Introspective

In an effort to get out of my own way, I moved to Fort Mac when I was 25 years old.

For more than 12 months, I chain smoked cigarettes on our dusty back porch, in burnt toast air.

I gained insight to Newfie-speak, and broken Quebec French. I hugged my neighbours, laughed at optimists, 

and cried with other lonely souls, searching for something.

In empty rooms I played guitar for no one. Drank like a royal, and ate like a trucker. I hit my knees in desperate prayer.

Caroused and frolicked in trailer parks and multi-million dollar homes. Watched the northern lights dance and twirl brighter than I have ever seen under a sky that never completely went to sleep in the summertime. The same sky that would dim mid-afternoon in the long, dry, winter; and would hibernate light for longer than any of us could bear.

I drank red wine out of white ceramic coffee mugs in crisp nighttime air. Lost and found myself more than a hundred times. Beheld bright stars and suffocated sunsets.

Fraternized with bad company, with politicians, and B-list celebrities. I kissed strangers, and fell in love with my roommates.

Wasted time like water in seedy bars, and at black-tie affairs in borrowed gowns I could not afford; I drank my weight in whiskey.

I found what was most important to me in a city that was larger and wilder than I can possibly boast.

My guilt the past few days has overwhelmed me with very little reason. It was only a year of my life. 

So why am I so emotional?

Watching footage of apocalyptic flames lick away at Beacon Hill resonates so deeply within me, in a manner that I can't explain. It's all so heartbreaking, and unfair. I cursed the city forever for sustaining such loneliness in my heart. 

But there isn't a doubt in my mind that the very city I claimed to despise was the very same city that set me free, and fixed me on a course to who I am this very minute.

And I am grateful.

Coming Soon

Falling In Love On Dirt Roads (And Other Luxuries Afforded To Residents Of Small Town Southern Manitoba.)

A novel by me. 

Spin Class is Good For Your Heart

I would make a terrible warrior.  

We are fifteen minutes into spin class, and I want to fall off my bike and die.

"Increase your bike's resistance, and push!" Sara, the 22-year old blonde spin instructor at the front of the class, is yelling at me.  Well, I guess the whole class. Not really yelling, she's smiling, so..

I remember watching the first Lord of the Rings movie when I was still in high school.  The message resonating within me long after the movie ended was the overwhelmingly romantic notion of trenching into battle so passionately for something you believed in; something you would be willing to die for.  I was so enamoured of the relationship between Aragorn and Liv Tyler. I also had a huge crush on a boy from the volleyball team who took me to Lord of the Rings, so maybe that is really the basis of my inspiration here. I imagined him as Aragorn, and myself as Liv Tyler with perfect skin, riding through green hills on tall horses.  I don't know how people can make movies and not fall in love with each other.

Volleyball boy also brought his friend along to the movie and he sat right between us. I took it as a sign that Volleyball boy wanted to win my heart the old-fashioned way, by playing hard to get.  I spent the ride home in the backseat alone imagining myself on a midnight black steed, making my way through the mist, searching the hills of battle for my true love. I would fight for Volleyball boy, I would follow him to the ends of the earth, never faltering until I had slayed every dragon.. are there dragons in Lord of the Rings? Can't remember. Anyways, Volleyball boy went on to marry his college sweetheart and take over his dad's roofing business. I don't remember what happened to his friend.

"Faster!" Sara's charging instruction shatters my thought process and brings me back to the present: painfully bouncing on stationary bike trying to pedal as hard as I can. My legs are made of fresh red licorice. I want to die. 

"Don't give up! Think of how sexy your legs will look on vacation this winter!" It's like Sara can read my mind. Of course I want to give up. I try to visualize how sexy my legs will look on vacation this winter but I just don't care; nor can I afford a tropical vacation. Most likely my winter vacation this year will consist of drinking bud lites in the snowmobile shack with my boyfriend. You don't need sexy legs for ski-pants. Come to think of it, you don't really need a razor either..

My heart is pumping so alarmingly fast and loud I think it may burst through my t-shirt. My t-shirt that has been drenched with sweat. The sweat of a failed warrior.

"How bad do you want it?!" Sara shouts at me. I don't want it, Sara. I want to be on my couch eating chips and watching The Mindy Project.

"I give up!" I try to say, but I'm breathing much too hard. Comes out more like a gurgle.  I would trade stumbling through the mist - and basically anything in this world - if I could just meet relief.

In the battlefield of life, perhaps I'm more of an observer.

One Way Tolerance.

Once upon a time, I wanted to change my province and try to work for an organization I believed in, to try to make a differe- ugh. Blah, blah, blah. If you want to be a hero, don't work in politics.  At one time, I had aggressively pursued a career within the inner circle of provincial affairs.  My enthusiasm was unmatched at the time.  Fast forward a couple years and here we are. 

Gone are the days of bright-eyed, anticipatory wonder, and unrealistic ideals.  I've settled into a steady, loping pace at work, and although my objectivity may be a tad jaded most of the time, I feel as though I am quite realistic in terms of my expectations and my abilities at work.  I mean, it's called "work" for a reason, right? It's a job. It's not my life. I need to repeat that mantra to myself silently, edging out the anxious noise that sometimes threatens my patience.  This one fellow I work with has been drinking the political organization kool-aid for longer than I've been alive, probably.  He is an over-achiever and a micro-manager and I've never seen him enter or leave the building, which leads me to believe that he lives at work in his office. People like this, I assume, must really not be a fan of their personal lives. I like to keep work and play separate. Clean lines.

What can you say about politicians? We paint most with a similar hued brush. Mostly, I can't fault this prerogative.  I mean, the great people we know and identify as leaders already have terrific jobs that allow them this position of influence.  Farmers, small-business owners, nurses, teachers, moms... you get the idea. But I am not here to dissect our judgement on politicians. Quite the opposite.

Last Christmas, my boss (who lives in the public eye on a small scale) said some things in an interview that he shouldn't have. They were not aggressive or vicious - they were perhaps inflammatory and just plain ignorant. Media and citizens alike immediately attacked him.  Hate mail and phone calls flooded my inbox and my voicemail and a very stark reality smacked me in the face. The overwhelming and hateful response from offended civilians completely outweighed the transgression (comparatively) my boss had mistakenly made.  I wish I could give you some sort of context without becoming too personal, but the words I read and the detestation within the boundaries of the messages I received gave me a heavy heart and I wondered, as I read each individual message, if the authors of these hostile words felt that this was a form of payback? or did this malevolence justify my boss' crime? Did their offence automatically spare them accountability for their choice of words? Is my boss not a human being as well? (Well...) It made me step back a significant amount and honestly wonder if these people had thought twice before hitting send.  Does this make them any better than my boss and his poor choice of words? Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?, I wanted to reply. But instead, in my usual sparkly manner, I responded with complete formality and thanked them for their time and concern. I'm such a lady.

There was a mailer sent out from our political organization headquarters earlier this month. I have come to anticipate the inevitable and brace myself from the onslaught of nasty-grams from the very same people I had the pleasure of corresponding with last Christmas.  I am always shocked, and I'm not sure why, at the blatant aggression from people who receive political mailers without consent or permission. I understand you may disagree with political mailers, and perhaps they inconvenienced you by having to walk over to the trash to dispose of them, but these mailers did not rob your house, nor did they murder your family, so please stop reacting so violently.

I'm not trying to defend anyone here - least of all a political constitution. I am just a little sad inside that people can be so malicious over a seemingly small disturbance, and the escalation of emotion over such a trivial thing (an unwanted comment, an redundant piece of mail) can lead to such animosity. Let's spread the love a little over here, because human tolerance should go both ways.

Handsome.

I went through a bad breakup last Christmas. Like, 90210 bad.  It was probably one of the most starkly pivotal moments of my life.  Honestly, I couldn't even make up this brand of drama.  I should write a book. Moral of the story being: just don't date a boy who lies.. ever.  Also, I should interject here that, ladies? You probably shouldn't date boys, only men. Men only! Men are so much better than boys.  But that is just a whole new blog post waiting to be written. More on this later.

As the dust of tyranny from my old relationship began to settle, and the air cleared, I was exposed to clarity on a level I have not experienced in years.  And peace.  Jesus completely calmed and restored the dry, cracked pieces of my broken heart.  He gave me complete tranquility to move on and leave the past where it belongs: in the burn barrel in the back 40.

But before this happened, I did a thing Jesus probably didn't approve of.. I went on a bit of a tear.  I had drinks, I went on dates, I stayed up too late, I burned too many tires; I put a lot of miles on my truck.  

Spring arrived and, as it always does, brought with it a fresh excitement as the days began to grow longer, and the temperature warmed.  Drinks got colder. Skin became darker. And I became bolder.

I ran into an old acquaintance from years ago.  Our original meeting was while I was doing the whole waitress/going to school/I'm 22 and in limbo, thing.  We never really had a chance to connect due to bad timing. Slowly, we began to resume our old relationship again and agreed to go out and see if we could pick up where we left off. Allow me briefly to explain my attraction to this man.  Physically, he was perfect.  Tall, dark, handsome.  I mean REALLY.  How can I... hmm.. well, let's see here.  Take a little Chris Young, a little bit of Ben Affleck (present day, complete with beard) and maybe sprinkle on a little of that guy who sings "Redneck Crazy".  He was smoking manly hot.  Okay, okay, on with the story.

Handsome and I met up for drinks after work one sunshiny day and he was a complete gentleman.  We had such a great time that we decided to meet up again. And again. I even brought him out for drinks in my 'hood (also known as the country). But suddenly, somewhere, after a handful of dates, the truth about his life came out. Handsome, in his mid-30s, was still trying to reinvent himself after an unfortunate drinking and gambling addiction. He owned a small lap dog. Also, he lived in his parents' basement.

A LAP DOG, people! Look, I'm not shallow. I mean, I've even dated a French boy before. But I promised myself that I would not date anymore projects, or charity cases.  I just can't do it.  That's basically primitively setting my heart up for disappointment all over again.

We continued to text back and forth, playfully, and I will take full responsibility for letting things go further than they ever should have. But! I was bored, and I was reinvented! Single! I was pushing my limits. And I mean, gosh dangit he was handsome.  Finally I told him it would be best if we stopped seeing one another. 

One summer night I came home late from riding my horse at the barn.  I poured myself a night cap while I took off my makeup and slipped into my jammies.  I checked my phone (3 missed calls from Handsome. Creeper much?) and slipped under my covers while I caught up on The Vampire Diaries. I'm not 4 minutes in, and I hear something going on outside, in my backyard.  The mysterious rustling ceases as soon as I get out of bed and venture into my dark kitchen. I try to peer into the backyard through my patio door windows.  I hear the noise again, and reach for my shotgun instinctively and then I see it - the rectangular glow of of the screen of an iPhone.  

My heart sinks.  

I crack the patio door open. "What are you doing here!?" I hiss into the darkness.  Handsome's face steps into a sliver of light spilling out from my bedroom.

"You weren't answering your phone!" his tone is equally as alarming.

"So you thought you would just loudly stalk me in my backyard?" My shotgun is lying across my dining room table, mere feet from where I'm standing. I realize I have no ammo.  My mind races. Will I end up in pieces in my basement? I narrow my eyes, quickly trying to recall technique from a self-defence course I took in grade seven.

"I needed to see you," Handsome says.  "We need to talk." Now I know how boys feel when girls use that line on them. WOOF.  

"I have a gun," I warn. No shells, mind you, but he doesn't need to know that.

Handsome steps forward and totally disarms me.  He grabs my face in his rough, manly hands, and kisses me.  

Like really, he's the hottest thing in the world, and if you forget about the small things like his lifestyle, his living situation, his lap dog and really every detail about him...did I mention he drives a 2005 Ford Focus? He drives a Ford Focu-

I break from our lip-lock and push him away. There is a mild struggle. He wants to talk, he keeps saying, I keep trying to push him out the door, he leans in to kiss me again, I move my face out of the way, and unintentionally smoke him in the nose with the side of my face. I feel my face getting warm. I feel something warm trickling down my face...

"Oh my gosh," Handsome's hands fly to his face. "My nose is bleeding."

Is this real life? I feel like I've seen this movie..

There is blood. Running down my face. It's not my blood.

"I'm so embarrassed," Handsome says, with the clout of a sixteen-year old girl.

(Please refer to earlier posts) if you draw blood, it's game over. Sorry, these are the rules.

He rushes to the bathroom, completely embarrassed, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to stop the bleeding.  Like I really must have gotten an artery or something.  I wasn't too phased by it, but he made it completely awkward.  He used up every paper product in my house to try to stop the bleeding.

"So, can we talk?" Handsome is holding a nest of toilet paper over most of his face.

"No." I shake my head and point to the door. "No."

And that was the end of my whirlwind romance with the man formerly known as Handsome.

The next time I saw Handsome I was at a football game, months later.  He yelled at me all the way down the concourse.  I was on a date, so understandably I didn't respond to him hollering at me from 100 yards away. My date slipped his arm around me. "Is someone yelling your name?"

"It's nothing." I smiled.

Handsome texted me immediately: you can do so much better.

Keep it classy, Handsome.

One month deep.

Every cigarette is my last cigarette.

I've been whispering this to myself since the first time I lit up.

I have been a smoker for ten years. I love cigarettes. The cheap thrill of unwrapping a fresh pack, lighting up a smoke at the end of a long day and just relishing the current moment of my single obligation, which is to sit back and inhale.  I love the feeling of the smoke swirling in my lungs, and exhaling slowly, crafting white lines in the air.  The mild crackle of the amber cherry as it glows with every lick.  Within a lit cigarette lies an absolute - the next 6 minutes are completely spoken for.

Quitting smoking has been one of the most challenging obstacles I've had to overcome alone; selfishly. Yet this is a hurdle that I can only address on my own, by myself, and nobody can do it for me.

I've tried quitting before, and I've been very nearly successful.  But somehow, the road of good intent never quite allows me to clear the woods unmarked, and before I know it - I am holding a white filter between my lips, right back where I started.  

What I did not expect to stumble upon in my journey to end my codependency with my old flame nicotine, is a large portion of my high-strung personality.

Cigarettes are the sprinkles on my cupcake.  The third encore at a Bon Jovi concert. A rye and coke after last call. They are so unnecessary. But they fill empty space, and they create diversion.  The proverbial white noise of my life. Cigarettes are a crutch. I can avoid tasks, certain conversations, and lean on excuses as I flick my lighter - cue flame! and inhale my poison.

My restlessness is rooted in this dirty habit.  Smoking is a distraction. It's like this: I'm never able to fully enjoy being in the moment, because I'm always looking forward to the next best thing...the next adventure.  I would be chain-smoking around a bonfire, tossing the smoke prematurely, only to light up minutes later. My affection for wanderlust absolutely has no rationale. I only know that smoking isn't helping me focus.

My motivation to quit smoking isn't because cigarettes are gross, or because they are not accepted by society, or because at nearly $20 a pack, I'm spending my savings on a broken habit.  I want to quit because if I don't now, I probably never will.  Because I am stubborn in every area of my life, except this area. Until now. My mom calls it growing up, but it feels more like a time-out for bad behaviour.  

For now.

Social Anxiety

As far as quirks go, I have many.  More than ten, for certain. I am not ashamed of my phobias, however - there is a small area that I wrestle with and am confronted with daily...a small, albiet very real, thorn in my side.  The preverbal thorn of social anxiety.

I know I can't be completely alone in my suffering.  It's not a constant state by any stretch of the imagination.  She is a mild, thrushing heat that quickens my heartbeat by a hair and a half. My cheeks may blush slightly, my eyes may dart, but to the untrained eye, you wouldn't be able to tell I was in the thick of some type of mild turmoil.

Allow me to explain. I want to disengage from any type of medicated state of anxiety or stress that is often found commonplace among adults (not to confuse myself as an 'adult', I use this word strictly for my readership).  This is a much more juvenile sickness, and perhaps not as taxing.  Social anxiety can be featured in a multitude of situations.  At first, I misdiagnosed the bedlam I was experiencing.  It's just heartburn, I said to myself. Or maybe you've just been smoking too many cigarettes, I would say. And perhaps, the latter is a gaining factor in the intensity of my troubled state. Allow me to expand:

It began when I was in 4H - the dreaded speech night.  Standing alone at the front of the Domain Hall, speech cards shivering in my clammy, inexperienced hands; vacant, blinking faces staring at me, transparently expectant upon my ability to entertain. The girl who went before me delivered a top-drawer speech on her family’s trip to Stonehenge.  I had never even heard of Stonehenge. Stone what? Sounds made up.  But honestly, she really nailed it.  Suddenly my speech on my dad's new combine didn’t seem to equate. Deep breaths.

Piano recitals also paralyzed me with social anxiety. My fingers became lead on foreign ivory keys in a large and elegant white room echoing hushed tones; paper programs fanning proud mothers in the audience.  
No pressure, my piano teacher would tell me.  Just pretend you are in your own living room.  Yeah. Right.  Whose living room is this? A Kardashian's, apparently.  I have never overcome my fear of public speaking but it's especially poor in front of an intimate crowd.  I mean, if I had to? I bet I could play the Opry. No sweat.  But ask me to sing at church in front of 100 people. Not on your life, baby.

Remember grocery shopping with mom? 
I forgot milk, Mom says, can you just wait in line while I go get it?  I nod and watch helplessly as my mother disappears into the chasm that is the grocery store. 

But wait, the line is moving!  

Mom, I call out. Mom, the line is moving.  I see no sign of her anywhere. Mom can you please hurry up the cashier lady is about to check out our groceries... 

I suck in a deep breath and hold it as long as possible, hoping to wake from my current nightmare.

The cashier looks at me. Next!  she says. 

Mom can you please hurryI'mhavingaminimeltdownandIcan'tbreathe...

I'm at a restaurant with my friends, and the server comes back to the table for the second time in less than two minutes.

Are you guys ready?  She asks, and starts taking orders immediately while evidently ignoring my panicked breathing.  I'm still grazing the menu like it's my first time. I haven't even passed salads!  I can't live with just salad.

Hurry, I tell myself, just close your eyes and point to something on the page. I shut my eyes and point.  What! That’s not what I want at all.  Our server is taking orders like she's got some type of personal vendetta against my indecision   The circle is closing in on me and it's down to the wire. Hands. So. Sweaty. My appetite is rapidly diminishing the closer it gets to my turn. 
And for you?  She smiles at me so condescendingly...she must know my secret.
I'll have what he's having,  I point to my friend beside me, following blindly.  What a bitch.

Missed the deadline for all my bills this month... I have no idea if my credit card is maxed. Did I even pay last month? I can't recall, my mind is blank.  My truck is a thirsty gal, can't fill 'er up for less than $120.

Just insert your chip, says the 17 year old boy behind the Co-op gas counter, instructing me to pay for my petroleum with my fraudulent credit card.

You go to Sanford, right?  I used to go to school with your cousin, I tell him.  I'm trying to stall him.

You can just insert your chip, he repeats.

Oh, like this?  I feign ignorance and deftly embed my card into the machine.  I hit enter rapidly; secretly praying it won't be maxed out.  The 17 year old just stands there, judging me.

I'm at a reception, something for work probably.  I'm being introduced to people I would normally never cross paths with.  I'm hanging out by the shrimp cocktail, and officially just became the weird girl who just eats all the food standing alone by herself all night.

Hello there, says a guy with skinny lapels.  How are you?  I cram more shrimp into my mouth.

I'm great, I tell him, these shrimp are to die for.  He smiles back so clearly he's not getting the message.  

What's your name?  He extends his hand in my direction.  Here we go again.

Chandra, I say.

Kendra?  he asks.

No, no, it's KANDRA. Like Kendra, but with an A.  I lean on the A extra hard for good measure.

How do you spell that?  Skinny Lapels asks. I sigh.

C-H-A-N-D-R-A, I tell him. But you don't say the H.

Shawndra?  he asks.

No no no no no no no no NO, I say. It's KAN-drah. Get it? It's like a silent H.   I try to resolve the situation by adding humour but regret my decision immediately.  

My mom must have had too much epidural in her system when she named me... I start to say, but Skinny Lapels has taken a pretend phone call and politely shrugs and points to his phone with his free hand in a "hey sorry but I gotta take this" kind of a motion.  I go back to my shrimp cocktail.

Maybe I should just stay at home.