I wanted to start out by telling you how very fortunate I am to be able to slip into a state of zen about this whole pandemic. I wanted to charm you into believing that once I leave my workplace (as a funeral director – stressorama), that my home is a haven of peaceful solace. Instead, I offer you your vehicle as a hide-out, and your bathtub as a time machine – steamy water, candlelight, music, and memories of a delicious past….
The reality at my house (and likely the majority of others) is, that it’s a circus of emotion; sometimes gratitude is the pervading atmosphere, sometimes, tension, fear-turned-irritablility-and-anger, and sometimes happy-hour at unlikely hours. Mostly, it’s a combination of all of those things, depending on who’s in the room. Like now for instance…It’s just after 3pm, and I’m full-on gin and tonicing into the evening.
I’m trying to quietly hide in my writing/library room with a headset on (the universal signal for ‘please fuck off and don’t talk to me, I’m busy’). Trying to get some peace and quiet (while CNN is blaring in the living room and my sweetie is passively aggressively putting away dishes because he thinks someone else should be doing it), requires new strategy.
While we mostly want to choke one another, there is one thing that has saved us all. That one thing? It’s comedy.
My top three COVID classic comedy selections (in no particular order) include;
The Big Lewbowski
Hot Tub Time Machine
Feeling helpless is clinically the worst case emotion for anyone exposed to trauma. The only thing that we can do now to act, is not to act (in other words, for the love of God and my desire to go camping this summer, stay the hell home), it’s tough to stay sane. Maybe a good laugh will help release some stress, and get you focussed on ways, however small, that you can be of service.
I have a lot of respect for my friends and colleagues when it comes to wisdom gained through experience. They’ve been there and done that, way before I even drew a breath.
What I don’t respect are mindless boobs who assume manners and common courtesies are something owed to them, but no deserved by those who share the world with them.
Let me break it down for you;
Rules of the road. If there are three lanes and you are anywhere but in the far left lane and being passed by other vehicles, move over. Traffic sucks for all of us, please play kindly.
Movie theatres. Yes, I used to think that teenagers were the most rude, but it’s no, it’s the silver haired set. It’s allllllll you. Teenagers may be attached to their devices, but they aren’t invading our space with noise.
Yes, you are the only people who let your phone ring in waiting rooms, restaurants, theatres and other public places and then go ahead and answer it. Even in appointments with professionals. Nothing is as important as the present moment. Love yourself enough to be in that moment.
Turn off your ringer, and if you don’t know how to do that, please, for the love of everyone’s blood pressure, leave your damn phone in the car. You are THE ONLY generation who answers your phone while in the theatre. I think this may be because you don’t know how to text. Ask for a lesson. That’s not sarcasm, it’s a sincere plea. I promise you, once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it.
Also, sit the hell down! My son timed some grey-haired-piece-of-annoying-as-hell-skin who stood in front of us at the theatre while the previews played. A full minute he stood and talked to the people he came to the theatre with. The only reason I didn’t lose it was that I would have mortified my teenager. Sit down, shut the hell up, and let everyone enjoy the movie.
This morning I went out for breakfast. I found a nice quiet table and was enjoying my coffee and reading the Sunday paper when a couple sat down right next to me. As in, less than 30cm away. They continued to talk about their bedtime playtime last night, and then Mr. Viagralovin proceeded to cough and snot and make calls. Seriously, it’s like finding a secluded spot on a beach and then having the only other person on the planet plant their pasty white ass down right next to you.
It took three phone calls before I picked up my jacket, purse, plate of food, newspaper and coffee and moved tables. His wife looked at me like I was crazy. I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of my breakfast in peace. I hope they on the other hand, both get the shits.
What this all really boils down to is two things; first, I’m bitchy. I’ve been under the weather and had to be out to take the kiddo to practice, so I found the quietest, closest place I could and nestled in. Second, people really need to learn how to respect one another’s space, especially as our population booms.
I try to keep to myself when I need quiet, like this morning. I try to be friendly when I meet someone on the street, hold a door, or push my cart through the store.
We are doing a lot of mindless living, multi-tasking not only tasks, but personal relationships. We all deserve better.
Do the world a favour, when you see someone being rude, quietly address them, and if that doesn’t work, use your outside voice. Trust me, the rest of the world will thank you for policing the subtle things that make civilization civilized.
1) The 2013 vintage of California wines is a goldmine. Still over-priced, but worth every penny to me. Must get to the LCBO to buy a case or two. Better yet, must drift off and daydream about my time spent in Sonoma…le sigh.
2) Alas, I will never look good in the new ankle-length pant. My décolletage is far too abundant to have me look like anything but a teetering tower of lusciousness. Le sigh – again. Must make up for this by going shoe shopping.
3) According to psychologists the beard trend is a revolt against female power and beards are as much a phallic symbol as, let’s say, the CN Tower. Interesting, but do we really care ladies? No. Just have a well manscaped face, and kiss me oh bearded masculine gods!
4) My horoscope says that the full moon makes me talk too much, and I should just be quiet and go for the secretive Scorpio persona. Let’s face it, half of the stuff I say makes little sense to anyone else, therefore my babbling makes me all the more mysterious. Horoscope, schmoroscope!
5)My friend Carlo writes like Craig Davidson. Yes, despite a degree in English Literature, I still prefer Canadian writers. Landscape; the overwhelmingly accurate, psychological theme of most of our novelists….take me on a road-trip any time.
6) Despite an ex’s insistence that my movie choices are purposefully pretentious, I continue to be shocked when the movies I really want to see only play at ‘select’ theatres. To the cinematic powers that be – Please, please, please don’t underestimate the number of culture junkies in the suburbs.
7) God bless Lucy Waverman. My famous bananas in rum-butter sauce will go perfectly with her ‘Boozy Bundt’ cake. Yum!
8) It has been decided that contrary to the release of recent evidence by fitness gurus, an abundance of sex does decrease belly fat. It’s true. My friend Darleen nodded when I suggested that the gurus were, (gasp) wrong, so it’s true.
9) Although it’s months away, the twelfth anniversary of my 28th birthday is this year, and I must appoint a party committee to plan the debauchery. See #1 on this list, and begin stocking up.
Ever one to be in line with the mindless consumer push, I decided to write a post about love. After all, it was just on December 24th that I spotted the first signs of Valentine’s Day tidbits taking over the jingle-bell-and-kiss-me-under-the mistletoe section of a local shop.
Don’t be disheartened my wee little sprites. This isn’t a syrupy sweet Hallmarkish promotion of red fish-net stockings and silicone lubricant. Not that I’m into that kind of stuff anyway…..ah hem…
It’s about a topic I believe is close to the sentimental chamber of our very human spirits. It’s about letting yourself give and receive love without letting the pressures of what-we-should-be-doing ruin it all.
As is tradition in my home, I fall easily into my nightgown in front of a slew of chick flicks when I have the place to myself. Usually I have a cup of tea or a spicy hot chocolate. Wine, I have learned only leads to more tears and possibly drunk dialing.
One of my favourite shows is New In Town. Far from a blockbuster, but so wonderful, and at the same time anti-feminist too. It just tears the hard-ass-independent-woman in me to bits to admit that I love it.
Perhaps it’s because I see myself falling for the ever-able-to-save-the-day-rough-around-the-edges Ted Mitchell. You know, the classic strong and silent type. It doesn’t hurt that Harry Connick Jr plays the character of Ted. Meow!
During a classic mother-daughter talk, my mumster and I waxed nostalgic about the bad boys we loved and (thankfully, in retrospect) lost.
As hard as it is to admit, sometimes it takes a few bad boys, heartbreaks and major losses to help us realize that it’s the gentlemen, the nice guys, the ones who open the door for you when your hands are full, who always seem to have put thought into a conversation, date, or drink at the end of the day, who are the ones who have always really had our hearts despite our steamy trysts with the tall, dark and handsome ones.
These are the guys and gals who really make our hearts pitter-patter. For a long, long time. These are the fellas worth the red fish net stockings and chilled bottles of bubbly, or perhaps the gals worthy of some well planned manscaping.
Whether you’re a man or a woman, whether you’re the educated one, or the blue collar one, whether you’re too old for him and he’s too young for you, or he/she doesn’t come with the vamp/hunk stamp of approval of your pals, they’re too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, have a funny accent, maybe, just maybe, none of that stuff matters.
In our culture, love, indeed is another country.
Any kind of deep love, whether platonic or romantic is a deep reach down into our day-to-day, nine to five bag of consumer culture. We constantly measure the losses and gains, benefits and drawbacks, pros and cons of ‘what if’.
We’ve all had our hearts broken and taken risks. We all love the solitude of our own home. We also all yearn for that special someone who is there when we get home to help us celebrate, or hold us when we need some encouragement.
In order to know great love, you must take a grand leap of faith to find out whether you’re being led down a path with no breadcrumb trail, into a dark, tangled, wilderness, or to a brilliant life you only dared dream of.
Love is only between two people, not his sister, the hairdresser, your brother-in-law, the dental hygienist, your granny or Dr. Phil.
Love is a state of its own, declared the moment you enter into relationship. You are the sovereigns, the populace and the lawmakers. Love is indeed another country.
When I was a teenager, I remember rolling my eyes at my boyfriend’s dad when he said something about getting older and appreciating the little things that make us civilized.
I heard his words echo in my mind as I made my way up from the parking garage, dodging a big loogie someone had thoughtfully horked up on one of the stairs.
As it turns out, I don’t know that anyone has ever spoken words more true than that proper old man as he bemoaned the irritation of rudeness.
I miss the little things that make the world a nicer place to live. You know, like not leaving wads of snot on public stairs.
Public areas are filled with people abusing our unwritten rules of etiquette. At my local mall, you can barely drive your car through the masses of other driver’s who are convinced that their need to park in no-parking zones supersedes everyone else’s need to get where they’re going or their safety.
At the movie theatre, there is always someone (and not always a teenager my lovelies, most of the time they’re obnoxious adults) whose need to check their phone is way more important than everyone else’s need to relax without distraction. Every single time I go to the theatre, I have an opportunity to practice patience. From a different perspective, I also have an opportunity to do a gross surgical procedure involving the latest cellular technology and someone’s rectum. It does all really just depend on your perspective.
And then there’s noise pollution. If I wanted to listen to music at 2am, trust me, I’d turn it on, and quite likely, it wouldn’t be what’s blaring from your house. If I wanted the windows in my car to rattle from a thumping bass line, I’d make sure it happened all on my own my sweet little plum.
In case you’ve forgotten, or were never taught, the library is still a sacred bastion of silence. That means no cell phone sisters, I don’t care what the fashion crime of the day is, put it away. Chances are the editors at Vogue will understand you’re unavailable.
In short, to make a summary point, if I want to walk in snot, I’ll come up with something all on my own without being exposed to your slippery little gem of infectious-contagious generosity.
Indeed, as I’ve aged, I have come to value the importance of being civilized.