Everything Else!

And Now the Case for Being Happy

/ Lauren / 2 Comments

Photo credit: Daina Zilans

Back in January, I was emerging from a sad place and a big change that left me 10 lbs. too skinny (I’m now back to my normal size and my pants aren’t falling off anymore, woohoo!), emotionally exhausted, and suffering from insomnia for the first time in my life. As a pep talk for myself (and any other people that may hopefully have found this helpful) I wrote a post called Got the Blues Real Good: The Case for Being Sad (Sometimes). The circumstances I was in were beyond my control and I wanted to find a place of optimism and strength while still acknowledging that I felt like shit.

My winter and spring were a clumsy journey up a bumpy road. It brought me to my knees sometimes. I had a lot of things to sort out, mostly things I was afraid of, and even though I felt like crap I managed to plant some seeds that seem to be bearing fruit for me on an ongoing basis. Volunteering as a mentor, writing this blog (which I love), meeting new people, going on little adventures, re-enrolling in university courses, and co-creating, rehearsing, and finally performing “Troika!” with my friends have all kept me busy, interested, and ultimately, with little room for being a grumpypants. And in October I’m going to Spain. For a month. ALL BY MYSELF!

Through most of this time, even though I was no longer sad, the positive emotions I was beginning to feel weren’t necessarily happiness. I was proud of myself. I had a sense of accomplishment. I was having fun. And more than anything, I was feeling grateful for the amazing people and opportunities I had to support me and my climb out of the pit.

But gratitude is not happiness. It is a recognition of good fortune. And while it’s important to appreciate your blessings, gratitude’s not good enough. To spend your life being merely grateful that things aren’t worse is not joyous living.

Paradoxically, it is when our victories are nearly complete that our fears loom large again. When I was at rock bottom, I had nowhere to go but up. It was easy to be fearless when I felt I had little to lose. But that is not the case anymore. I like where I am. I like the life I’ve built for myself. I like the people in it. Can I, dare I, actually just rip that old comfortable bandage off that old comfortable wound and admit to myself that I’m absolutely and completely happy?

In recent weeks I’ve felt myself relaxing my tense grip on my heart and my mind, trying to trust that my world will continue to turn even if I don’t worry about it all the time. But despite my stance in The Case for Being Sad, every time I did, I found myself saying (to myself and others), “I can’t. I can’t go back there. I can’t go through that again. I can’t.” I’ve felt the sunlight on my skin, I’ve burst into bloom, and now suddenly I have something to lose. And that’s scary.

Every time I find my mind thinking “I can’t” I try to be gentle but firm with it. Of course I can. I just don’t want to. And that’s fine. No one has to want to feel shitty. But we can’t live only on what we’re not afraid of losing. I remember seeing a marquee outside of a church once that said, “To love something is to realize it might be lost.” That was four years ago, I had a broken heart at the time, and I thought it was very important. I told myself that I would remember that marquee. And I did. Since I know myself enough to know that I can’t live without love (for people, for places, for the things I do), I know I have to live with loss. So I will. I will surround myself with those which might be lost, because they’re the best things in my universe.

And happiness? What of that? What of the protective grip I kept around myself, clinging to that old comfortable wound, refusing to let go, so that nothing new could hurt me? Well, it’s a little funny, but one day, not so very long ago, I was walking through a parking lot, my mind busy licking the latest salt added to the old comfy hurt. And then, I just…. let it go. A parking lot is perhaps not the most inspiring place but that’s where it happened. I let it go. It was as if the final stone was removed allowing the dam to burst and the river to run free. Or as if I took off my shoe and dumped out that last piece of grit. I’ve got a ways to go maybe, but I can walk a heck of a lot taller now.

And I’m happy. I didn’t get here by myself. There are a few incredible people (and I hope you know who you are) who have been my knights in shining armor in my darker days, and I am more thankful than I can say. But ultimately, for me at least, my victory was a choice. My choice. It started with the little choices and changes I made to reshape my life and my world, and then, finally, with the terrifying but simple choice not to worry, to let go, let it be, take a breath, rip off that old bandage, expose the vulnerable new skin, and be happy.

"The Dance" - my 2011 wall calendar is all Marc Chagall. And 2011 has been full of colour and Good Things.

The Claw Hands: Chilly Memories of Adolescence

/ Lauren / 7 Comments

For those of you not in Vancouver this summer, let’s just say it’s been disappointing. And by disappointing, I mean it’s been cold. Yesterday was my office BBQ. Last year I got a sunburn. This year I got claw hands.

“Claw hands” is the term I use to describe what happens when my hands get so cold and stiff they curl into useless frozen claws. After a freezing cold staff BBQ (can’t blame the organizers, I’m sure they thought mid-July would be a lovely time for an outdoor lunch), they weren’t much good for typing or handwriting or picking up telephones or anything else I do at work.

Poor me.

Illustration of me with claw hands by Sonja Kresowaty

I have very poor circulation and claw hands are a fact of life in cold weather. My first memory of the joys of claw hands comes all the way from autumn 1998: I was 12, Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy With It” was played at all the junior high dances I was FINALLY old enough to go to, and I was involved in the only sport I was any good at: running.

In Saskatchewan, the cross-country running season begins in September and ends at the very end of October. The first couple of meets are generally quite nice and the rest of the season is pretty chilly. One particular meet that fall was held north of Meadow Lake, a meet most of us didn’t look forward to because it’s really hilly north of Meadow Lake  (let’s just say I’ve never ran on this “meadow” they’re talking about) and it was always cold.

I have an old photo somewhere of me at the starting line for that race and I’m sure I thought I looked pretty good. I was wearing a Buffalo Jeans t-shirt (with an @ symbol instead of the “A” in Buffalo, very edgy) and, the pinnacle of Saskatchewan athletic wear, Husky Athletics sweatpants. Anyone who grew up in Saskatchewan will understand why I could possibly have thought huge green ankle-biting sweatpants made me look cool. They were Husky. HUSKY. And maybe on anyone else, they would have looked just dandy.

The thing you must understand about me in 1998 is that I was a 12-year-old who did not yet weigh 100 lbs. I was long and bony but there was not a hip or a curve to be found. Certainly nothing that could really hold up a baggy pair of sweatpants. I made good use of the drawstring and hoped for the best. Sweatpants or no sweatpants, I’m absolutely certain I was already freezing before the gun went off, it being a typical grey autumn day in Northwest Saskatchewan, but I guess I assumed I would warm up during the 3km race.

And most of me did. A little. But not my hands. After the first 800m or so I knew it had been a big mistake not to include gloves (or better, mittens) in my stylish running ensemble. My hands were freezing. I tried to shake them out. I tried to rub them together. But they were balled into little fists of ice, so cold they HURT, and there was nothing I could do about it.

It doesn’t mean I didn’t try. During the course of the race I came up with two excellent solutions to my problem: one solution was to plunge my hands down my pants. Unfortunately, running with both hands shoved into the front of your pants is hard (try it sometime). The feeling of two cold hands suddenly being planted against my warm thighs was also a rather horrid shock to the system. My actions served to loosen the drawstring in my sweatpants and caused my pants to begin to fall down.

I remember striding past one of the checkpoints, hands completely hidden in my pants, and I have a memory of the image of a school-aged boy, a volunteer, standing at the checkpoint with a look of shock and total confusion on his face. I suppose I should have been embarrassed, I suppose now I must have looked like some sort of adolescent pervert, fiddling away in my pants on a running course, but I was too excruciatingly cold to care.

Once it became clear that the “pants solution” was slowing me down (and was ultimately not that effective) I moved on to solution two: I shoved my hands in my mouth. They took turns obviously, one at a time through the rest of the race. It’s a good idea when you think about it: my mouth was probably the warmest place on my body at the time, and with a little effort I could get at least half a hand inside.

Actually, no, of course it’s not a good idea. Once it was time to switch hands, the hand that had been in my mouth was now wet in addition to being cold. Since my hands were totally frozen stiff at this point (claw hands!) they were quite difficult to manoeuvre and fit into a mouth I was also trying to use for heavy breathing (since I was running a 3km race on hilly terrain and all).

In addition to my cold hands and falling down pants, my hand-in-mouth solution created a third condition for me to contend with. Due to the cold, my heavy breathing, and my constant shoving of my hands in and out of my mouth, my lips chapped and began to bleed.

This is pretty much what I look like running. Illustration by Sonja Kresowaty.

I can only imagine what my dad must have thought as he saw his middle daughter approaching the finish line (finally!); panting, pale and purple-cheeked, pants falling down, blood on her lips and hands, and, of course, the aforesaid hands curled into raptor-like claws, extending rigidly from my bony arms.

I don’t even remember crossing the actual line and having my placing number written on my hand. I don’t even remember if I gave my name to the helpful folks at the officials’ table. I ran straight for my father.

Dad: What HAPPENED?!

Me: (crying and blubbering through my bloody lips) My hands!

Dad: Oh Lauren. Why didn’t you wear gloves? I told you your hands would get cold.

Me: (still blubbering) I didn’t think it would be SO. COLD.

My dad tried to put his gloves on me at first but my hands were too stiff to uncurl and fit inside. He took me to the van and turned on the heat and I spent a heavenly afternoon with my hands on a radiator.

And THAT is the story of claw hands. And THAT is why I don’t care when people laugh at me for wearing gloves in April. If I had had gloves with me at yesterday’s staff BBQ, I would have worn them. Claw hands are not to trifled with. You never know when you’ll end up with falling down pants and bloody lips.

THE END.

Procrastination Makes It Happen

/ Lauren / Leave a comment

Stop your distracting dancing, Devil! I'm trying to write a paper!

I’m supposed to be writing a paper. For my Early Modern Literature course. The due date for this paper was made plain as day on the syllabus I received in May. More detailed instructions were given to us two weeks ago, complete with helpful paper topic ideas.

I have no paper. I have no paper topic. I am feeling a little screwed. The worst part about this situation is that, like a hangover, I know it’s all my fault.

Actually, no. It’s not. Maybe it’s this blog’s fault because I simply couldn’t concentrate on anything paper-related until I fulfilled my self-inflicted, Internet-based responsibilities. And of course I couldn’t blog until I thought of something to blog about. My inability to find anything to blog about is, of course, the fault of the Vancouver Canucks, who, let’s be serious, have pretty much overwhelmed the hearts and minds of Vancouverites and I’m not sure any of us can be asked to think or do anything until the Playoffs are over.

Obviously, the fact that the Canucks have to go to Game 7 tonight instead of finishing with a Stanley Cup win last Friday like I wanted them to is the fault of the Boston Bruins. To sum up, my paperless situation is the direct result of a “house-that-Jack-built” series of events, and the blame rests entirely with the Boston Bruins. There was simply nothing I could do.

Unfortunately, life’s not fair. And even though the fact that I haven’t started my paper yet is ALL BOSTON’S FAULT, I’m pretty sure the writing of this paper is going to fall to me. Boo.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to write a university paper, and I’m not sure I remember how to. I’m also not at all sure I am an expert in Early Modern Literature. Perhaps, like Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, I can exchange my soul for knowledge. Maybe I can move to the country described in Thomas More’s Utopia and live a very communist (albeit very monastic and Catholic) life free from concerns of personal academic glory.

Hey Marlowe! I bet you know a LOT about Early Modern Lit. If you weren't dead you'd write a great paper about it, I'm sure.

Hey, did you know that Christopher Marlowe (who wrote Doctor Faustus) was killed at the age of 29 by a knife wound to the eye sustained in a tavern fight? And that maybe he was an Elizabethan spy? And that other people in the tavern that day were maybe spies too? Suspicious. And exciting.

But I digress (a lot). Ahem. Paper-writing. First thing’s first: are there dirty dishes in my sink? Because if there are, I’m going to have to take care of them right away. I can’t be expected to work in a messy environment. Once taken care of, and now that I’m in the kitchen, I’m feeling a little hungry. Having been exposed to continuous cries from bleeding heart liberals who say lunch programs in schools help kids think better, I am certain my paper writing will go a lot more smoothly if I have a snack. Making and eating a snack obviously dirties more dishes which need to be washed and set in the drying rack. And now, I sit down at my computer. As I settle into my chair I am presented with the niggling feeling that I need to go to the bathroom.

Throw in paper-writing music, impromptu dance parties (caused no doubt by the music), and visits to Twitter to complain about aforementioned paper, and you can see I’m well on my way to unravelling the mysteries of Early Modern Literature in a concise, convincing, and intelligent manner.

Internet Fatigue (and the burden of Insta-Love)

/ Lauren / 9 Comments

The Internet is a powerful, benevolent sorceress, providing me with seemingly countless ways to connect, share, be informed/educated, debate, communicate, and take action. The Internet is also a time-sucking witch, providing me with seemingly endless ways to procrastinate and act like a crazy person. When I signed up with Facebook in 2007, I never expected “Facebook creeping” to become not only a verb all its own, but an acceptable way to pass the time when bored at work, home, or on your smartphone (I feel like prior to Facebook’s inception, going through someone’s photo albums without being explicitly granted permission would be, well, creepy).

In so many ways, of course, the Internet has made my life faster and easier. Internet banking. Google maps. Buying tickets online. E-mail. But it has also added tasks to my daily routine: checking my e-mail (all three accounts, though I actually have four active, not counting the one I check at work), checking Facebook for anything amusing, checking Twitter for mentions, checking my WordPress stats to see if people actually read my blog or whether I’m just shouting into the darkness.

Checking. Always checking. It’s not an action with a clear purpose, like “Buy groceries and then you’ll have food” or “Pay your utility bill and you’ll continue to enjoy electricity.” It’s just….checking. To see. If there’s something I should pay attention to. Mostly, for the little hit of insta-love I feel every time someone mentions me on Twitter or likes something I’ve said/done/posted on Facebook. Somehow not quite ever satisfied that I’m liked enough to last me the next twenty minutes.

Facebook and Twitter give us an easy and tangible way to measure whether or not we (and our thoughts/actions) have the approval of our friends and acquaintances, and to share our enjoyment and approval of our friends with them. But the flip side of this instant love is instant failure. When we post something on Twitter that we think is especially funny/clever/important, and no one responds, we feel a loss. When we post on someone’s Facebook wall and they don’t reply, we feel bad. Instead of the little hits of insta-love I’ve come to savour, I feel the anxious prickles of insta-failure.

I assume I am not the only one who feels this, or has noticed the coping mechanism many of us seem to use. We distance ourselves from our online personas to the point that we become a brand of ourselves. Our successes and failures online aren’t the successes and failures of us personally, but only of the version of ourselves we’ve chosen to share. I myself consider my Twitter account to be an extension of some entity called “NiftyNotCool” which is a part of me, but usually not enough of me to make me feel personally vulnerable. Even under this persona, of course I prefer to receive insta-love.

Before you diagnose me as someone with poor self-esteem who depends on the approval of the Internet to feel good about herself, let me assure you that I’m not. I think I have the average healthy amounts of confidence and humility that make me, hopefully, not a total chore to be around. But there’s no denying that having people respond to you in a positive manner feels good, and being ignored does not. While the Internet provides us with so many more ways to respond and be responded to, it also provides us with more ways to be ignored. Though the emotional toll this insta-love/insta-failure takes on me is minor, its constant presence in my life is wearing me out.

Which is why I’ve been taking a partial break from my Facebook and Twitter identities. With so many things I want to learn and do and share, it feels good to shut out the noise and take some time to appreciate the aspects of my life that aren’t online. Brunch with friends. Reading in the sun. A nice walk through an East Van neighbourhood in full bloom.

Which is not to say that I haven’t gained enormously from reaching out online. My world has become so much larger since I embarked on this “nifty not cool” adventure last fall. I’ve met amazingly talented, warm, and generous people. I got to blog the PuSh Fest, see some great performances with people I met on Twitter, and eat possibly the best beer-butt BBQ chicken I have ever had (courtesy of Candice at Baked In Vancouver). Every time somebody tells me they have read or enjoyed a post of mine, I feel so flattered and grateful and tickled pink that I know my enthusiasm cements my “not-cool” status forever.

Internet fatigue or no Internet fatigue, as long as we have electricity, our online lives are here to stay. As much as I complain, I am happy to know every single one of the great people I’ve met in the past six months, and to them, I say this: you guys are awesome. The conversations we’re having are great. But the idea of another night with my laptop makes me want to throw it in the Inlet. The sun is starting to shine on Vancouver, and I’d rather hang out with y’all on a patio. Whaddaya say?

My “Five for Five” Project: Happy Birthday to Me

/ Lauren / 11 Comments

I recently celebrated my 25th birthday. It’s a milestone for me in many ways. If you had told me on my 24th birthday how much my life would change before my 25th, I either would not have believed you, or I would have broken down in tears, terrified and confused by the foreignness of the description. People that were once a large part of my life are now gone, some irreversibly. New and wonderful people have entered it. Ideas, environments, and goals have changed.

Though my loved ones have always made my birthday a special day for me, in my teens I started disliking the event. Many a teenage journal contains the phrase “I’m another year older and it still doesn’t make any difference.” At the time, I meant that I was another year older and I still had no boyfriend. Poor me.

This year, that phrase meant something different. Somewhere along my journey towards this milestone I was instilled with the idea that my life should affect, in a positive way, other lives. Though I do try to be generous, environmentally conscious, and kind, I know so many amazing “Save the world” over-achievers in Vancouver that I feel selfish and lazy by comparison, and my little kindnesses (even my large ones), look like child’s play. Before I turned 25, I wanted to do Something Nice.

I had many grand ideas about amazing and awesome ways to celebrate my birthday by being a Top Notch Philanthropist. But I’m not a gala planner. I haven’t thrown a birthday party for twelve years (we had pizza and an ice cream cake back in ’99). My grand ideas became smaller and more simple, eventually shrinking to one doable plan.

I became inspired by a video on YouTube called Adeu, Barcelona!. Though I had no plans as ambitious as the artist’s in this video, I liked the idea of giving small gifts to strangers.

I wondered to myself, if I was a stranger going about their day, what would I like to find, no matter who I was? And I decided on money. I love to find money. It makes me feel lucky and I wanted to spread that luck around. Since I was going to be turning 25, I decided to donate $25 to this cause. The Five for Five project was born. The idea was that five people would find $5. Sweet and simple. They would also find a bottle of “Miracle Bubbles” (I needed something heavier to attach the money to). I also think that blowing bubbles is one of the great and simple pleasures of life.

On Mother’s Day, I attached five $5 bills to five bottles of Miracle Bubbles with the following note:

For you:

My 25th birthday is coming up. I would like to share the good luck I have experienced in my life.

Finding money always brightens my day. I hope it brightens yours. Treat yourself or give it away to someone who could use a treat.

Why the bubbles? If finding $5 doesn’t make you happy, blowing bubbles will. Thanks for being part of the city I love.

Lauren

Newspaper stand, Granville and Georgia

The weather wasn’t as great as I would have liked as I headed downtown, bubbles and bills hidden away in my bag, but it was a worthwhile experience all the same. I felt like a secret super hero.  You know how wonderfully sneaky you feel when you see a person and you know you’re going to give them a good surprise? That’s how I felt about everyone I saw. Any one of these people could potentially find one of my little presents.

On the corner of Granville and Georgia I saw an old man sitting on the sidewalk. He had a bushy white beard (like Santa) and a cardboard sign that said “Broke and Hungry”. I set one of the Bubbles with the $5 attached in his hat. I walked farther down the street and watched from afar as he took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, waved to me, and began to read his note.

In the Fine Arts Section, VPL

No one likes to be watched when they read, and I was feeling too shy to talk to the man, so I continued down the street to set out the rest of my little presents.

For the most part I tried depositing them in places out of the rain. This is why one of them was placed in a newspaper stand and one in the Vancouver Public Library, in the Fine Arts section (also rewarding literacy, hurrah!).

After I left my last present in a flower bed, I walked back to Granville and Georgia, with the intent of introducing myself to the man with the snowy beard. I thought that maybe it had been rude of me to impose this project on a person (instead of letting them find it) and walk away. Unfortunately, he was gone, but I hope that $5 was helpful and that if he doesn’t like bubbles he was able to give them to someone who does.

Flower bed outside 900 Howe St.

I headed home that Sunday feeling happy and a bit foolish. I know my little Five for Five project is just a tiny drop in the ocean of kindness and sacrifice that is required to save this crazy world. Maybe leaving five $5 bills lying around in downtown Vancouver will prove to be the stupidest and most useless thing I’ve ever done. But somehow I feel good about it. With no intended audience, anyone who found my little gift will be someone who found $5. And the huge debt I owe to the universe for the amazing good fortune I’ve always experienced might be just the teensiest bit repaid.

At any rate, it was for my birthday, and if I want to literally leave money lying around, no one is allowed to mind. So there.

YA or the Highway: A tribute to Young Adult Fiction

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

Anyone perusing my bookshelf may wonder for a moment if perhaps I am twelve years old, instead of twice that. I couldn’t blame them. Excluding the Maraget Atwoods and Barbara Gowdys I’ve tucked into the corners, my bookcase is a proudly displayed and well-loved collection of young adult fiction (YA).

I used to try to justify my reluctance to move on to more adult fare to my parents. Now I don’t bother. Though I receive one or two great Canadian works of literature a year (my latest, Cool Water by Dianne Warren, was excellent) I think by now my mom and dad understand that my literary growth pretty much stopped in adolescence (by choice and not by intellect).

I do not shy away from the real world or from being informed about adult issues (I read my Macleans cover to cover every week!). But the reading I undertake in my leisure time should be just that: leisure. I don’t want to be depressed or feel guilty about something horrible happening somewhere. I’d rather read about people with magical powers.

I think my feelings regarding “adult” literature (by “adult” I mean adults read it, I don’t mean erotica) were shaped early on by the books my mother would order from the Northwest Regional Library in Saskatchewan. They were all very good books. By good I mean they were thematically interesting and deftly crafted works of literature. However, I began to notice a pattern in the books I was reading. Eventually, whenever my mom recommended a book to me I would start by asking my now-standard question:

“Are there any suicides or pedophiles in this one?”

And my mom would say, “Well….sort of.” This led me to believe that literature written for adults is a never ending parade of misery and misplaced sexual feeling. This is a broad generalization, sure, but if you take a look at most lauded Canadian literature you’ll see I’m not too far off the mark.

Back to YA: not only does it provide me with a more pleasurable reading experience, it is often plain old better than many adult books I’ve read. Why? Because issues surrounding sexuality and violence, that are sometimes carelessly and artlessly written into adult fiction, require a more delicate hand in fiction for younger readers. This subtle allusion to the darkness that lurks beneath those last years of innocence is more profound to me than in-your-face sex and violence (the adult fiction I prefer is also of the more subtle variety).

And then, of course, there’s the magic. In my regular life, I have had to accept that no amount of feathers attached to my clothing will make me fly, and that the ghost I thought I saw in grade 3 was likely the product of spooky stories, darkness, and the company of my hyperactive friends (the mob mentality strikes again). I’ve lost all my baby teeth and the Easter Bunny stopped visiting. I accept the laws of physics and the legal and societal rules we all live by. I have a content and productive life.

Would I rather be a wizard? YES.

Good YA fantasy writers are my heroes. In order to create the worlds that make their books so enjoyable, they must understand them intimately. This involves a commitment to being an adult mentally living in a fantasy land. How awesome is that? Very. Any adult who can keep the spark of childlike wonder and imagination not only alive but robust is my kind of adult. Their books feed my need for a little bit of whimsy while I wait for my letter from Hogwarts to arrive.

So what ARE these YA books I love so much? I’ve compiled a list of my favourites from my collection:

  • The Abhorsen Trilogy (Sabriel, Lirael, and Abhorsen) by Garth Nix         [Necromancers, the stages of death, Charter Magic, a talking cat]
  • The His Dark Materials Trilogy (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass) by Phillip Pullman         [Science, religion, parallel worlds, daemons, loss of innocence–Don’t see the film]
  • The Wind On Fire Trilogy (The Windsinger, Slaves of the Mastery, and Firesong) by William Nicholson         [Politics, i.e. how different political systems attempt to ensure fairness and happiness, magic, family, sacrifice]
  • The Emily Books (Emily of New Moon, Emily Climbs, and Emily’s Quest) by L.M. Montgomery         [Must-reads for any little girls who want to write, way less saccharine do-gooding than Anne of Green Gables]
  • The Blue Castle by L. M. Montgomery        [An ignored and repressed underdog gets hers against her stupid family. Woot!]
  • Painted Devil by Michael Bedard         [Scariest book I read in childhood. Puppets, spine-tingling descriptions of everything from a doll’s tea party to wallpaper, a neat history of the Punch & Judy tradition]

If anyone has read any of the above books, or has any tips for other great YA you think I’d enjoy, I’d love to hear from you in the comments section. In the meantime, I’ve got a brand-new hardcover copy of The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet by Reif Larsen waiting for me. Oh. My. Stars. This is going to be epic.

Happy reading!

Confessions of a Chatterbox

/ Lauren / 6 Comments

Hi. I’m a chatterbox. How are you? I’m great. You know what else is great? Cats. Cats are so great. My little sister has a cat. Her name is Veronica. The cat, I mean. My older sister has a cat too named Penny. I wish I had a cat. Speaking of great things, the other day I saw this really great…..

Accurate depiction of me by Sonja Kresowaty

Sorry.

Hi. I’m a chatterbox. That is to say, I really like to talk. A lot.

This is something I’ve known about myself for a long time. My big mouth definitely got me into trouble when I was a kid (I recall several talks with my parents about things you DO and DON’T say) and although I’m fairly good now at keeping harmful or embarrassing things from being said, the actual volume of idle conversation leaving my lips daily has likely remained fairly constant over my lifetime.

My parents have told me I’m chatty. My sisters have told me. My boyfriends all told me. My friends have told me. And I cheerfully ignored all of these lovely people while I chat chat chatted away. As long as I’m not so loose-lipped that I become a bad daughter, or sister, or partner, or friend, I generally accept that this is part of who I am and so do they.

However, I can definitely take things too far and as part of growing up and becoming an adult I am learning that the kind of mindless prattle I excel at has a time and a place. One of the places where it is best to try to keep my chattiness well in hand is, of course, at work.

This is hard for me. For one thing, I work with lovely people I enjoy talking to. For another, several of the tasks I perform at work don’t require my full attention (like stuffing envelopes) and a nice bit of conversation helps to pass the time. I have come to appreciate, however, that as lovely as my coworkers are they are also hardworking and busy people and they’d probably appreciate a little less distraction from me, especially since sometimes I can even get on my own nerves.

As an exercise, and to keep myself from saying every silly thing that came into my head, I decided to write down everything I was thinking about saying before I actually said it. This way, not only were these thoughts expressed silently, but I could also examine the totally irrelevant statements I was casually throwing into the ether.

Ahem. The List of the almost-said statements I recorded in the month of February:

“I got soap in my eye and my eye is still itchy.”

“This stapler is so ineffective.”

“My hair is getting so long.”

“Boy, I’m sure lucky we don’t have the draft. I would hate to be drafted.”

“Have you ever seen the movie, ‘Across the Universe'”?

“I wonder what it would be like to have a photographic memory?”

“I have cramps.”

“Ever notice how weird eating grapes makes your hands smell?”

“Did you know there’s a bar in Gastown that if you stay till they close they give you a cookie?”

“I’ve been getting flakes of paper all over me.”

“According to the Chinese Horoscope, the Year of the Rabbit is supposed to be a bad year for everyone unless you put your head down and try to be patient.”

“People don’t appreciate good stamps like they used to.”

“I’m not so into romance right now.”

“One of my friends has a rabbit that hops around his apartment. It’s litter trained and everything.”

My heavens. The horror. I would like to make very clear that I wasn’t actually going to say EVERYTHING on the list, but the fact that I was considering saying it is bad enough. I also know that for every stupid thing I didn’t say, I’m sure there’s at least half a stupid thing I did say. Some things are clearly office-related, like staplers or paper flakes, and some I have no idea what I was thinking or what I was referring to. “Not so into romance”? Was I referring to romantic films? Books? Moonlit gondola rides? I actually don’t know. Haven’t a clue. And why would I want to say such a thing at work? Again, haven’t the foggiest.

A lesson I am going to take away from this exercise is that if I don’t know why I’m saying something, it might be best to just write it on The List and not pester those around me. As I mature into the well-brought up young lady I know I am inside I have been stockpiling such helpful reminders for myself. One of the tricks I have used to get by when I have the urge to chat is to ask other people questions. This way I can be attentive to the people I’m with AND if I really need to talk I can ask MORE questions or talk about what they just said. Thrilling. I’m sure Emily Post would approve.

I hope you have all enjoyed The List. To those of you that know me, I’m sure this reads like just another day with Lauren. To those of you that don’t, while I am certainly scatterbrained and far too talkative I am also reasonably clever and am always open to a conversation about Something Smart, should you prefer that to a conversation about smelly grapes or the length of my hair.

To my friends, coworkers, and loved ones: I’m sorry. From the fact that you all still talk to me I can only conclude that you possess infinite patience and must care for me very much. For this I am eternally grateful.

Some might call me an incorrigible chatterbox. Some might call me less delicate things like “obnoxious”. This likely wouldn’t be inaccurate, though I prefer to think I’m simply “generous with my thoughts.” No wonder I decided to blog. Thank you for listening.

East Van: please be my Valentine

/ Lauren / 3 Comments

Last year my Valentine’s Day present was Alexandre Bilodeau’s Olympic gold medal. I was watching on a big screen in Robson Square, jumping up and down and screaming like crazy. Hugging the man next to me. Being interviewed by CTV but never actually being on TV. That sort of magic.

This year my Valentine’s Day gift is a little more quotidian and a little closer to home (and my heart). I’m in love with my neighbourhood. I’m in love with East Vancouver. And it constantly, consistently, gives. No matter the weather, no matter my mood, my neighbourhood is friendly, beautiful, and vibrant.

My inspiration to write this post and make East Van my Valentine is the “I Love You” graffiti that covers neglected surfaces in East Van (sources in Toronto report several “I Love You’s” spotted in that Canadian city as well). Every time someone paints over an “I Love You” it comes back. It’s vandalism, sure, but I do feel loved every time I see it.

So thank you, East Van. Please be my Valentine and accept some possibly very bad poetry as a token of my love and esteem.

Photograph by Steffani Cameron

On opposite sides of East Vancouver
Two outlaw artists spray paint the words “I Love You” on walls, fences, dumpsters.
Each time their work is whitewashed over,
It is quickly, carefully, replaced.

I like to imagine that over the days, weeks, months
These two Painters circle one another unknowingly,
spiraling inwards, irrevocably inwards,
until one day—

Outside a warehouse on Powell St.
Two sharp pings! as two cans of spray paint
Fall to the pavement on opposite sides of an empty parking lot.
Traffic stops.
Nobody makes a sound.
(Except of course for the stupid gulls,
Who are, as always, completely unaware of the moment.)

The Painters move slowly towards each other.
Inside they are running full speed, full tilt
Into something as solid and scary and gritty as a warehouse wall.
Painter 1 and Painter 2:
They meet at last.

–I’ve been leaving messages. Did you get them?
–Yes. I answered. Did you see?
–Yes.

The thumb of Painter 1 leaves a smudge on the cheek of Painter 2
Painter 2 does not move, only breathes.
They stand this way in the parking lot,
The hand of one on the face of the other,
A touch that satisfies both.

The gulls, with no sense of occasion, scream again.
–Well then.
Says Painter 2.

The arm falls.
The shadows lengthen.
Two cans rust on opposite sides of an empty lot on Powell St.

I pass them on the bus and close my eyes.

Got the Blues Real Good: The Case for Being Sad (Sometimes)

/ Lauren / 3 Comments

From Edward Gorey's "Gashlycrumb Tinies"

Something that has really been getting my goat lately is the increasingly prevalent notion that we shouldn’t ever be sad, that sadness is somehow not a natural and normal state for people to be in sometimes. Whether it’s groups pushing for “the blues” to be classified as some kind of medical disorder (that we can therefore buy pharmaceuticals to correct, hooray!), to Always commercials instructing me to “have a happy period”, it seems like nowadays it is just not okay to feel what you feel about something if that feeling is crappy. Which it sometimes will be. Because life is sometimes super crappy.

Being sad sucks. I know. It’s truly awful. If I could keep the things that make me and the people I love sad from happening, I would. But if something does happen to make me sad, I don’t really have any choice but to roll with the punches and resign myself to being sad for awhile.

This is hard to do. I not-so-long-ago experienced an episode of Being Sad (i.e. my “Pit of Crankypants Behaviour”, first-ever post). I hated feeling that way to the point of being physically ill. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I thought, “If only there was something I could do, some pill I could take, to make me not feel this, to make me not mind the things that are going on in my life.” But drinking or drugging myself happy was not the road I wanted to go down.

Perishing of fits - more Edward Gorey

To clarify: nothing truly horrible happened to me (no abuse, no death), but I wasn’t enjoying myself or having a hilarious time. My Sad was real and it hurt. But even though I didn’t want to wallow, I decided not to ignore my Big Bad Blues.

I’m not judging people who want to go on an all-out bender and pretend to have a fabulous time, or who give themselves Daily Affirmations that “everything is fine” when their heart is broken or they’ve lost their job. I get it. I’ve done it. I just don’t think it would help me in the long run. Sure, when I’m flying high I’ll be feeling fine but when I sober up the Sad will be there waiting for me and the more I Daily Affirm away my feelings the longer I’ll put off having to deal with the reality of the thing that made me sad in the first place. If I don’t deal with my shit now, accept it and move on, I know it will come back and bite me in the ass later.

Which brings me to my Case for Being Sad: my belief is that regular, run-of-the-mill Being Sad is not only an inescapable part of being alive, it is also incredibly useful. Though I have hated every single moment of every single time I have been “capital S” Sad, I can’t deny that I have made some great changes in my life because of them. In the past these changes have included: not accepting anything less than the excellent treatment I deserve from a partner, eating like a responsible adult, knuckling down in uni, learning that I can fall in love more than once, not taking things for granted, and trying new things like aerial silks (3 years on the silks and still going strong!).

My recent time in the Pit of Gloom and Crankypants Behaviour has given me an opportunity to continue to build on these foundations. I know more about myself now, some of it great, some of it not so great. One of the things I’ve realized is that I am fearful. I used to think that my static behaviour was laziness but it turns out that I am simply afraid of a lot of things: I am afraid of big change (though I am also afraid to get stuck in a rut), I am afraid of the unpredictability that life brings, I am afraid to be in social situations where I don’t know anyone, I am afraid of failure.

"The Blue Guitar" - Picasso

And what am I really afraid of? Well, of being sad I guess. A change that didn’t work out would make me sad. A social situation where no one liked me would make me sad. Failure would make me sad. So I lived in fear of all these things, and guess what? I got sad anyways. At this point, there is nothing else to be afraid of. So I’m blogging even though I might fail miserably and be the Worst Blogger To Ever Make Herself Look Stupid. I’m volunteering as a mentor even though making commitments that change my life’s routine is scary. I’m making travel plans. I have attended events, and will continue attending events, where I don’t know anybody because I might have fun, and hell, most people are nice if you take the trouble to meet them.

Before my latest Sad, I hadn’t realized how little I had made my life, and how afraid I was of things. Until the Blues hit me and I really needed my friends, I didn’t realize how very amazing and supportive they are. I hadn’t realized what was positive about the way I was living my life, and what was not.

Is it hard to look at myself so closely? Yeah. It is. And it’s embarrassing to talk about it in a blog. But now that I’ve started making these changes and heading in this fearless new direction, I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to be sad, no one does, but I don’t want to live my life in fear of being sad. I’ve been sad, I’m still here. I thought I couldn’t bear it, and then it turned out that I could.

If you are unlucky and the Big Bad Blues come your way, be gentle but honest with yourself. Cry your tears, go out with your best drinking buddies, throw yourself into work or school for awhile. Affirm yourself if you need some affirmation. Fight it if you have to. Just don’t deny the crappiness. Look it in the face. Learn something. Deal with your shit. Move on.

You may as well. Because whether you like it or not, no full life is lived without some “capital S” Sadness. Why not meet it head on, live with it, see what you discover? There are all kinds of bravery in the world. I think acknowledging the inevitable Sadness and refusing to live in fear of encountering it is very brave indeed.

Reflections: “Dear 16-year-old Lauren”

/ Lauren / 3 Comments

With New Year’s Eve and the end of 2010 quickly approaching, many bloggers, Twitter personalities, news outlets, etc. are taking this time to reflect upon the year that has passed.

I do not yet feel like reflecting upon the year that has passed. It was a long year (365 days!). A lot happened. ‘Nuff said.

However, in the spirit of remembering days gone by, and in the spirit of the nostalgia that visiting my childhood home in Saskatchewan for the first time in two and a half years has given me, I decided to dig up my oldest box of journals (I started keeping a diary when I was in grade 3) and read some of them. Most of my entries are painfully embarrassing. I had a lot of crushes (esp. for an 8-year-old). I deluded myself into thinking these boys had crushes on me when probably they just wanted to play with their pogs. Pretty appalling stuff, and for the most part too humiliating to share with the internet.

My trip down Embarrassing Memory Lane revealed a treasure I had completely forgotten about: a letter I wrote when I was 12, to myself at 16 (I’ve changed all actual names but the spelling mistakes are real):

October 5, 1998

Dear 16-year-old Lauren,

I wrote a letter to you when I was in, like, grade two, but I lost it, and besides, nothing interesting was happening.

I hope you haven’t dropped out of school. I want to be a teacher right now. And if I have girls, I want to name them Katrina, Fiona, and, maybe, Meredith. I’m not really sure about the other two names, but I like Katrina for sure.

Right now I have totally fallen for Russell McDonald. My friends are Amanda, Tiffany, Jane (my best friend), and Cassie. My enimies are Kathleen, Jennifer, and Louise. Angela is OK to hang out with, but she flirts and acts stupid all the time. I like to get hyper with my friends, my favourite band is the Cranberries, I like Swing Music, I’m on the X-country running team, the volleyball team, the music group, the SRC, I will probably be doing French by correspondence, and I will be doing drama. My favourite colour is blue, my favourite number is ten.

I hope you’ve made good decisions: not to smoke, not to drink, not to do drugs, …and so one.

Love, Lauren (at 12 years old)

Yikes. I suppose it never occurred to 12-year-old Lauren that dropping out of school isn’t just something that might happen without you noticing when you turn 16, especially when your parents are teachers. And yes, when I said I liked to “get hyper” with my friends, I really meant being hyper and energetic…no sinister euphemisms here.

A couple of things surprised me about this letter. Firstly, it seems to say absolutely nothing at all. Wouldn’t someone writing to their future selves have a lot to say? Wouldn’t they want to fill their letter with important information?

The second thing that surprised me was the realization that these silly details actually were REALLY important to me, and probably to many 12-year-old girls. Who my friends were, who my “enimies” were, what band I liked, all the extra-curricular activities I was involved in in Junior High… It’s strange to think about how small my world was then, how little I knew of what my life was going to be like, and how old I actually thought 16 would be, when I know now that 16 isn’t old at all. And that even with 12 more years under my belt (a whole other lifetime for the author of the letter), my world is still smaller than I want it to be, I still know very little about what my life will be like, and I’m still not really very old at all.

I’m actually impressed that I was involved in so many activities. Good for you, 12-year-old Lauren. (Full disclosure: I was terrible at volleyball. I made it to the end of the season and never signed up for it again. I like to play “casual” volleyball now though, when I get the chance.)

I’m happy to report that I’ve come far enough since grade 7 that I don’t have any “enimies” anymore. And that I don’t need to worry about people who “act stupid all the time” because I’ve been lucky enough in my adult life to be surrounded by kind, smart, fun people most of the time. I still like swing and big band music. My favourite colour is still blue. I like the number 10 but I think the number 2 is better. As for “making good decisions…and so one”…well….I never took up smoking. So good for me.

I hope that if I ever do have a 12-year-old girl of my own (Katrina is a family name so that one’s still on the table), I’ll remember to think of this letter and try to understand a time when my crush and my social circle and my little activities were everything and I wasn’t worried about the world or whether or not my dreams and the dreams of those I love would be possible against the backdrop of the hundred million things that could happen before I grew up.

And what did 16-year-old Lauren think of her 12-year-old self? Well, in 2002, when I was 16, I wrote on the envelope, “Ha ha. Poor little 12-year-old Lauren. She doesn’t know me, but I think she’d be proud of what I’ve become.” As if I was really anything at the ripe old age of 16 for a 12-year-old Cranberries fan to be proud of. But maybe I was.

Ha ha. Poor little 16-year-old Lauren.

And soon enough it will be…Ha ha. Poor little 24-year-old Lauren.

I guess the moral of the story is that I’m going keep embarrassing myself, and writing stupid things, no matter what my age.

Happy New Year, everybody. Remember that no matter what you do or think in 2011, you’ll likely think you were stupid later, so don’t worry about it. 🙂