go see this movie

Crazy, Stupid, Love is funny, sweet, heartwarming, moving and fabulous.

home runs

it was a good week at work.

and, for me, it was a week of good work.

i did all kinds of copywriting, collaborated on design and wrote a ton. i proofread and corrected and printed and revised and collated and organized and circulated and cleared every single item off my to-do list every single day. yet i never felt swamped or busy or overwhelmed.

it was actually... fun. even dealing with the umpteenth set of revisions from the clients or reviewing other writers' typo-laden work became more amusing than annoying. i love a creative challenge and, this week, i was thrown a bunch of them.

and, at the end of each day, i'd look back at what i'd accomplished and think, "wow. i really am *really* good at this." and i'd believe it.

i'd look back and realize i even hit a few right out of the ballpark. and the more creative i felt, the more creative work i did, as though my creativity was feeding on itself and getting stronger with each clever hed and every well-turned phrase.

i impressed my editor repeatedly. this afternoon, he looked up from a sharpie-drawn mock-up i'd done for what might be a challenging editorial page and said, very matter-of-factly, "this is great. you should be working at an ad agency."

i took that as high praise. i think he's glad he brought me on board.

and, as week 14 of what was to be a five-week assignment draws to a close... so am i.

i recount all these things not out of vanity but, in many ways, out of a weird sense of disbelief. i'm my own harshest critic, and have spent a lot (a LOT) of time in recent years doubting my abilities and questioning my talent. so, having someone praise them, and then actually believing the praise is merited and feeling proud of myself, is something i haven't experienced for a long while.

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

this just in: for the first time in six days (possibly more), the temperature in my apartment has dropped below 28ºC/82ºF. the humidity has lessened, and it's amazing what a difference that can make in terms of comfort, energy and sanity.

there is, right now, a cool northwest wind blowing in my windows. not as hard as i'd like, but enough to actually move the force field of heat that had blocked all cool air from getting in for the past week. once it starts to shift and dissipate, relief begins.

per the weather forecasts, the respite will be brief... but i'm hoping for at least another day or two to get things cooled down before mother nature has her next hot flash.

creaky bones

mr. poo is getting older.

it seems like it happened quite quickly -- as though he suddenly aged many years in a very short period of time.

he turned 14 in june. it's hard to believe my parents have had him for eight years already. eight years! and yet, despite all that time, he remains the funniest, most novel and fascinating thing to all of us.

but, since around christmas, it's been more and more obvious that he's aging.

at first, we noticed he couldn't jump up on counters anymore. it was something he used to do with mischief and ease, but he gradually lost the ability to make it all the way up without knocking his rear legs on the cabinet doors below. after a while, he just stopped trying.

then he stopped being able to jump up to lower-level heights. beds, for example. and, just yesterday, he stood at my feet as i sat on the couch, looking up at me as i ate one of his favourite foods (bread with butter). used to be, i'd move the plate off my lap and he'd immediately jump onto my lap... but, yesterday, he just stood there, looking, waiting. i kept calling him up and patting my lap, but i could see he was thinking, "yeah, i don't think i can make that jump."

and then he turned and wandered off.

we've also noticed that, where kyle used to race up stairs two or three at a time, he now walks up. slowly. one step at a time. even a round of "the kibble game" -- where he sits at my feet, waiting, like a border collie, until i throw a kibble and he goes chasing after it -- slowed down dramatically. he no longer runs to get the kibble, he kind of trots. and, sometimes, he can't see the kibble where it's landed, which we suspect means his vision might be going a little, too.

and then, a couple of weeks ago while i was in my parents' basement, i watched him lope up the stairs to the main floor... and i heard his little bones creak as he went. every other step had a teeny "crack" sound.

and it made me sad.

it's been hot but...

... i did finally update the photo blog.

at the office after hours

it's 7:21pm and i'm still at the office.

i decided to stay here, in air-conditioned comfort, rather than head home to bake in my oven of an apartment. (with the humidex, it's 116ºF out right now... and probably about 95ºF at my place.)

i've been getting some work done, browsing macs online, checking email, checking facebook.

but mostly i've been listening to the quiet.

it is SILENT in here.

silent.

after about 5:45pm, it seemed like everyone had left the floor, if not the entire building.

it went from bustling and busy to a ghost town. occasionally now, i'll hear someone in the distance walk past but, otherwise, it's just me.

the only sounds are the whirr of the air through the vents, and the ambient electric hum of hundreds of computers, printers, photocopy machines, fluorescent lights and the like. all asleep, but still somehow alive.

it's a bit freaky being the only one here. back in my previous full-time office job at a magazine, i would often stay at work very late, or go in on weekends. those were always the times when i was most productive -- when it was just me, alone in the office, at my desk, in my cubicle.

this is the first time i've done it here. the first time past about 6pm, anyway.

it's weird.

but nice.

and pleasantly cool.

heat hate

i hate heat.

toronto is, at present, bathing in it.

baking in it.

and i do not have air conditioning.

everything is hot.

my shampoo is warm.

my toothpaste is warm.

my floors are warm.

and i break a sweat just combing my hair.

i am not joking.

the roads are hot.

the sidewalks are hot.

the shade is hot.

and the wind feels like a hair dryer.

life is not fun in this heat.

life is a huge drag.

i don't want to do anything.

i don't want to go anywhere.

and i feel really, really tired.

i don't even want to be on the computer because it heats up.

and because i get all sweaty sitting in my desk chair.

there is no relief in sight.

the weather forecast is just more heat.

and more heat.

and i anticipate being in a miserable mood until such time as it passes.

is this thing on?

do you ever have those days where it seems as though the internet is broken?

or, more specifically, that you've somehow been disconnected and you don't know it?

you send out a slew of emails... but no one replies.

you check facebook... but no one's updated anything in hours. and no one's online.

you look at your hit counter... but it's not moving.

it's weird.

and now it smells like someone is frying onions outside my window.

on healing: when all else fails, lean on a metaphor

sometimes, when you get hurt, you’re left with a wound.

there’s suddenly a part of you with a scrape or scratch or a cut or a hole, be it minor and insignificant or gaping and overwhelming, that’s broken and painful and raw.

if you don’t tend to it, if you treat it harshly, or if you continue picking and poking at the wound, it remains an open sore. it festers and bleeds and, if you pick long and hard enough, it can actually get bigger. it can actually get worse.

if you decide to take care of it, and yourself, you clean it up as best you can, put a bandage on it, treat the area with kindness and hope it gets better.

and, gradually, it does start to get better. not necessarily at the same pace, or with the same ease, for everyone, though.

sometimes, for some people, the healing process is quick and easy and painless. one day, they peel off the bandage and the wound is completely gone, as though it had never been there.

sometimes, it’s not that simple. sometimes, the healing process takes longer.

sometimes, you take the bandage off too soon and realize your wound isn’t yet healed. before you know it, it’s re-opened. it’s once again broken and painful and raw, and you’re right back where you started.

sometimes, if you wait a little longer, you take the bandage off and notice something’s changed: under the bandage, you’ve developed a scab.

the scab, however ugly or unseemly, is actually there to further protect your wound. the world sees the scab but, underneath its crusty exterior, healing is taking place. quietly and subtly, perhaps unperceivable to the casual observer and virtually undetectable, it’s happening.

it might be tempting to pick at the scab, out of curiosity or simply out of frustration that it exists in a place you believe should have long ago been scab-free. or, if you’re not careful, your scab might accidentally be pulled off. you might take an unexpected turn and tear it loose, or it might get caught and ripped free during a dream, overnight, as you sleep.

if the scab comes off, or is taken off, too soon, the wound below it may not yet have healed at all. it might begin to bleed anew, it might be swollen, it might be inflamed… it might look exactly like it did before.

but, then, a new scab forms. and, if that scab, too, is torn away prematurely, the wound reveals itself again… but maybe it bleeds a little less this time. then another scab materializes and, maybe, even though the wound and its pain are still present… this time it doesn’t bleed at all when the scab is picked away.

this cycle can repeat itself over and over again. some people might look at you and look at your bandage or your scab and say, “why isn’t that healed yet? it’s been a long time. shouldn’t that be gone by now?” however difficult it may be, it’s important to remind yourself that everyone heals differently. remind yourself that your wound is unique to you, and try your best – again, however challenging that might seem – to treat it with love and patience.

a new scab will appear.

and, the thing is, no matter how often the cycle is repeated and how often that scab is yanked off and how often it seems like it will never, ever heal… over time, the wound that remains actually does get smaller.

sometimes, it’s as though a vast amount of healing has magically taken place when you and the scab weren’t looking; sometimes, it seems like progress has been made in only the tiniest, most microscopic of increments.

but, no matter the speed of the healing or the frequency of the scab regeneration, the wound gets smaller.

and smaller.

and, as time and the cycles go on, the wound will, however slowly, however silently, continue to get smaller and smaller and smaller until, one day…

without fanfare or warning…

if you're lucky...

it might just…

disappear.

*

in its place, a scar.

perhaps very delicate and faint, barely visible unless one were to know that a wound once existed there.

perhaps quite pronounced and obvious, toughened to remind you of the wound you once had and, hopefully, to protect you from being wounded in the same way, in the same spot, again.

please lower the lap bar and hang on

it was a bit of a roller coaster-y weekend, emotion-wise.

peaks and valleys.

ascents and descents.

laughter and tears.

feeling brave.

feeling scared.

feeling terrified.

leaping hurdles.

or, at least, stumbling over them to the other side.

feeling bruised.

confronting long-held fears.

swallowing a heavy dose of reality, however painful and sad.

accepting loss.

feeling loved.

and trying to silence the familiar whispers of self-blame and self-loathing 

that took advantage of it all to slip in through the cracks 

and quietly chant their insidious refrains.

mail struck

if it's not too much trouble, i'd like my mail, please.

for those of you who don't know, canada post went on strike for a few weeks last month, and were eventually legislated back to work. this meant that, after a couple of weeks of "rotating strikes" and for about two weeks of lockout, i didn't get any mail. at all. and neither did anyone else in the country. mail was not picked up from mailboxes, nothing was sorted and mail coming in from elsewhere on the planet just kind of sat at the canadian border. post offices were closed.

no mail.

but, as mentioned, the government intervened (thank goodness!) and mail delivery resumed this week.

sort of.

over the past week, i've received maybe six or seven pieces of mail. total. apparently, there's a humungous log jam of some 40 million (MILLION!) pieces of mail that has yet to be sorted for delivery and, as such, people still aren't getting their (now long-delayed) mail even though the strike and lockout are over.

so, despite nearly a month of intermittent or non-existent mail delivery, i'm still not gettin' what's coming to me. i have at least two pay cheques that have yet to arrive. a bunch of bills. a few weeks worth of entertainment weeklys. and, i'm sure, plenty of other stuff.

but it's not getting here. and canada post isn't sure when it will. just yesterday, they released a statement saying they were suspending collection of corporate mail until the log jam clears. "sorry, corporate canada! we're not coming to get whatever you're mailing out!" said they. "and that means vickie's probably gonna keep waiting a while longer."

poop.

i call "no fairsies."

update: uh, i'm not sure what kind of math they're using...

while riding in one of the compound's elevators today, i decided to check to see how many people it's supposed to be able to hold.

if you recall, the other day i wrote about how crowded they sometimes get, and this morning i wondered what the "official" capacity actually is. so i looked.

turns out, per the engraved sign affixed to the elevator's interior wall, the elevator can hold...

TWENTY-TWO PEOPLE.

bahahahahahaha!

if i'd had a mouthful of water, i would have done a spit take.

i have no idea how tiny those hypothetical 22 people would have to be in order to fit in that confined space, but there's no way -- unless folks stand on each other's shoulders -- that many grown, human adults could do it.

you've forgotten...

... about my photo blog, haven't you?

cake in the boardroom!

there are some things about office life i will always enjoy, and cake in the boardroom ranks very near the top of that list.

free cake!

what's not to love?

sure, sometimes the cake is sub-par, but it's still cake! and, thankfully, "cake in the boardroom" never means fruitcake. or carrot cake. neither of which are actually cake. (don't start.)

so it was that, earlier today, my boss and all the staff in our vicinity headed up several floors to a large boardroom to celebrate the 5th anniversary of our sister publication's editor.

i looked at the cake on the boardroom table and then did a quick head count of the people in attendance. there were probably 20 people there... and the cake was small.

i wondered if there would be enough to go around. and, as the newest "hire," i wondered if i'd be near the end of the slice-distribution list.

imagine my shock (and delight) when person after person... i don't know if i can even type it... DECLINED A SLICE.

wait. WHAT?!

decline a slice?

of cake?

in the boardroom?

why? why would someone do that? and not just one or two people. maybe a dozen sat there contendedly cakeless.

not me, though.

as soon as a slice came within range, i happily took it.

and that cake was goooooooooooo-ood! it was what my friend jess calls a "lard cake," which is essentially the kind of white sheet cake typically sold at grocery stores.

but, sometimes, a slice of lard cake really hits the spot. and today was just such a day!

when the dust settled and the well wishes had ended and the boardroom cleared out, there was still about 1/4 of the cake left. i kind of looked at it, then looked at my colleagues, then back at the cake.

"go ahead! take it!" they said.

so i cut myself another big slab (i didn't take the whole thing), loaded it onto a tiny paper plate and happily ate it back at my desk.

hellevator rides

working in an office in a massive media compound housing thousands of employees has revealed a somewhat annoying quirk amongst a surprisingly sizable portion of its population:

the compulsion to cram, jam and otherwise shove oneself into an elevator that is already full.

it doesn't happen every day but, when it does, it's always so over-the-top in its ridiculous execution that it borders on the farcical.

i don't know what the capacity of one of the compound's elevators actually is, but i'd guess it holds about 9 people comfortably, and a dozen if everyone ignores the rules of respectable personal space and gets uncomfortably extra-close to everyone else.

yet, even when folks are already crammed in like sardines, there's inevitably some moron who, in a fit of what i can only imagine is burning desire to get out of the building or get back to the porn he accidentally left open on the computer at his desk, feels the need to push himself in... regardless of what his boorish move might do to the already carefully negotiated placement of bags, limbs and hands amongst those of us pressed (bum) cheek to (bum) cheek.

soon, there are frustrated grunts and exasperated sighs and "can you believe this guy?" eye rolls exchanged between irritated passengers as wedged-in wally reaches through gaps in space to push the already-pushed button for his floor of choice.

because, apparently, this crowded elevator is THE LAST ELEVATOR THAT WILL EVER ARRIVE and he must GET ON OR DIE.

and, let me be clear, it ain't just dudes who pull this "i don't care, i'm getting on!" elbowing-on business.

the other day, as i was leaving the office amid the hemorrhage of workers pouring out of the building around 5pm, the packed elevator i was on stopped two floors from ground level and the doors opened to reveal two women hurrying towards us. i'm fairly a certain a collective "oh, don't you dare..." arose in the minds of everyone standing around me as the gals approached.

oh, but the women dared. in fact, one of them – who was clearly rushing to get somewhere Super Important – said to the other (as she shamelessly forced her way aboard), "i don't care, we're getting on!", as though she'd just spent the past hour waiting for a way out of the building to present itself.

all i could think was, "really? you couldn't WALK DOWN TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS?"

then there was the morning when a woman wielding a giant coffee cup stood so close to me, and in such an obnoxious way, that said coffee cup was literally right next to my face. not my arm, not my chest, my face. i was halfway tempted to just lean forward an inch and take a sip to prove a point.

there are certainly peak times during the day when the four elevators are in heavy use. right around 9am, right around noon and right around 5pm. but still, the manic urgency with which people attack an elevator when it arrives is insane! yes, you might have to wait an extra minute (heaven forbid!) for an elevator that isn't bursting at the seams but, seriously, how hard is it to just wait and exercise some common courtesy in the process?

vic be not proud

today was gay pride day in toronto.

actually, it was the last day of gay pride week, and it culminated in the massive pride parade.

my friend p-lo, mom of peaches (of peaches of peaches and herm), asked me last week if i wanted to walk in the parade with her as part of the PFLAG contingent.

and my immediate reaction was, "no."

partly because it's always sweltering hot on pride weekend and i hate the heat and the sun. partly because i'm not a fan of huge crowds and packed events where people are loud and obnoxious and, often, hammered.

but mainly because i don't feel, and have never felt, like i belong at pride, let alone marching in its parade.

i don't feel proud of myself when it comes to my sexuality and me; i feel like a failure and a fraud. like i have always done everything wrong when it comes to being a lady gay.

when i go to pride – and i have been a number of times over the years since coming out – i feel like a complete outsider. like a phony. i look around and i don't see myself represented or reflected anywhere, by anyone. nor do i ever see anyone to whom i feel even the faintest sense of attraction. inevitably, i go home feeling sad and depressed, as though there is no place for me in this community, and no one in it who's at all like me. frankly, i sometimes think i'd enjoy it all more and have a better time if i were a straight woman simply there to celebrate and support other people and have my photo taken with a drag queen in an outrageous costume.

my experience with other lesbians has, in large part, been negative. when i first came out, i tried to get onboard with all things gay, including the club scene, which i found beyond unpleasant and totally not for me. at all. likewise, the gay women i was meeting all seemed like they were cut from the same unappealing, lascivious, frat-boy cloth, proudly listing their conquests and one-night stands and sexual escapades as though these were things of which to be exceedingly proud. but i was, always have been and still am, about meeting an amazing woman and falling in love, not collecting bedpost notches with anyone who's willing. i didn't get it.

at the time, i was frequently challenged to "prove" that i really was gay... which i couldn't do, and didn't feel like i should have to do. "well, maybe you're not gay, then," was frequently the response. i even got that charming reaction when an older woman invited me to come home with her to sleep with her... and her girlfriend... and i declined. "thanks for keepin' it classy," i thought, "and for still managing to make me feel inadequate in the process."

people have told me i just need to "get out and meet people." but i've done that repeatedly over the years and always get the same result: nothing. i even tried online dating for a couple of years and, with two exceptions, never met any other lady gays with whom i'd even like to have a coffee, let alone date. in fact, lady gays – which is the way i classify myself and the women to whom i'm attracted – are extremely scarce. needles in the proverbial haystack. unicorns. (and before you tell me i'm wrong, name three you know personally – who are single, and sane, and wonderful.) i don't see myself in the majority of gay women i meet. and, on the rare occasion when i do, there are inevitably extenuating circumstances that mean she is completely unavailable. or entirely not interested in me.

so, when it comes to pride, i can't relate. i don't have anything to "show" for my sexuality. as a lady gay, i don't feel like i've ever done or been anything of which to be proud. i don't feel like i fit in. i don't know anything about what it really means to be gay in the practical sense, only the theoretical. if they had a theoretically gay pride parade, that would have my name written all over it.

i love my friend p-lo, and i think she's an amazing lady and a wonderful mom. when she posted on facebook that she'd be marching today, and invited folks to walk with her, i got choked up. PFLAG is a group that consistently makes me teary when i watch the parade, because i find what they do very moving and beautiful, and i think she's a fabulous addition to their ranks. she's proud of her son (as she should be, because he's an absolutely lovely human being) and hugely supportive of all her gay friends. she belongs in that parade, being cheered on by the millions (yes, millions... our parade is BIG) standing along its route.

for now, though, i don't feel like i do.

from drunk girls to frat boys

remember the loud, obnoxious, drunk girls who used to frequent the deck on the house next door to my building?

i think the resident drunk girl moved out and took her trio of club pals with her.

because, for the past several nights, the deck has been occupied by three oafish, loud, moronic frat boys. no girls in sight. they stand out on the deck, smoke and talk, not realizing the acoustics of the building mean everyone can hear every idiodic word out of their mouths. loudly and clearly.

i am PRAYING that they don't really live there, and are somehow just temporary.

upstairs, downstairs

guess what?

turns out the creep and the weirdo next door are model tenants compared to some of the people living in this building.

or, more accurately, some of the people who lived in this building until this week, when they were evicted.

twice in the past week, i arrived home and ran into the super. and, both times, she was taking a break from overseeing the excavation of filth from the apartments of two extreme hoarders who, she told me, were living in such grotesque, disgusting conditions that "not even animals would live like that."

the first day, it was a unit several floors down from me. she said the tenant had been living there for nine years and, she guessed, had never once cleaned any part of his bathroom. she said everything was black and so far beyond the point of cleanability that they'll likely have to pull everything out and replace it all. the super went on about how revolting and shocking the apartment was... and then said that the big pile of junk i'd passed on the front lawn on my way in was just a tiny sample of what this tenant left behind.

ew.

cut to yesterday, when i got home and ran into her again in the lobby. i asked how things were going, and she looked at me and sighed. "there's another one," she said.

"another what?"

"another hoarder."

this time, the offending tenants – a couple – lived one floor above me. the super said their squalor was just as bad as what she'd found in the other unit. the couple upstairs were also evicted, but left their cat behind... and the super said the animal services staffer who came to get it remarked that it must have been extremely traumatized. the cat was covered in grime and had stopped cleaning itself. if you know anything about cats, you know they are fastidious creatures who keep themselves very tidy. just ask kyle, the metrosexual feline.

"it probably realized there was no point," i offered. "why lick yourself clean if you're stuck living in filth?"

(the cat has since been rescued, bathed and adopted.)

when i said it was surprising that these tenants could have lived like that for so long without anyone knowing, she said that my old super knew... but chose not to pursue it.

not super2. she is ON IT.

she told me she's not having it. if she finds out anyone in the building is living like that, she's heading to management. hoarders and those who trash their apartments with garbage will not be tolerated on her watch.

they'll be kicked out.

and i, for one, couldn't be more thrilled.