This week, in a fit of being broke, bored and emotionally off-kilter - a menstrual period and a full moon in the same seven days? Universe, you can test my patience a little - I wandered into a bookstore just to see the sights. I had already been to one earlier in the week, a discount warehouse that's great for synergistic deals (sometimes, you don't know you need some Buddhist meditations until you're standing in the aisles of your favourite wordery, giving your best thousand-yard stare as your soul flops like a fish on a dock), but I stopped into an actual bookstore, one that sells non-remaindered books, and sort of breathed the air there for a while.
Much like libraries, bookstores are a place of possibility for me. I really like writing this blog, and one day dream of catapulting myself out of the entry-level jobs I've been taking for the past few years and into something a little more, shall we say, creatively-oriented. Writing makes me happy, in a way that solving paper jams in the 400-pound printer does not. Being in a bookstore helps to reawaken those desires, held off and on since high school, to become a Real Live Writer Person.
I'm both lucky and cursed, because I have friends and acquaintances who are out there, writing for actual publications like The Walrus and The Globe and Mail. It makes me smile those weird smiles where your teeth hurt. You know? Where your genuine happiness is edged with grief and jealousy, so the happiness is all corroded and shitty? Yeah. I love my friends, and I'm happy for them, and part of me recognizes that I don't really want those particular bylines (journalism elicits a big fat "naaaaah" out of me, although my friends who have j-school degrees are all doing very well), but some of me is just in agony. I guess part of being a writer-type person is learning how to deal with gut-destroying jealousy, in the same way that nurses get really adept at getting blood clots off their white shoes.
Humans need creative outlets, even if we don't end up being professionally creative. The preponderance of mommy-blogs, crafting magazines, scrapbook clubs, amateur theatre groups, adult choir groups, and other creative niches just goes to show that we, as a species, need a creative outlet. My ex managed to leapfrog from Guitar Hero to member of actual band. A pal of mine collages and makes gorgeous, bizarre paper cutouts. Other folks I know quilt and sew and knit, busying their hands with productive crafts. I write this here blog. I'm not sure if it will ever level-up and I'll get any money for producing words, but that's a question for the Ghost of Bloggers Future.
Creativity is encouraged in childhood: how many classrooms used arts and crafts to teach lessons? I'm thinking about dioramas depicting WWI invasions, or Thanksgiving turkeys made out of brown and yellow construction paper. Kids also naturally engage in creative play, like coming up with imaginary friends. Sending your children to go "play outside," often seen as a desperate last resort for harried parents, opens them up to a world where they make up the characters and the narrative. A dress-up box, a toy truck, a blank sheet of paper: all tools to make sure kids get the kind of make-believe play they need for cognitive development and socialization.
But as we trudge towards adulthood, our creative impulses become curbed, and we're often encouraged to bring creativity to the workplace, where our neural firings make someone else's paycheck. "Think outside the box"? Please. Not that there's anything wrong with being a creative person on the clock, but it often feels like all our talents and creative impulses should be harnessed in order to make some money. Sometimes, a girl just wants to collage.
As I wandered the bookstores this week, it occurred to me that my job doesn't really have any creative component, and that is a bit of an issue. I need balance, as I think most people do: while totally unstructured time leaves me slack-jawed in front of Facebook for nine hours straight, devoting all my energy to rote job functions isn't good, but in a different way. In my next life, I'm going to make creativity in the workplace number one with a bullet, because let's face it: I need it. We all do, really.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Love In The Time Of Valentine's Day
All right, let's get this over with. Valentine's Day is upon us, so let us make the traditional noises of contempt and get back to our regularly scheduled programming. Pink and red? Lame. Hearts? Barf. Candy and flowers? Snore. We all know the drill: Valentine's Day is a soulless Hallmark holiday created by merchandisers to fatten up the February sales ledger and hook millions of unsuspecting consumers into buying crap they don't need for people they probably don't even really love. Right? Okay. Where are my Cheetos??
Confession time: I secretly sort of like Valentine's Day. Not for the hype, and not for the pressure. We all know there's a lot of pressure around V-Day. If you're single, pop culture tries to make you feel like a total loser for not being able to get in on all the his-and-hers gifts, and like not dating someone is the K.O.D. for your social life. I've been single for most of my adult-life Valentine's Days, and there is a humiliation that comes out around that date. And it's not easy if you're in a relationship, either: finding a great gift that reflects your exact level of love/commitment is apparently like wading through water infested with tiny, romantically inclined sharks. One false move and you lose a toe....and you're sleeping on the couch.
When I was a kid, I used to come downstairs on February 14th to find a valentine from my mom waiting on the kitchen counter. It usually came with a little gift - a water bottle or a book, a thoughtful token of affection that just said, "Hey, kiddo, I love you, and I thought of you." To me, that is the beginning and end of what I want from Valentine's Day, and if I don't get it, it's not a disaster. My mom has given me a lot of love and a lot of traditions, and celebrating both with my parents (and one day, my kids) is the best kind of Valentine I could imagine.
It's weird that this whole mid-winter sub-industry of folks shilling lingerie, jewelry, flowers and sweets. To be honest, I'm not friends with a lot of buy-me-things women (you know the type: the girls who post pictures of their engagement rings on Facebook, who have a collection of party dresses from all the formals they attended when they were in a sorority, and who instinctively understand how bridal registries work. My genetic heritage includes a father who was once photographed wearing a ringer tee emblazoned with the slogan "Walkerton: where the men are men and the sheep are nervous" and a mom who sewed her own wedding dress. I come from granola-hipster stock, and man, I have done my parents proud), so I am a little mystified by how, exactly, one is supposed to "celebrate" your love for your mate by simultaneously wearing tiny clothes and eating fatty foods. I feel like V-Day is for folks who don't know how to use their words: the best thing a person can hear on Valentine's Day - and any other freaking day - is "I love having you in my life, and I adore the person you are, and I feel like a better person when I'm with you."
Can we make a pact? I don't want chocolate or flowers, and I really don't want an undergarment that incorporates a heart shape into its design. I feel that the insanity of Valentine's Day can be mitigated by a collective acknowledgment that nearly everyone has some kind of love in their life, be it romantic, familial, platonic, unrequited, or the special kind of love a man feels for a side of extra-crispy bacon. Can we just back up and celebrate those, too? And, uh, can we do it all year long?
Confession time: I secretly sort of like Valentine's Day. Not for the hype, and not for the pressure. We all know there's a lot of pressure around V-Day. If you're single, pop culture tries to make you feel like a total loser for not being able to get in on all the his-and-hers gifts, and like not dating someone is the K.O.D. for your social life. I've been single for most of my adult-life Valentine's Days, and there is a humiliation that comes out around that date. And it's not easy if you're in a relationship, either: finding a great gift that reflects your exact level of love/commitment is apparently like wading through water infested with tiny, romantically inclined sharks. One false move and you lose a toe....and you're sleeping on the couch.
When I was a kid, I used to come downstairs on February 14th to find a valentine from my mom waiting on the kitchen counter. It usually came with a little gift - a water bottle or a book, a thoughtful token of affection that just said, "Hey, kiddo, I love you, and I thought of you." To me, that is the beginning and end of what I want from Valentine's Day, and if I don't get it, it's not a disaster. My mom has given me a lot of love and a lot of traditions, and celebrating both with my parents (and one day, my kids) is the best kind of Valentine I could imagine.
It's weird that this whole mid-winter sub-industry of folks shilling lingerie, jewelry, flowers and sweets. To be honest, I'm not friends with a lot of buy-me-things women (you know the type: the girls who post pictures of their engagement rings on Facebook, who have a collection of party dresses from all the formals they attended when they were in a sorority, and who instinctively understand how bridal registries work. My genetic heritage includes a father who was once photographed wearing a ringer tee emblazoned with the slogan "Walkerton: where the men are men and the sheep are nervous" and a mom who sewed her own wedding dress. I come from granola-hipster stock, and man, I have done my parents proud), so I am a little mystified by how, exactly, one is supposed to "celebrate" your love for your mate by simultaneously wearing tiny clothes and eating fatty foods. I feel like V-Day is for folks who don't know how to use their words: the best thing a person can hear on Valentine's Day - and any other freaking day - is "I love having you in my life, and I adore the person you are, and I feel like a better person when I'm with you."
Can we make a pact? I don't want chocolate or flowers, and I really don't want an undergarment that incorporates a heart shape into its design. I feel that the insanity of Valentine's Day can be mitigated by a collective acknowledgment that nearly everyone has some kind of love in their life, be it romantic, familial, platonic, unrequited, or the special kind of love a man feels for a side of extra-crispy bacon. Can we just back up and celebrate those, too? And, uh, can we do it all year long?
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The Future Is Unwritten
Joe Strummer sort of took me by surprise this year. In an attempt to connect with a friend who claims to be The Clash's biggest fan, I tried to wade through his biography Redemption Song: The Ballad of Joe Strummer, and failed. It was slow, and terrifically dull. It was all about his art school buddies and living in squats, and his history with his first, failed bands. Rather than the exciting, kinetic, thrashing energy of The Clash, the book dwelt on Strummer and his transformation from John Mellor, son of an English diplomat, attendee of boarding school, and brother of David, who killed himself when Strummer was eighteen. Which are all important life events but like, hello? London was calling! Mellor, who went by the name Woody and then Joe Strummer, was a young man who, by all accounts, could charm the yellow off a bee with sheer charisma, and led The Clash to worldwide renown. He was, as the kids say, the shit.
His band changed the face of music in the 2oth century; drawing its sound and fury from reggae, the Sex Pistols, the Zapatista movement, and the fuck-the-rich ethos that grows from squatting in abandoned London council houses, The Clash shaped a generation of young punks into belligerent, intelligent listeners. The band ultimately imploded, starting with Strummer's ill-starred disappearing act that muffed the first leg of the Combat Rock tour, and ending with the ejection of Topper Headon (for heroin addiction) and Mick Jones (for what the California courts might call "irreconcilable differences"), and Strummer had what are widely considered his wilderness years.
I love the concept of the wilderness years. To me, the notion that someone has so much damage that he (or she) has to quit, commit social seppuku and just up and leave, is incredibly potent. Strummer had kick-started a new sound, a hugely influential band, and his own misery. The next logical step was for him to disappear. Strummer was relatively young when he first stamped his name on the music scene - "White Riot" charted in the UK when he was 25 years old, and by the time he had turned 27, London Calling had been released. Ten years after their first show, the band had eaten its own tail.
Think about that for a second. Put yourself in Strummer's shoes. Boarding school must have been tough - Redemption Song mentions that, while he was in school, Strummer saw his parents about once a year. Living in squats must have been rough, although the book and The Future Is Unwritten, one of the many Strummer documentaries produced since his death in 2002, both point out that the squat lifestyle led by a lot of England's youth at the time was a community of politics, not poverty. But then to go from this left-behind feeling, to being the frontman for one of the leading musical acts in the world, must have been really effing weird. Living out of hotel rooms, performing music for aggro crowds around the world, being 32 with a mohawk...come on.
Think yourself into that situation for a second. Leave your wife, your shitty job, your lease, you fridge full full of wilted celery and beer, and put yourself in a hotel room in Osaka in 1982, stoned on adrenaline and Jamaican green. Think about how disconnected you might feel, from your friends, your kids, your closet, your shower. Think about how your boyfriend smells, and think about not smelling that for six weeks while you sing songs for strangers in a foreign country where you don't speak the language and the traditional breakfast is rice and fermented soybeans.
So who can blame Strummer for lying low for a while? He settled down, had a couple kids, did some soundtrack work, along with a few movie appearances, and tried to put his head back together. Normalcy, after a decade of being in The Clash, would have been...weird. But for those of us who aren't internationally acclaimed fathers of rock, the concept of "wilderness years" falls flat. With few exceptions, our psychic damage - and make no mistake, fame and fortune are damaging - is just the regular, normal, fucking up that we all engage in. But I admire him for taking off. It speaks to a level of self-awareness that most people don't have, and getting out of the limelight, for the most part, is a killer move. And then the best part is, he came back.
His later-life project, the Mescaleros, were a much mellow, worldlier-sounding band than The Clash. They were nowhere near as high-profile as his youthful ensemble, but they produced a sound that fits with Strummer's disappearance, his breaking and eventual rebirth as a musical figurehead. Instead of a young lion, the Mescaleros gave him a chance to be a statesman of rock, incorporating the sounds of his ancestral homeland and the reggae that helped shape The Clash. And that band couldn't have happened without his wilderness years.
When I say Joe Strummer was a late bloomer, I don't mean he took a while to get started. The Clash were a game- and genre-changing band, and their out-of-the-gate influence was transformative. But it took a bite out of Joe in a big way, and his real bloom, his flower, his relaxation and his fun, seems to have come with the Mescaleros. And that, friends, is amazing. He gave himself permission to keep trying, to take a break, to give himself the kindness of a new start, and it paid off.
His band changed the face of music in the 2oth century; drawing its sound and fury from reggae, the Sex Pistols, the Zapatista movement, and the fuck-the-rich ethos that grows from squatting in abandoned London council houses, The Clash shaped a generation of young punks into belligerent, intelligent listeners. The band ultimately imploded, starting with Strummer's ill-starred disappearing act that muffed the first leg of the Combat Rock tour, and ending with the ejection of Topper Headon (for heroin addiction) and Mick Jones (for what the California courts might call "irreconcilable differences"), and Strummer had what are widely considered his wilderness years.
I love the concept of the wilderness years. To me, the notion that someone has so much damage that he (or she) has to quit, commit social seppuku and just up and leave, is incredibly potent. Strummer had kick-started a new sound, a hugely influential band, and his own misery. The next logical step was for him to disappear. Strummer was relatively young when he first stamped his name on the music scene - "White Riot" charted in the UK when he was 25 years old, and by the time he had turned 27, London Calling had been released. Ten years after their first show, the band had eaten its own tail.
Think about that for a second. Put yourself in Strummer's shoes. Boarding school must have been tough - Redemption Song mentions that, while he was in school, Strummer saw his parents about once a year. Living in squats must have been rough, although the book and The Future Is Unwritten, one of the many Strummer documentaries produced since his death in 2002, both point out that the squat lifestyle led by a lot of England's youth at the time was a community of politics, not poverty. But then to go from this left-behind feeling, to being the frontman for one of the leading musical acts in the world, must have been really effing weird. Living out of hotel rooms, performing music for aggro crowds around the world, being 32 with a mohawk...come on.
Think yourself into that situation for a second. Leave your wife, your shitty job, your lease, you fridge full full of wilted celery and beer, and put yourself in a hotel room in Osaka in 1982, stoned on adrenaline and Jamaican green. Think about how disconnected you might feel, from your friends, your kids, your closet, your shower. Think about how your boyfriend smells, and think about not smelling that for six weeks while you sing songs for strangers in a foreign country where you don't speak the language and the traditional breakfast is rice and fermented soybeans.
So who can blame Strummer for lying low for a while? He settled down, had a couple kids, did some soundtrack work, along with a few movie appearances, and tried to put his head back together. Normalcy, after a decade of being in The Clash, would have been...weird. But for those of us who aren't internationally acclaimed fathers of rock, the concept of "wilderness years" falls flat. With few exceptions, our psychic damage - and make no mistake, fame and fortune are damaging - is just the regular, normal, fucking up that we all engage in. But I admire him for taking off. It speaks to a level of self-awareness that most people don't have, and getting out of the limelight, for the most part, is a killer move. And then the best part is, he came back.
His later-life project, the Mescaleros, were a much mellow, worldlier-sounding band than The Clash. They were nowhere near as high-profile as his youthful ensemble, but they produced a sound that fits with Strummer's disappearance, his breaking and eventual rebirth as a musical figurehead. Instead of a young lion, the Mescaleros gave him a chance to be a statesman of rock, incorporating the sounds of his ancestral homeland and the reggae that helped shape The Clash. And that band couldn't have happened without his wilderness years.
When I say Joe Strummer was a late bloomer, I don't mean he took a while to get started. The Clash were a game- and genre-changing band, and their out-of-the-gate influence was transformative. But it took a bite out of Joe in a big way, and his real bloom, his flower, his relaxation and his fun, seems to have come with the Mescaleros. And that, friends, is amazing. He gave himself permission to keep trying, to take a break, to give himself the kindness of a new start, and it paid off.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Living Arrangements
I'm not going to lie: I'm basically an overgrown sixteen-year-old, except that I'm also pretty short. So I'm pretty much a sixteen-year-old, full stop. I still have the same vague aspirations as I did then ("write frooferies for a living, make out with boys, and have cool clothes"), the same taste in food (sushi! And cookies), and some of the same actual clothes (a grey skirt that gets shorter and longer depending on how it's zipped - it sounds like it's a cousin to those pants with the zip-off legs, but I assure you, it's much cooler than that).
The threshold into adulthood can be defined any number of ways - some folks think you need a kid and a mortgage for that; I disagree - but, for better or worse, I feel like I'm getting there. A huge part of it is getting a day job, one with a commute and CPP deductions. With that comes a shift in schedule that aligns me with more of the world around me. I actually see the sun now! And I use an alarm to get up. (Okay, in theory I use an alarm, but in reality, I'm so totally stressed about both the job and the waking up early that I'm waking up at, like, 6:00 a.m.) I'm starting to feel like, with my little business skirts and my phone extension, like a business-meaning human.
But there are going to be other steps towards Real Live Adulthood, and I have a feeling the next big one is going to be living arrangements. I've long believed that human beings need both privacy and community, but too much of either isn't good for me. I lived alone for three years, and by the end, I was lonely and bored of myself (I'm not really that interesting, yo). I liked being able to pee with the door open, but the trade-off of not coming home to anything or anyone weighed on my soul. I didn't even have a houseplant. The flip side of that is the four years I've spent living with lots of people - between twelve and fifteen housemates. Three of those years, the fifteen of us shared one kitchen with one stove, and three showers. Looking back on it, I can't really remember how we didn't all go totally mad. Good thing students have low hygiene standards.
One of my favourite ideas is that of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, the notoriously hot/cold couple who lived in neighbouring houses that were adjoined by a catwalk. Similarly, Helena Bonham Carter and her beau Tim Burton live in side-by-side cottages linked by a throughway. Both arrangements fill me with delight. Like, the chance to both live with your beloved and have your own kitchen? Amazeballs. But that seems like it requires loads of money, and unless the banks start taking winning smiles as a form of currency, I have no down payment on those kinds of dream houses.
Instead, I've been focusing on co-operative and co-housing models. I know most people go from their parents place, to living with some roommates, to maybe living alone, to living with a partner - this is an acceptable trajectory re: housing. But I've noticed that a lot of my people aren't doing that, and that's okay. I know a few couples, both common-law and married, who have elected to take on housemates in addition to their spouses. Some have done this for financial reasons, since housing in downtown Toronto can be wickedly expensive. Other have done it for community reasons - wanting to live with friends and family is, I think, a deeply rooted tribal urge. It's the reason my globe-trotting parents ended up settling within an hour of their parents' homes, and it's the reason even long-established residents of Canada still talk about their birth-country as "home."
Co-op and co-housing might offer me the best of both worlds: a chance to have my own private space, and a larger community in which to contextualize myself. As I get older, I want to share my spaces with those I care about - friends, lovers, family - and keep the rest of the world somewhat at bay. Friends of mine recently went through an elaborate process to find a new housemate, and it turns out that no-one can be absolutely perfect for any community's needs, even if that community is only five people strong. But splitting the difference, accepting flaws, and providing safe and private spaces to escape Julio's gargling sounds, or Mona's habit of leaving the kitchen counter soaking wet.
As I get older, I need to think critically about what I need from my living arrangement. I have plenty of time left in my little third-floor room, but eventually I might not want to live with total strangers. But finding that balance of private and group can be super challenging. It's going to be more than painting walls and stocking pantries - it'll be finding out what I need to live a well-arranged life.
The threshold into adulthood can be defined any number of ways - some folks think you need a kid and a mortgage for that; I disagree - but, for better or worse, I feel like I'm getting there. A huge part of it is getting a day job, one with a commute and CPP deductions. With that comes a shift in schedule that aligns me with more of the world around me. I actually see the sun now! And I use an alarm to get up. (Okay, in theory I use an alarm, but in reality, I'm so totally stressed about both the job and the waking up early that I'm waking up at, like, 6:00 a.m.) I'm starting to feel like, with my little business skirts and my phone extension, like a business-meaning human.
But there are going to be other steps towards Real Live Adulthood, and I have a feeling the next big one is going to be living arrangements. I've long believed that human beings need both privacy and community, but too much of either isn't good for me. I lived alone for three years, and by the end, I was lonely and bored of myself (I'm not really that interesting, yo). I liked being able to pee with the door open, but the trade-off of not coming home to anything or anyone weighed on my soul. I didn't even have a houseplant. The flip side of that is the four years I've spent living with lots of people - between twelve and fifteen housemates. Three of those years, the fifteen of us shared one kitchen with one stove, and three showers. Looking back on it, I can't really remember how we didn't all go totally mad. Good thing students have low hygiene standards.
One of my favourite ideas is that of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, the notoriously hot/cold couple who lived in neighbouring houses that were adjoined by a catwalk. Similarly, Helena Bonham Carter and her beau Tim Burton live in side-by-side cottages linked by a throughway. Both arrangements fill me with delight. Like, the chance to both live with your beloved and have your own kitchen? Amazeballs. But that seems like it requires loads of money, and unless the banks start taking winning smiles as a form of currency, I have no down payment on those kinds of dream houses.
Instead, I've been focusing on co-operative and co-housing models. I know most people go from their parents place, to living with some roommates, to maybe living alone, to living with a partner - this is an acceptable trajectory re: housing. But I've noticed that a lot of my people aren't doing that, and that's okay. I know a few couples, both common-law and married, who have elected to take on housemates in addition to their spouses. Some have done this for financial reasons, since housing in downtown Toronto can be wickedly expensive. Other have done it for community reasons - wanting to live with friends and family is, I think, a deeply rooted tribal urge. It's the reason my globe-trotting parents ended up settling within an hour of their parents' homes, and it's the reason even long-established residents of Canada still talk about their birth-country as "home."
Co-op and co-housing might offer me the best of both worlds: a chance to have my own private space, and a larger community in which to contextualize myself. As I get older, I want to share my spaces with those I care about - friends, lovers, family - and keep the rest of the world somewhat at bay. Friends of mine recently went through an elaborate process to find a new housemate, and it turns out that no-one can be absolutely perfect for any community's needs, even if that community is only five people strong. But splitting the difference, accepting flaws, and providing safe and private spaces to escape Julio's gargling sounds, or Mona's habit of leaving the kitchen counter soaking wet.
As I get older, I need to think critically about what I need from my living arrangement. I have plenty of time left in my little third-floor room, but eventually I might not want to live with total strangers. But finding that balance of private and group can be super challenging. It's going to be more than painting walls and stocking pantries - it'll be finding out what I need to live a well-arranged life.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Kochany Classic Movies
While movie dates are the typical arena for courtship, I've been less fond of them in real life. I once made the mistake of going to Sin City with a potential beau; I loved it, because it was mean and violent, noir-ish and very sexy, while he emerged from the theater green and sweating. It was not a love connection. Even when both people are equally interested in the movie, it doesn't make for a really satisfying romantic experience: there's that blocky arm rest, which derails all cuddly moments; there's the investment of what feels like a ton of money into a two-hour chunk of time, so we had better like it, dammit; there's the fact that I pee every ten minutes and the return to a darkened movie theater, to someone whose face might not etched in my brain, is the epitome of social awkwardness; and, when faced with the comfy alternative that is throwing on DVD and making out on the couch, movie dates start to look downright bizarre.
When we asked my sister what she wanted to do for her twenty-third birthday, she replied, "The same thing I did for my eleventh birthday: see Toy Story." I had forgotten that it's sometimes hard to corral five adults into doing the same thing at the same time. I was excited: movie events like the long-awaited third installment of a wildly successful, childhood-defining, technologically ground-breaking don't come along every day (or do they?). I hadn't seen a movie in theaters since, what, Zombieland?
I've seen more movies this fall than I have in a long time, courtesy of a new beau who digs cinema and likes to see new movies on the big screen. I saw Tron: Legacy with this guy, along with Back to the Future (!!) and Black Swan and Seven Samurai. We tried to see a movie New Year's Day, a tradition that dates back, in my family, to the Stone Age (the 1960s), but we only got as far as the Chinese food part of the Chinese-and-a-movie part of the agenda before we realized that we had seen everything and/or had zero interest in movies like Marmaduke.
My family is pretty firmly in the let's-rent-a-movie camp; my parents watch a lot of movies (or, in my dad's case, "watch" a lot of movies: his eyes are closed and he's snoring away) on the couch, with blankets tucked in around them and a big bowl on popcorn between them. Family Christmas traditions when we were younger included a yearly family sleepover in the TV room. Snuggled together, with Tim Allen transmogrifying into Santa Claus on the television, wired on cans of Coca-Cola and wearing matching flannel snowman pajamas, my family felt very much like a unit. I think this is a product of spending my middle-school years marooned in Manotick, an amenity-free village on the outskirts of Ottawa. A teeny library and a couple video shops were the only source of filmed entertainment - going to the movies meant a trip into Ottawa proper, a journey my parents were loath to make in the wintry, icy months.
Plus, when I was a kid, movies = magic, for sure. I think this is mainly because my main source of cinema was the Disney vaults, a place that gifted me with Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and Aladdin, and Robin Hood, and Fantasia (a movie that my toddler sister had be be escorted out of, screaming, due to scariness...too many brooms is a frightening thing). As I got older, I began to realize that not every movie was a good movie; most kid's movies aren't dreadful, but a lot of the schlock that's produced for teens and young adults is virtually unwatchable. Growing up was definitely bittersweet, at least for my film-buff side.
Now, I read reviews for flicks I'm never going to watch, stream documentaries, buy second-hand movies, and occasionally rent something. My parents, when I'm home, always offer a movie night, although their tastes have changed over the years and I'm not always interested in the latest German depress-a-thon. I love cuddling up in a movie theatre, or on the couch, to watch something fun, or thought-provoking, or just entertaining. Because that's the bottom line, past dating and family nights and all that jazz. Movies are supposed to be fun.
When we asked my sister what she wanted to do for her twenty-third birthday, she replied, "The same thing I did for my eleventh birthday: see Toy Story." I had forgotten that it's sometimes hard to corral five adults into doing the same thing at the same time. I was excited: movie events like the long-awaited third installment of a wildly successful, childhood-defining, technologically ground-breaking don't come along every day (or do they?). I hadn't seen a movie in theaters since, what, Zombieland?
I've seen more movies this fall than I have in a long time, courtesy of a new beau who digs cinema and likes to see new movies on the big screen. I saw Tron: Legacy with this guy, along with Back to the Future (!!) and Black Swan and Seven Samurai. We tried to see a movie New Year's Day, a tradition that dates back, in my family, to the Stone Age (the 1960s), but we only got as far as the Chinese food part of the Chinese-and-a-movie part of the agenda before we realized that we had seen everything and/or had zero interest in movies like Marmaduke.
My family is pretty firmly in the let's-rent-a-movie camp; my parents watch a lot of movies (or, in my dad's case, "watch" a lot of movies: his eyes are closed and he's snoring away) on the couch, with blankets tucked in around them and a big bowl on popcorn between them. Family Christmas traditions when we were younger included a yearly family sleepover in the TV room. Snuggled together, with Tim Allen transmogrifying into Santa Claus on the television, wired on cans of Coca-Cola and wearing matching flannel snowman pajamas, my family felt very much like a unit. I think this is a product of spending my middle-school years marooned in Manotick, an amenity-free village on the outskirts of Ottawa. A teeny library and a couple video shops were the only source of filmed entertainment - going to the movies meant a trip into Ottawa proper, a journey my parents were loath to make in the wintry, icy months.
Plus, when I was a kid, movies = magic, for sure. I think this is mainly because my main source of cinema was the Disney vaults, a place that gifted me with Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and Aladdin, and Robin Hood, and Fantasia (a movie that my toddler sister had be be escorted out of, screaming, due to scariness...too many brooms is a frightening thing). As I got older, I began to realize that not every movie was a good movie; most kid's movies aren't dreadful, but a lot of the schlock that's produced for teens and young adults is virtually unwatchable. Growing up was definitely bittersweet, at least for my film-buff side.
Now, I read reviews for flicks I'm never going to watch, stream documentaries, buy second-hand movies, and occasionally rent something. My parents, when I'm home, always offer a movie night, although their tastes have changed over the years and I'm not always interested in the latest German depress-a-thon. I love cuddling up in a movie theatre, or on the couch, to watch something fun, or thought-provoking, or just entertaining. Because that's the bottom line, past dating and family nights and all that jazz. Movies are supposed to be fun.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Forty Words For It
It snowed last night, and everyone is losing their everloving minds. It's like no-one in Toronto has seen snow before, and while I'll give it to the babies who were born in the summer, most everyone else is familiar with it. It's like every year, the snow falls, and every year, we're all like, "Whaaa...? I don't...oh, help us!"
While I'm not wild about snow, per se, I do enjoy a good arctic blast winter. I like being cold. Not indoor cold, which is more like clammy and makes me feel all crazy and nerve-wracked when I put on, and then take off, my sweater 800 times a day. That kind of cold is often a by-product of stress, anyway: the body's desire to flee or shout subsumed into sweaty palms. But outdoor cold, when you're bundled to the point of warmth, but not sweating and uncomfortable, is really enjoyable. Over the Christmas break, I walked out onto the frozen beach of Lake Huron, outfitted in big Sorel boots and a couple warm scarves (among other things - I'm not some sort of erstwhile polar bear dipper) and thought to myself, "Hey, this is pretty great out here."
I'll admit to not really being one for winter outdoorsiness, although I do enjoy a vigorous round on the snowshoes and have tried snowblading. I used to claim that winters were best spent in front of the fireplace, hot chocolate firmly in hand, catching up on your trashy celebrity gossip and listening to the dog fart. But now I'm more interested in romping around in the briskness, especially after a good night's sleep.
Canadian winters are so odd, because they both isolate and unite us. I don't know how many conversations I've had with people about various winter-busting techniques: staying warm, avoiding black ice, getting one of those solar lamps, the best way to avoid windburn, routes to avoid (walking Toronto's Bay Street in January is like trekking along the bottom of a canyon, magnifying the wind factor and making a girl curse all the high-rise residents who want to live and work downtown). But at the same time, movement become more difficult. Driving becomes perilous, biking is downright dangerous, walking takes forever, the trains slow down, and the subway barely lurches along. I know I sort of go into hibernation mode, since social visits that might be an eight-minute bike ride away in the summer have turned into a 35-minute trek through the snow, or a half-hour sardine experience on the TTC.
It makes me wonder how other wintry countries handle the season. Like Canada, the Scandinavian countries have an impressive music scene, and Russia uses the months between October and March to perfect their sports. But it also more snowy a scene gets, the less socially scenic: the Northern Territories are rife with alcoholism and health problems. The much-derided Extreme Weather Warnings that get issued in Toronto (you know, the ones that cause the rest of the snow-encrusted province to scoff at those pansies in the 416) are for the purpose of getting the homeless and underhoused off the freezing streets and into a shelter, at least for the night. And it seems like people get meaner when the weather's extreme - and this is by no means a winter-specific phenomenon, as evidenced by heat waves and their corresponding rage waves. The grumblings about snow and salt and cold and BLAH increase through the roof.
The Inuit allegedly have forty words for snow, a concept that doesn't surprise me in the least. But for all the rest of us - the recent immigrants from Grenada, the life-long Torontonian, the transplant from Kapuskasing, the hand-holding couple currently falling on their asses on the ice, the kids skating in Nathan Phillips Square, the parent who needs to scramble for last-minute snow-day childcare, and all the other snow-loving/hating/tolerating citizens - need to get over the concept of "good" and "bad" for snow, and just accept the fact that Toronto winters are wild, sometimes beautiful, sometimes difficult, but always interesting.
While I'm not wild about snow, per se, I do enjoy a good arctic blast winter. I like being cold. Not indoor cold, which is more like clammy and makes me feel all crazy and nerve-wracked when I put on, and then take off, my sweater 800 times a day. That kind of cold is often a by-product of stress, anyway: the body's desire to flee or shout subsumed into sweaty palms. But outdoor cold, when you're bundled to the point of warmth, but not sweating and uncomfortable, is really enjoyable. Over the Christmas break, I walked out onto the frozen beach of Lake Huron, outfitted in big Sorel boots and a couple warm scarves (among other things - I'm not some sort of erstwhile polar bear dipper) and thought to myself, "Hey, this is pretty great out here."
I'll admit to not really being one for winter outdoorsiness, although I do enjoy a vigorous round on the snowshoes and have tried snowblading. I used to claim that winters were best spent in front of the fireplace, hot chocolate firmly in hand, catching up on your trashy celebrity gossip and listening to the dog fart. But now I'm more interested in romping around in the briskness, especially after a good night's sleep.
Canadian winters are so odd, because they both isolate and unite us. I don't know how many conversations I've had with people about various winter-busting techniques: staying warm, avoiding black ice, getting one of those solar lamps, the best way to avoid windburn, routes to avoid (walking Toronto's Bay Street in January is like trekking along the bottom of a canyon, magnifying the wind factor and making a girl curse all the high-rise residents who want to live and work downtown). But at the same time, movement become more difficult. Driving becomes perilous, biking is downright dangerous, walking takes forever, the trains slow down, and the subway barely lurches along. I know I sort of go into hibernation mode, since social visits that might be an eight-minute bike ride away in the summer have turned into a 35-minute trek through the snow, or a half-hour sardine experience on the TTC.
It makes me wonder how other wintry countries handle the season. Like Canada, the Scandinavian countries have an impressive music scene, and Russia uses the months between October and March to perfect their sports. But it also more snowy a scene gets, the less socially scenic: the Northern Territories are rife with alcoholism and health problems. The much-derided Extreme Weather Warnings that get issued in Toronto (you know, the ones that cause the rest of the snow-encrusted province to scoff at those pansies in the 416) are for the purpose of getting the homeless and underhoused off the freezing streets and into a shelter, at least for the night. And it seems like people get meaner when the weather's extreme - and this is by no means a winter-specific phenomenon, as evidenced by heat waves and their corresponding rage waves. The grumblings about snow and salt and cold and BLAH increase through the roof.
The Inuit allegedly have forty words for snow, a concept that doesn't surprise me in the least. But for all the rest of us - the recent immigrants from Grenada, the life-long Torontonian, the transplant from Kapuskasing, the hand-holding couple currently falling on their asses on the ice, the kids skating in Nathan Phillips Square, the parent who needs to scramble for last-minute snow-day childcare, and all the other snow-loving/hating/tolerating citizens - need to get over the concept of "good" and "bad" for snow, and just accept the fact that Toronto winters are wild, sometimes beautiful, sometimes difficult, but always interesting.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Office Space
I've been going through a gradual adjustment period lately, one that's bringing me into the realm of the Adult©. I've been getting up early, making my lunch the night before, using my little glass Tupperware and toting my lunches off to the florescent-lit open-concept space where I spend my days answering the phones, stapling papers together, making small talk around the water cooler, and desperately trying to make my face look a normal face when my boss says, "Can I see you in my office for a second?"
There are perks to the office job that I wasn't expecting. I don't really have to think too hard about what I'm wearing - as long as it would pass muster at, say, a synagogue: elbows and knees covered, hair pinned back, flat shoes and only the merest touch of glitter eyeshadow. I have a schedule, the same one every day. I'm even starting get used to getting up early, and a small part of me even sort of...enjoys it? That can't be right. The Adult© part of me relishes my morning routine of cereal and a hard-boiled egg, even as the perpetual teenager in me looks longingly at my cozy bed every morning.
I mean, aside from the perky little paycheck, there are other bonuses to the office gig. I pride myself on staying organized - a clean desk and all my Post-It notes in a row. An job in an office lets that part of me shine through, and I enjoy the process of keeping a tidy computer and making sure my email inbox is cleaned out. It's a weird thing to take so much pleasure in, but it's also helping to make this position more tenable. Even when it's mundane and pedestrian, playing to a person's skills helps endear the job to a new employee.
To be honest, I sort of have a boner for office supplies. I adore labels, boxes of fresh envelopes, new pencils and bulldog clips. I like staplers with enough weight to kill a man in a roman noir. I like stamps that make a big blue COPY in the corner of the page. I'm starting to learn how to use the big photocopier, and while it's not a skill that's going to qualify me for anything other than an entry level job, it helps when I fantasize about making a 'zine at work. Office supplies are designed to streamline and easy-make the job, and I appreciate their functional designs and frill-free aesthetic.
Just like a black apron and nerves of steel are in a waitress's toolbox, being impervious to boredom and a drawer full of hanging files are the tools of the office drone's trade. Every job has its own thing - forklift drivers usually have those hefty gloves, celebutantes have pants full of other people's cocaine, go-go dancers have their big white boots, and hairdressers have their weird glass cyclinders full of combs and what I assume is Windex©. CEOs have expensive suits, and their underlings have telemarketer headsets. Feeling equipped to do a job, whatever that job is, means that folks have both the skills and talent, and that the people they're working for have provided them with the tools to do the best job they can.
That's why the access to office supplies is so bizarrely thrilling - because it's so novel, I'm acutely aware of the fact that my employers have given me these tools. I mean, it's not like I'm whistling my way out the door with a ream of legal-sized paper in cornflower tucked into my messenger bag; I realize that the stack of file folders on my desk isn't a gift, just for me. But it speaks to the trust that a company has in its employees, to not waste and to use their money in appropriate ways. It's a new thing, to be entrusted with that, and it's sort of heady.
I guess I'll just have to wander around a Staples or a Grand & Toy as a civilian sometime soon, picking up index cards and making sure my three-hole punch is back from the shop. And incorporating some of that organizational flair into my personal life is like investing in myself, the same way a corporation does. And if and when I'm ground down by the monotony and futility of office work, I'll at least take the tools of trade with me.
There are perks to the office job that I wasn't expecting. I don't really have to think too hard about what I'm wearing - as long as it would pass muster at, say, a synagogue: elbows and knees covered, hair pinned back, flat shoes and only the merest touch of glitter eyeshadow. I have a schedule, the same one every day. I'm even starting get used to getting up early, and a small part of me even sort of...enjoys it? That can't be right. The Adult© part of me relishes my morning routine of cereal and a hard-boiled egg, even as the perpetual teenager in me looks longingly at my cozy bed every morning.
I mean, aside from the perky little paycheck, there are other bonuses to the office gig. I pride myself on staying organized - a clean desk and all my Post-It notes in a row. An job in an office lets that part of me shine through, and I enjoy the process of keeping a tidy computer and making sure my email inbox is cleaned out. It's a weird thing to take so much pleasure in, but it's also helping to make this position more tenable. Even when it's mundane and pedestrian, playing to a person's skills helps endear the job to a new employee.
To be honest, I sort of have a boner for office supplies. I adore labels, boxes of fresh envelopes, new pencils and bulldog clips. I like staplers with enough weight to kill a man in a roman noir. I like stamps that make a big blue COPY in the corner of the page. I'm starting to learn how to use the big photocopier, and while it's not a skill that's going to qualify me for anything other than an entry level job, it helps when I fantasize about making a 'zine at work. Office supplies are designed to streamline and easy-make the job, and I appreciate their functional designs and frill-free aesthetic.
Just like a black apron and nerves of steel are in a waitress's toolbox, being impervious to boredom and a drawer full of hanging files are the tools of the office drone's trade. Every job has its own thing - forklift drivers usually have those hefty gloves, celebutantes have pants full of other people's cocaine, go-go dancers have their big white boots, and hairdressers have their weird glass cyclinders full of combs and what I assume is Windex©. CEOs have expensive suits, and their underlings have telemarketer headsets. Feeling equipped to do a job, whatever that job is, means that folks have both the skills and talent, and that the people they're working for have provided them with the tools to do the best job they can.
That's why the access to office supplies is so bizarrely thrilling - because it's so novel, I'm acutely aware of the fact that my employers have given me these tools. I mean, it's not like I'm whistling my way out the door with a ream of legal-sized paper in cornflower tucked into my messenger bag; I realize that the stack of file folders on my desk isn't a gift, just for me. But it speaks to the trust that a company has in its employees, to not waste and to use their money in appropriate ways. It's a new thing, to be entrusted with that, and it's sort of heady.
I guess I'll just have to wander around a Staples or a Grand & Toy as a civilian sometime soon, picking up index cards and making sure my three-hole punch is back from the shop. And incorporating some of that organizational flair into my personal life is like investing in myself, the same way a corporation does. And if and when I'm ground down by the monotony and futility of office work, I'll at least take the tools of trade with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
