A little Matt Mays, a little pool, a little...

"You don't remember my name...I'm shocked!" she said, grinning, leaning against the pool table.

"Well, this is going to sound corny but do you want to know why I forgot it?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I was so surprised that you were actually talking to me, I missed it the first time you told me."



Really....good line? Genuine? The quirkily beautiful boy remains a mystery.

Goodnight Moon....

Alright, first of all in reply to the comments!

As much as I do agree with you guys (let's forego the third person nonsense for one entry shall we?) and I do think about telling him all the time, I just can't. Because if I do, it could jeopordize the whole relationship we've built on conversation and a genuine like and caring of each other. And I'm not willing to lose him because I'm too selfish to keep my mouth shut. It doesn't make sense to me in the sense that part of me does think that I should tell him, and that it's the most fair thing to do, but the other part of me knows that right now isn't our time...so why mess with perfection?...as imperfect as it might be, but that's life.

And now, on to the narrative:
When she was nine years old, she was visiting her grandparents at their home in the country. She loved winters there; how the snow swirled like she assumed Narnia or some other fantasy world might look. Every night she would hear the train passing through, and cuddle down in the bed her grandmother had put specifically in her room for her so she wouldn't have to sleep in the basemement alone.
It was a big house, sprawling across a huge backyard. Welcoming and spacious, but full of warmth. Every night, she would go through the same thing:
"Papa, would you come down to the basement with me to choose a book," she'd grin impishly, knowing that he would say yes because she was most important.
"Alright, but be fast," he would say, and amble down the stairs after her.
She would tiptoe across the cold floor, constantly ignoring her grandmothers insistance of slippers, and she would pick a book off the bookshelf in the room originally designed for her. The grandfather clock would begin to chime upstairs, and she would pick up the hem of her nighty and scamper up the stairs after her grandfather.
"'Night!" she'd say, throwing her arms around him, a hug and kiss. She never said 'good night' to him because he always said 'night,' and why would she want to be any different?
"Night, see you in the morning," the gruff voice which was always so gentle. She would normally say 'I love you,' but Papa was of the frame of mind that the more you say that, the less it means, so she would never say it out loud, but always think "I love you Papa."
At the end of that particular trip to visit her grandparents, there was a huge snow storm. She and her friend, Megan Weeks from across the street piled on layers of clothes and marched outside, ready to explore.
Half an hour before she was being picked up to be taken back to Oakville, she and Megan decided to make snowmen. Megan's first snowball fell apart, so being the younger of the two, she gave her first large snowball to Megan.
Megan finished her snowman first, and the other little girl was struggling to pile the second snowball on top of her first, for the head.
"Tory!" her grandmother called, "Time to go love!" so she ran inside, got her coat off and promptly burst into tears.
"What's wrong?" Papa thundered. He was never good with her crying, it upset him more than it even upset her.
"I didn't finish my snowman," she sobbed. This tradgedy, this admission of failure showed nakedly on her face as she looked up at him.
With a nod, with thoughts she didn't know of already running through his mind, he put on his sheepskin coat, hat and mittens and marched outside. No one knew what he was doing, she was still crying and explaining what had happened to her grandmother. She also bitterly regretted giving Megan her first snowball because now her own snoman would never exist.
Twenty minutes later, Papa came back in and pointed her outside, where her own mishsapen snowball had recieved a head, complete with eyes, nose and a mouth. Her new snowman had a hat, and a green scarf and was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Gleefuly, she ran out to look, and might have forgotten to say thank you.
And now, in Calgary, tears fall as she thinks of him suffering in a hospital. Even though he's home now, a hospital is never any place for her beloved Papa, the only father she knows. She hates that she can't tell him this, because she knows she'd cry on the phone and doesn't want to upset him more. She wants to be back in Oakville, to hold his hand so he's not alone and scared about what might happen to him. She wants to do so much for him, but can't do any of it.

All she can say right now is thank you.

The Unknown Familiar

She ate buffalo chicken wings for breakfast and had some green tea. She feels dizzy, like she always does after they talk because it seems so right and last night she knows he felt it too.
When goodbyes are awkward over the phone over hundreds of miles does it mean that this is the person you're never supposed to stop talking to? Who knows... she certainly doesn't.

The point is, she has liked people before. She has even thought herself to be in love, but when it came to the nitty gritty of getting over someone, she never had trouble before. It's been so easy just because she does get asked out relatively often and she always knew there would be something else around the corner. And yet, with Mr. B, who can tell by her lack of puncuation over MSN that something is wrong and tell her to call him to talk at 2 am his time, she just can't.

Yet, what does any of it mean; just a lie we tell ourselves to get through the night. Just someone who reminds us of home we keep around for those nights where we miss the familiar. They've kept themselves at enough of a distance for there to still be so much that is unfamiliar that it feels new, but she can still know what he's going to say next.

A contradiction that's kept them speaking year after year.

Wednesday Continued

An afternoon excerpt:

"Did you just turn 18?" she asks, trying to find a reason why his membership might be expired; this woud be one.

"Um, no, 15 actually," a raised eyebrow, a smirk. What a grungy little 15 year old has to be smirking at her about is beyond her, so she just raises an eyebrow at him and smiles.

"Maybe because you're membership just renewed..." and before she could finish telling him that his gym membership doesn't automatically renew itself until he's 18, the "new guy" remarks:

"HaHa, she likes the younger guys and she's lucky," laughing at his own wit pointing at the gold "lucky" printed on her t-shirt, which prompts the grungy 15 year old's slightly less grungy, albeit Euro trash in the making friend to nudge him and say:

"Go for it dude!" he begins to open his mouth to say something so she cuts him off fast before she has to turn down whatever he was about to say.

"Ok! so, just, you know get your parents to renew this for you," she practically throws a lock in his face and turns away, glaring at the new guy.

"How was I supposed to know he was gonna say something?" ...Does everyone have to suffer through this kind of person at work? Honestly, meeting him five minutes before and already he's trying to pimp her off to children. Where is the justice?

All because of a stupid birthday card...

Would she still want him if she could have him? ...so much to say and not enough room to type. So much to do, and too much distance to do it in.

"You're never going to find it, if you're looking for it...wont come your way," - the used, blue and yellow. How perfect. Even they know she's a lost cause.

The over-moneyed woman...

We've all seen her. She walks down the street with her artfully botoxed face staring you straight in the eye, because she thinks she's better. Well, we know she'll never really be better because given up a part of herself to the lie of pretending to be something she's not...35.

We know she's older, and while she's still attractive, something about the way she highlights her hair and the height of her heels makes her resemble that girl we all went to high school with who tried too hard to fit in.

We know she is a good person; a nice person. We also know that if she saw us get hit by a car that she would walk away quickly and the last thing we would hear would be the "click, click, click" of her heels.

We see this woman, wearing more designer labels than anyone really should be. Not because of any ethical beliefs, but because when you carry an Hermes tote, wear pearls with diamond encrusted Chanel logos on either side and flash Tiffany's left and right, it becomes tacky and worthless. That is the one thing the over-moneyed woman is not aware of.

And what the rest of us can hold over her oblivious, unnaturally coloured head...


Ps. this was just a mean rant because SOMEONE said I couldn't be published in her magazine because clearly it was too good for me.....anyway, allow me to be a bitch once in awhile, but my appologies in case I've offended anyone!

These boots were made for walkin'

Ok so that's stealing a song title, but you know what? She's indifferent. Anyway, it's fitting because this is not going to be a happy post. Nor a sad one. It's probably equal to what a sociopath might write, except that she's definately not that but it's fun to pretend sometimes.

Basically, another post about love, or lackthereof (really there are no spaces in that word she just checked...really!) And honestly she's not bitter at all about being single, she's liking spending time with her friends and hanging out etc. But there's always that nagging question: is it because of something she's doing?

Now, for those of you who know about her most recent dating mishaps (the bad kisser) to the scandals ('nuff said...if you know, you know.) Oddly enough, out of those two, if she could she'd take back time spent with the Mr. BK. (and yes Erika I'm laughing at own wittiness again in case you're curious!) anyway! she spent time with the old B to the K because he was nice, and opened doors and had cute dates planned etc, but really? she felt nothing, other than having fun with him, there was no spark really. On her part anyway and she feels badly about that, so when things ended, they ended with a sigh of relief as opposed to spiralling downward depressiong and ice cream binges. Is that a sign of being jaded? She hopes not, because she does still get that giddy feeling about some guys, albeit she also gets giddy thinking about being published or a new pair of shoes.

Does there really come a point where we feel the same way about men as we do our shoes? (Dear God I'm turing into Carrie Bradshaw...someone stop me) But seriously, take for instance EG/ME...he was like a beautiful pair of Manolo Blahniks, that are nice to look at but have no real depth to them (No offence Mr. Blahnik, they're beautiful shoes), and then you have Mr. BK, who is like a trendy pair of flats, that you may really like to wear but when next season comes and it's time to throw them away, you're pretty calm about it...definately no tears shed there. And then there are the scandals, the stilletto heeled boots. The tall black leather that zips up gracefully to the knee, that you'll always remember wearing, and remeber fondly...you don't even regret the pain your feet were in the next day....and Mr. Big...he unfortunately is the pair of shoes you'll always go back to for comfort, the classic stilletto that goes from day to night, the sneaker that goes from the gym to the...well please don't wear your gym shoes anywhere but the gym but you get my point...

...and the best part is there's always a new pair just around the corner to help you walk away from the last pair...

...As for Mr. Big (she prays to God and everyone else that he never ever reads this) there's really nothing she can do. She'd like to blame him but she's just as bad at keeping in touch and sometimes it's just easier to remember the last time they hung out instead of wondering about the next time, because that's the thing with him...you just never know.

Anyway enough of that.

"And if you want me back, you're gonna have to ask....nicer than that" - The Used

Ok, so just when she decides she likes the feel of the microphone in her hand, and in fact does not mumble...she get's nervous and fucks up anyway.

Alright let's not start this in the middle. After five hours of "well should I? shouldn't I? what should I say?" himming and hawing about whether or not she should audition to be the next Much Music VJ, she said to herself and her friends, "Well I'll just wait till next year," and she left campus.
On the train ride back downtown, she could have kicked herself. Whether or not she was going to do a good job, she should have tried out. Something she's always wanted to do, something that seemed so unnatainable was suddenly at her school in big orang letters proclaiming "Much VJ Search"

"Ok so I can do it next year, it's ok, it's ok," she told herself breathing through her defeat as she walked down the city street on her way home, "There's always next year, just...don't worry," she of course didn't believe that and with every step her heart sank a little more, mostly because she was just soooo unimpressed with herself.

So she did the only thing a girl could do. She called her friend and got her to talk her into going back by herself. The ride back on the train was filled with inner freaking out and not in a good way. This was pretty much just blind fear mingled with her trying not to throw up.

Cut to her actually walking up to the front of the line and being given a form to fill out by a really (dear GOD realllllly) cute guy who smiles encouragingly at the scruffy scruffy scruffy girl who probably looks scared to death.

Let's just take a minute to describe what she was wearing. In her defense she'd been up since 5 am, and definately looked it. She was wearing her tweedy flat shoes, Havanna cut 7's jeans, silver belt, her Faber band t-shirt (albeit from American Apparel) layered with a white long-sleeved T from american eagle. So, the least glamorous outfit possible and there she was.

After filling out the forms and being ushered into the "green room" (actually just the stage, and she couldn't help thinking that Faber and Hedley had been up there just two weeks before) Anyway, she "rock, paper, scissored" for first and ended up having to go second.

She walks around to the stage, gets in front of the camera and is handed a microphone, and she instantly decides she likes feel of the heavy microphone in her hand. She stands in front of the Much logo, and tries to look as casual as possible. The next two minutes is taken up with her rambling on about music, bands and being from Toronto/Oakville. She even said she wanted to represent the Millies out there...and then remembered she didn't in fact graduate from St. Mildreds, but it was too late to take back.

She has the DVD of her audition, and is pretty sure absolutely nothing is going to happen, but every night at 11:11 she's going to make a little wish for herself and see what happens. And there's always next year...

Mr. Big...

Mr. Big is the politically correct asshole. Because he never really does anything wrong, no one can really every be angry with him. He dances around the issue, and just when you think you and he have hit a point where you can talk about anything, where you talk every day...he disappears again.
Mr. Big is the best friend a girl can have, because when you least expect it, he is right there for you. He says the sweetest things when you're expecting sarcasm, and he holds your hand and tells you everything will be alright.
Mr. Big has intamacy issues, and laughs when he should be serious, even though you know he hears what your saying. His voice goes a little deeper when he decides to say something real for once. When he says that you know him better than most.
...and then Mr. Big forgets ever having said these things, ever having held your hand and you're left wondering if Mr. Big is a sociopath or if he simply can't let himself get attatched. Miles generally seperate you from Mr. Big, between metaphorical miles and geographical miles, it would seem that Mr. Big should stay a part of the past and never show his face in your world again.
And then you'll meet someone nice, someone great; someone who's perfect for you. And you wont even look twice at him because no one will ever measure up to Mr. Big, and you know that the best way to keep any small ray of hope about you and Mr. Big ending up together is to wait it out, pretend you don't care and don't, for the love of God ever say anything to him.
Mr. Big will hurt you again and again, and never know it until it's too late, and that's why every girl loves her Mr. Big, because when he says he's sorry and looks into your eyes with a lopsided smile and his hair covering one eye, you know what it means to care unconditionally.

Blurred until morning comes...

A week since it happened, hard to remember, impossible to forget. And why would she want to? it's possibly the most daring, out of character thing she'd ever done, and she wouldn't change anything. To say she was proud of herself might be slightly over-shooting; but, alright...she's a little proud of herself. And that's all she has to say about that. except for:
"Don't forget me"
"I wont"
"Promise..."
"Promise."
"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"
...a tear...oops.

Sitting, relaxing on a Friday night after a hellishly long week, deadlines upon deadlines upon production day upon deadlines. Feature, Newswriting, Urbane article, practicum placement, extra shifts at work, Yoga, 5am mornings, extra hot showers followed by extra cold water to wake her up, green tea, chai latte's, four hours production, interviews, gym...standing in the middle of the whirlwind and not knowing what she's going to do next year. She's never had so much direction and drive with such little motivation to get there. She's caught in her own paradox and loving every minute.