to someone it will be the last time she ever says it.

Oh my my. I held this old bottle of Blasted Church Gewurztraminer in my hands for a very long time. And then I put it in the recycling box, with some empty yoghurt containers and last year’s Maclean’s magazines. I suppose before I dump all the stuff out in the blue bin I could go back, reach in, rescue the bottle, take it with me and keep it for memory’s sake.

But I won’t. I’m full of memories already and I’m making new ones everyday. Rescuing a symbol won’t rescue the dreams that have already run their course and that’s okay. That’s growing up. That’s movement. That’s a fine thing to smile over someday when I have children perhaps and they are sad when they realize they don’t really truly believe in fairies anymore. Impermanence is what makes it all so enchanting.

And whether my fairies are “really truly” or not, I live an enchanted life. Not always the way I thought I would, or where I thought I would, but a new home beckons. A new life to build that promises incredible things. Time to move out, move in, and move on.

“My Imp” (a little bit of fiction, lost and found)

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

My head hurts today and my body is tired. The idea of casting around in the present for something that grabs my attention and stirs my blood enough that I want to write about it is exhausting right now. I am tired of examining my present, I am tired of organizing, I am tired of planning for my future endeavors (near and far). And so I am rebelling. I am reaching back. I’ve been opening cupboards and uncovering boxes. I am taking the lids off and exploring the contents. I am re-breaking the heart of a younger me and realizing that though I may think that I was very foolish once and am much wiser now, I am likely not as wise as I think I am, and likely was not actually so foolish then. A hurt is a hurt whether it is your first or second or your hundredth. A loss is a loss even if you eventually gain.

And so to honour the younger woman who does not know me now but whose struggles became part of my story, I am posting a short story I wrote on some loose leaf in 2007, sitting on the soft black couches in the lobby of the old SFU theatre. (For those of you who think I am just being lazy, I thought I was too, until it took me longer to type up this story and do some light editing than it sometimes takes me to write a whole new post.)

Grey Lovers - Marc Chagall

My Imp

Curious really, how it happened, and how when it happened it somehow seemed natural and no cause for alarm at all. The cause, of course, was that when it happened I was falling in love.

It began at a bus stop. Or rather, it first awoke at a bus stop. It had been a very warm April day, and we’d spent a good part of it swinging in your landlord’s hammock drinking beer and listening to world music. So warm, in fact, that you’d chosen to wear shorts and I was wearing a t-shirt though I suspect we were both regretting that decision now that the evening was getting late and the wind blowing from the quay was as cold as the sea.

At that particular time, though, we didn’t care about the dark or the chilly ocean breezes, and the idea that this might not be forever had not crossed my mind. We were wrapped together in your coat, my hair, our sinews and bones and our air-tight good feelings. New lovers are always invincible.

We were talking and teasing each other and laughing, most likely about something silly and more than likely a little bit dirty. We heard a soft giggle. A third voice, giggling. You looked to the right and I looked to the left but there was no one to be seen. We heard the giggle again and discovered its source: it was coming from my body, more specifically, from just below my left breast.

“What is that?” you asked, and your eyes grew big and round with surprise and wonder. I had never heard it before, but suddenly in that moment I knew with certainty exactly what it was.

“It’s my imp,” I told you, and your surprise became delight. “I have a little imp that lives inside me. It’s been sleeping and you woke it up. I think it’s a little mischievous.”

“I understand what it is,” you said, and you kissed my forehead, “and I love that you have one.”

Bliss reigned. The soft coos, gurgles, and giggles of my infant imp continued as we travelled to the quay. They continued as we took the Sea Bus downtown. I heard a thrilling hiccup when you talked about what we might do in a couple of years. The imp liked you very much and so did I.

In the happy days and weeks that followed, my imp became more and more of a presence in our lives. You took to saying hello to it as well as me whenever you saw me and always had one ear eagerly listening for any new sounds it might make. Eventually, the laughter and gurgles became jabberings we assumed must be a language of its own. I imagined I was able to understand what my imp was saying, or at the very least grasp a general gist. When you and I were alone together I would sometimes translate the gibberish for you. My imp had a strange and (so you thought) wonderful sense of humour.

One lazy morning, just as I was about to borrow your shower, I made a beautiful and exciting discovery. I shouted at you to come see, and you were in the cramped bathroom with me as quick as a thought.

“Look, look!” I said and pointed at my naked torso. Beneath my left breast, between my ribs, a small white shape was appearing and disappearing. It was the imprint of the tiniest clawed hand, pressing against the inside of my skin. I looked into your face and you sweetly kissed my cheek and hugged me so hard I thought I would burst.

You were so good. You were the most wonderful creature I had ever touched. You were fluid silky muscle moving through and around my limbs. A collection of smooth lines and imperfections and skin and eyes and blood. You were indescribable. We spent the afternoon lying on the floor, you with your head resting on my chest, listening to my imp. My fingers idly traced paths through your hair.

The soft contented hums of my imp began to grow in volume and pitch and suddenly exploded in one simple and joyful declaration. You were just dozing off and you woke, turned your head to lift your sleepy eyes to mine, and asked what the imp had said.

“I don’t know,” I said, but that was the first lie I ever told you. Because I knew, beyond even imagining, what it meant. My imp loved you and so did I.

Things continued in this lovely way until I began a new job and became very busy. You and I couldn’t see each other as often anymore and that made me very unhappy. It is not surprising then, that very busy and very unhappy, my imp and I became very sick.

You did your best to nurse us back to health. You cooked us supper and held us and whispered soothing and beautiful things to us as our fever raged through the night. You made us sick tea of garlic and ginger and watched cartoons with us. It wasn’t long before you, brave and kindhearted creature that you were, managed to make my body all better. But my imp did not recover.

Its ceaseless coughing began to fray our spirits when were were together, both of us busy and tired and trying to ignore this sickness in our relationship that was beyond our control. You never said anything, but I knew the constant whimpers and coughs of my once delightful imp were wearing you out. And I was becoming sorry and ashamed. But we continued to smile at each other in the hopes that even with a very sick imp between us you and I would be immune and be fine.

One weekend can change everything. When I was out with you we ran into one of your friends, a friend I liked but who enjoyed getting under my skin. There was friendly chitchat and dirty joking but I was feeling a little off balance and not at home. We heard the sound of vicious crying coming from beneath my ribs.

“What the hell is that?” asked your friend.

“It’s–it’s my imp,” I said. “It’s crying. It doesn’t understand the joke and it’s tired.”

Your friend looked confused and you looked away, embarrassed of me. I felt in that moment that my imp had caused me to fail a test, that you would worry that my imp and I were too frail to accept you as you really were, vices and off-colour humour and all.

Confusion and doubt crept in. My imp continued to cry. We continued to try to ignore it and we tried the next morning in your bed, as you attempted to relax your body next to mine, tired from a grey night. I held you so close. I wanted to tell you that I loved you but I knew I shouldn’t. My imp grew frustrated with me and with you and the things we were not saying. You shrieked in pain and lept away from my body like a cat, arching and twisting your back in the air. You bled from a scratch in your side.

Your eyes were staring fixedly at a point on my left ribcage. Beneath my breast, between my ribs, in the same place we’d first seen the hand print on that dreamlike morning forever ago, there was a small hole, bleeding in a slow trickle down my left side. My guilty imp had now retreated far into my body, and I thought I could feel it shaking. My imp was afraid, and so was I.

“Now at least we’ll have matching scars,” I said and I smiled feebly. You did not smile back. We got Band-Aids and put them on our wounds and neither of us talked about them anymore.

From that morning on my imp remained silent, simply trembling inside me. It was silent as you and I suffered through watching films that weren’t very good. It was silent as I felt you leaving my bed to have a cigarette in the middle of the night. It was silent as we made awkward conversation during my birthday dinner, a dinner we both resented for different reasons.

My imp and I knew that things were not well between you and I but we hoped. We hoped and hoped until the night you came to my apartment and told me that this wasn’t it, this wouldn’t work.

My imp sank its nails into the inside of me and we both began to wail that we loved you. I wanted to be rational, I didn’t want to make things harder for you, but my imp was clawing savagely at my insides; it hurt so much that I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think. I cried and begged and tried to keep you, even though I knew I couldn’t. As you made your last apology and turned to go my hands were held tight to my chest and side, trying to keep my imp from bursting through me and sinking its teeth into you, hurting us both even more in its attempt to prevent your going.

When the door to my apartment closed with a loud and final click, I sank to the floor in my porch and screamed, blood all over my hands and my side. My imp had ceased its struggles and was crying with me. We cried, the pair of us, the loverless and the friendless, until we could quiet down and try to go to get some sleep.

My imp tossed and turned inside me all night as I tossed and turned inside my bed. In the few moments I slept, I dreamed I was in a hospital for sad girls, resting on a pile of blue felt and being called “baby lamb” by matronly nurses. But for most of the night my imp and I lay awake, eyes wide open in shock, feeling very alone in the world.

The next evening you and I met to have a talk. My imp, utterly worn out, was thankfully sleeping and I was able to keep my wits about me. You looked small and sad as we spoke and I knew that you had never wanted to cause me or my imp any pain. But you felt that you could not be what you felt I wanted. And it was obvious that you and I had misunderstood each other terribly, but now it was too late. You knew now how strongly my imp and I felt, and you could not match that. For you to be a lover to me and a guardian to my imp was far too much to ask of you. Both of us were in danger of tears (you and I) but both of us bit our lips and looked away– still so alike in the unimportant ways that could not suffice to keep us together.

We waited at the bus stop for your ride home, this time no longer invincible, only able to use our own arms to wrap ourselves in. As your bus pulled up to the stop, I felt the nudge of my imp once more. I looked into your face and you sweetly kissed my cheek and hugged me so hard I thought I would burst.

And then you were gone.