I subbed today in a new school and had a conversation with the teacher across the hall that went something like this:

Mrs. I work at a school and hardly know you but I’m going to ask you lots of personal questions upon first meeting you anyway: So have you been subbing lots then?

Me: Yes, actually it’s been pretty busy which has been really nice.

Mrs. I work at a school… : Uh huh. I bet your husband likes that you keep busy. (At this point she glances down and sees what I imagine is her own version of the scarlet “A”, a left hand sans wedding ring. Gasp! The horror!) Oh. Not married then?

Me: Nope. I’m not.

Mrs. I work at a school…: Hmm. So I guess your boyfriend likes that you are keeping busy?

Me: Nope, actually I’m working single status right now.

(Mrs. I work at a school gives me a blank stare as though I just responded in Swahili.)

Me: I’m flying solo. I have no boyfriend.

(Mrs. I work at a school…. looks like I just told her that I enjoy curb stomping the elderly and using puppies for target practice. Single?! At 26?! Tragic!)

Mrs. I work at a school… : Oh! I’m sorry.

And before I accepted her apology I stopped. And I thought.

Everything I see and hear lately makes it sound like if you are single it’s because you are sitting, waiting and wishing for a man. It feels like… somewhere along the way it stopped being okay just to be single. Single and not looking. Suddenly saying you want to take a break from dating sounds a lot like “I’m just adding this final nail to my coffin”. I’m not depressed or sad or turning into a recluse. I’m not too blinded by my shoe collection, obsessed with work, or too high maintenance to know a good thing when I see it. I promise. I’ve just been busy thinking about upcoming visits of friends and travel and a possible job opportunity (!) and all sorts of wonderful things that the idea of searching or hunting or waiting for a guy hasn’t popped up on the radar. In short, I’ve just been too happy living my life to wait around for a man to make my life this grand dream come true that everyone thinks will happen. And I’m okay with that. In fact, I’m fabulous with that.

So I sat there as the bell rang and the kids swarmed in eager to see who their victim substitute teacher was for the day and thought of the woman in front of me and her apology and gave her a smile and the only reply that felt right,-

Me: I’m not.

And despite the fact that I said a swear into the microphone of the partially deaf student, it was a very good day for everyone.

It starts out simply enough.

I wonder where I put that black bra.

Not the one with the pink flowers, not the sheer one. I need the one that isn’t ‘ho hum’ and I ‘m not looking for the one that’s ‘hey ho!’. I need that perfect black bra that I got in France when “backpacking” was a verb and not a dream. The cheap one that looks expensive. The one that would be perfect under the shirt I want to wear, the shirt that is waiting patiently on my bed. And pretty soon I’m finished wondering and am ripping apart my closet searching for this perfect black bra because suddenly, everything (the setting of the sun! the rising of the moon! the incoming of the tides!) hinges on finding this bra. I push my hair out of my eyes as I begin to search every corner, looking for something I forget that I haven’t seen in years. I have decided that this bra is essential- not only to my ensemble, but to the continuation of the world. Without it, the entire universe will cease to exist.

And then I remember.

It was May 2005 and I was living in a building that was… beautiful. I always described it as being exactly like the Huxtables place on The Cosby show. It was a brick townhouse, on a street lined with trees that shaded me from the fattest snowflakes in the winter and protected me from the brightest rays of the sun in the summer. I loved that house. And I was currently loving my life where my biggest worry was finding a job now that I had graduated university and wondering where all my tupperware lids went. On a whim, I convinced Trout (my fantastic roommate) that we should drive 5 hours to surprise my brother on his 21st birthday. We packed suitcases, closed the door. I did not look back.

Five hours later I was wandering a liquor store, wondering just how many cases of beer were enough for the birthday party of my only sibling when I got a call telling me that my house was burning down. My friend on the phone calmly explained that the whole row of homes was on fire, and 0h!, they just busted your window with an axe. She would stay and watch. Did I want her to call me later?

We left early the next morning, and drove the five hours back. We prepared for the worst and we were not disappointed. Up to that point, I had been very matter of fact about the fire. We had lost our things. We would not be getting them back. The end. Then, as we walked the steps I saw one of my shoes- a pink loafer with brown ribbon stretched across the top. Dirty, stained and soaking wet, and trampled by firefighters doing their job, these shoes were not going to be saved. It was when I started to cry because, hey that was mine and it was wrecked. And how did this happen? And what am I supposed to do now? We were approached by reporters and just shook our head. The fire marshal decided it wasn’t yet safe for us to go in, but he would allow a firefighter to go into our home and get out what we wanted. We had a second to decide what we wanted. I said a photo album and my passport.

It’s funny. You think you know what you want, everyone has answered the question ‘what would you save in a fire’, and of course we all say the same things- pets and photos. The irreplaceables. But when you have the man in the suit standing before you, it’s strange the things your brain will think of in a split second- I wanted my Gap jeans from grade 12 that had a hole at the knee. I wanted the bookcase my mom bought me at a farmers market when I told her I was moving away. I wanted every photo (even the ones where everyone had their eyes closed), I wanted every journal (even the ones that were completely filled with talk of boys who didn’t deserve so much thought) and every pair of shoes (even the ones that I never wore). I wanted the scarf my friend bought me at the flea market, I wanted the new box of rootbeer I had just bought at the grocery store. I wanted perfume bottles that were almost finished, the load of laundry I had folded before leaving, the love letter from a boy who had made me cry. I wanted the smell of the linen cupboard, the squeak of the fridge door, the feeling of the soft carpet under my feet. I wanted everything that I wasn’t seeing, everything that I remembered ever having, and everything that I knew I was forgetting. I wanted.

Eventually they did let us in to assess the damage. It was evening, it was raining. Trout and I walked the heavy steps and glanced around at what used to be our home. We stood where our kitchen table used to be and looked up to the sky. The roof had collapsed. That moment- of feeling walls around me and looking up to expecting a ceiling but instead seeing the sky, feeling drops land on my tongue, watching a violet cloud darken overhead… has been one of the strangest feelings I’ve ever experienced. A mixture of the seeing the familiar but in the bizarre. Like seeing clowns at a funeral. Or tulips growing in your cereal box.

Almost nothing was salvageable. I walked away with a small rubbermaid container that held photos that smelled sharply of fire and Ralph- the teddy bear I’ve had forever. I left behind cracked frames and broken appliances. I left behind over 30 garbage bags of stained clothes, a ruined DVD collection, every piece of tupperware. I left behind a destroyed computer, a blanket from my grandmother and four years of university class notes. I left behind a enough books to fill a library, enough music to last a life time, enough hats to top a village. I left behind every pair of shoes I owned. I left behind the black bra that I bought in France. The one that is perfect under any shirt.

The one I still look for.

Emergencies happen. The Red Cross (through generous donation) states that it currently has enough funds to take care of the current California wildfire crisis, but if you are interested in donating to help when the next disaster (fire or otherwise) hits- donate today.

I have a favor.

And it’s not something that benefits me, but instead will benefit you. Oh intrigued? Read on! The lovely Heather recently posted a link that I feel everyone should watch.

A link? Yes. Keep reading.

Now, if you know me well, you know I’m not a huge fan of posting youtube links or clips of parrots who can recite the alphabet. I do enjoy those, but I use them as a form of punishment and send them out in emails to all my friends who give me dusty smelling soap baskets at Christmas. But I think this is one really worth sharing.

And I’m going to be honest- it’s a lecture. And it’s an hour and a half long. (That’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and one of Entertainment Tonight, for those of you who just gasped at the idea of spending that much time watching something.) But I promise, if you watch it, you will laugh. And you will cry. And you will be better for it.

Really. I cross my heart.

It talks of Star Wars, Dutch professors and William Shatner. It talks of saying goodbye, turkey sandwiches and video games. It talks of winning stuffed animals at carnivals, feeling weightless and rollerskating ninjas. It gives the best advice to single girls everywhere. And it says everything you ever wished you were wise enough to say. I watched it while folding laundry and self inflicting glue gun burns on myself finishing my Halloween costume. I watched it once. Then I watched it again.

I can’t find the magic words that will suddenly make you all want to click this link. So instead I will say this- I really, really hope you watch it.

That’s all I got.

Updated:Not-so interesting fact of the day: I got an email today commenting on how I was posting more often. I have to come clean and say that it was mental prep for NaBloPoMo, but that I can’t do it. I don’t think. Not this year. I honestly think if I were to attempt it, my brain would actually explode and leave a huge mess for someone else to clean up. Are any of you doing it?

Do I know how to get this photo bigger? No. But that is not what we are going to discuss today. Today we are going to discuss George Clooney, video cameras and wine. Oh, and how horrible I am at posting photos. All of this today at The ‘Stache.

Oh, and universe- this is Sunny the fat dog who snores often and finds great joy in eating popcorn that falls on the ground. Or actually, any sort of food that falls on the ground. Actually, she will eat anything on the ground, but she does it politely because she is a lady. Sunny, this is the universe.

Do you ever have one of those days that goes from fantastic to freaking awful in the span of 2.4 seconds? You find your heart filled like a bucket with love and happiness and unexplained glee (yes, glee. Why does that feel so weird to type.. glee? Why don’t people say it more often?) and then suddenly, like a row of dominoes, something tips and you find yourself looking around at a mess wondering

“Is this really my life?”

Yeah. That was about 2 hours ago.

In such situations, I like to turn to the drink but I’m out of the hard stuff and coolers are for wimps. My back up plan? To clean. And while I’m scrubbing floors, I will think about all the things that piss me off. It goes something like this: “Oh yeah, great. Comet cleaner on my jeans. Well that’s juuuuuust great. I bet they don’t even make these jeans anymore. And if they do, I’m not buying a new pair anyway. Gap can go screw themselves with all that slave labor shit. How does the CEO of Gap sleep at night? And what is his name? Note to self, google the bastards name later. And tell him that you love the jeans, but unless he starts people paying right, you are going to buy jeans from… from… hell, where can you buy jeans made by people who are paid fairly? Does New Balance make jeans? I bet that Elisabeth Hasselbeck wears a lot of Gap just to support slave labor. And probably just flips the channel when she sees a World Vision commercial. No, I bet she sits on her couch and burns a $20 bill with a gold plated lighter everytime a sponsor a child in a third world country ad comes on. Just because she can. And now I’m out of Comet? What the hell?!”

It’s not pretty, and often, it doesn’t make sense. Because even I know that Elisabeth isn’t pro-slave labor. Dear god- at least I hope not.

Anyway, so that’s usually what happens and I end being angrier (and with a long list of people I need to google to send irate emails to), and more upset than I was to begin with. So, I decided to try something revolutionary. I decided (in true Oprah fashion) to pull myself back from the edge and focus on things that I am thankful for…

- people who believe the best things about you. And tell you.
- easy to peel oranges
- pulling out a load of laundry to find all the socks have a match
- the weight of heavy silverware in my hand
- kids who draw pictures of you where your smile is perfect and your legs are thin.
- air in my tires
- The West Wing
- shoe sales
- anything involving caramel sauce
- the feel of clean sheets on bare legs
- Bob the trainer from the show “The Biggest Loser” Dear God. I would like his legs on my sheets.
- peacoats
- the smell of garlic bread
- that the year my grandfather turned 70, he dressed up as Cher for Halloween
- waking up one minute before the alarm clock
- fat snowflakes
- Jon (because Mr. Stewart let’s his close stalkers fans call him by his first name)
- catching myself singing “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” so loud my throat aches. And not stopping.
- the way my heart feels the second after my team scores. In overtime.
- homemade mittens
- fat dogs who snore. Actually, I’m just thankful for dogs. And for the sound of snoring. I love hearing the sound of snoring, it makes me sleepy
- good hair days
- getting my passport stamped
- the sound of 19 grade 1 students singing the national anthem
- no line ups
- the Harry Potter books
- politicians who you believe in
- the sound of a piano
- bookstores
- having enough milk for one more bowl of cereal
- old people who still hold hands
- the quote” the magic moment is that in which a yes or no may change the whole of our existence” by Paulo Coelho

My world hasn’t changed, but my perspective has.

Oprah really knows her stuff.

I grew up in the country. I grew up cleaning horse stalls and driving tractors. I grew up with experience in cow-tipping, sacking oats, building forts (although even at an early age, I showed amazing promise- my forts always had a ‘parlour’) and mixing feed pails. I grew up having my grandpa show me the right way to spit. I grew up knowing the difference between hay and straw. Between a foal and a filly.

But then, life happened, my parents divorced and I moved into the city. Suddenly, I found myself spending more time thinking about my shoes than horse shoes. I developed a love for expensive perfume, A-line skirts, and glossy magazines with complicated hairstyles. I suddenly owned gadgets. I learned the difference between Manolo and Loboutin. Between sushi and sashimi.

And you know what? It was bloody fantastic. Moving to the city allowed me to meet new friends, get a university degree and develop a strange love affair with public transportation (this was due mostly to a broken foot that prevented me from driving, but still. I have much love for public transportation and how they rescued me in my time of need). I became polished. I learned about men and martinis, double feature movie days and just what kind of guy can pull off lipstick and skinny jeans (a very confident man, in case you were wondering).

I hadn’t realized how much I missed my old ways until lately. I’m house sitting for people who live in country. Each day I throw on whatever clothes I find on the floor, latch the leash on the dog (who. is. adorable. An overweight bulldog named Sunny. How can she not be fantastic?) and take her out wandering. We take long walks through the forest. I smell damp earth and the end of summers flowers. I see squirrels, rabbits and the occasional deer. I leave my ipod inside and instead listen to rain falling, branches snapping, the crunch of leaves under my own foot. I look up and see the sky. Out here I am not polished. I find twigs in my hair, mud streaked on my cheek, dirt under my nails. And I love it.

Out here I lose my way. There is no building to provide a trusted landmark. No street signs, no man-made compass. I trust myself to fall over tree trunks, stumble over hidden roots, to be scared of a strange noise and run in the other direction. I always find my way home.

And once I’m inside, I use soap to erase the smudges left by Mother Nature on my cheek. I shower and dress and head out the door to meet friends for sushi. And if I’m lucky? I find a twig left in my hair, or a leaf in my shoe to remind me of where I was. Because whoever said ‘it doesn’t matter where you came from, it only matters where you are going’ was wrong. It does matter where you come from. Because remembering where you started let’s you see how far you’ve come.

I’m guess I’m just learning that whether I’m wearing the rubber boots I grew up in or tall girl shoes I’ve grown to love, I will always know how to drive a tractor.

I hope I never forget.

I have a lot to say lately. On politics, on the new Sex and the City movie (dear lord, it’s about time I started talking about that), on coconuts vs. pumpkins and on first dates. On books I’ve just finished (and loved!), on Sarah Michelle Gellar, on the one reason I picked up the phone and called someone I hadn’t called. In. Years.

However.

Instead of all these thoughts coming out in lovely, 3-D Technicolor (similar to falling into a pensieve, I imagine) easy to read and even easier to write posts, they are rolling around muddled together, each story running into the next. Last night I dreamt *Obama and Charlotte were fighting over a sailor Halloween costume ( I blame you Ally) and I didn’t know what to do so I started crying and eating those really horrible witches tooth candies that I absolutely detest. So, I’m doing something even better than posting a mixed up and confusing entry that I will absolutely declare makes sense (even though, I assure you it will not. It will be like, the **Clockwork Orange of all post entries) . I’m going to share with you a list of a posts that I’ve really enjoyed reading this fall. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do (because yes, I’m a girl who goes back and re-reads. Ever wonder who that nut was in your sitemeter? Yeah. It’s me). Have a great weekend!

Note: To make it easier for me you, I linked right to the post I love, love, love.

1. My Pen Ran Out of Ink- So, I can’t link to the specific post I re-read like a crazy person, but if you scroll down the main page, it’s there. It’s called “Street Psychics and Broken Hearts”.

2. Yummy Sushi Pajamas- If you’ve been following along, you know that recently Heather has been going through difficult times, more difficult than one can imagine possible but her spirit and her love for her family amaze me. And will amaze you.

3. I sometimes read posts where people write of their love of running and it always sounds so easy. They will throw out the line “I ran 21 miles this morning and then took my kids to the grocery store. Can you believe Christmas decorations are out already?”, and I find myself almost collapsing. Not at the idea that elves are out when fall coats are still in, but at the idea that anyone could run that much and not add the sentence with an exclamation point. If I ever accomplished such a feat it would look something like this: “I RAN 21 MILES TODAY!! I AM A ROCKSTAR! BOW DOWN TO ME!”, or something similar and gleeful. I liked this post by Justrun, who writes of writing in a way that’s refreshingly honest. That it’s a sometimes a struggle. That not everyday is going to be the best run of your life, that sometimes you just want a cheeseburger.

4. E.b. usually makes me hungry with her constant pictures of food that looks like it should be gracing the cover of Bon Appetit. This post however, made me giggle. Because who doesn’t love a girl who keeps it honest about yoga?

5. Sometimes I annoy myself by writing about easier topics, avoiding issues that might spark debate (or just bring Annie out from hiding), Egan knows this. He took a stance and shared a thoughtful post on a topic I don’t see many bloggers tackling. It leaves you with a lot to think about, regardless of you personal position.

6. I’ve emailed this one to a few of you. Jurgen found some of the words I had been searching for.

7. Do you judge yourself? Feel bad for that last extensive bout of retail therapy? Read this by Ally and re-consider if your stance.

8. I’ve mentioned it before, but I do love reading “Real Word Wednesdays” by Pink Cereal and Raspberries. Her topics are relevant, her posts have facts and it’s said in a simple way that it’s easy to read. I commend any blogger who can make me want to read about fossil fuels. And she does.

9. The ending of this post is one of my favourites. Ever. It left me thinking, it left me satisfied. Everything was said, nothing more, nothing less. And the best part? What was said was written beautifully. Theory of thought hit the nail on the head. I can’t link write to the post, but scroll down on the main page and read “Dear Admissions Officer”.

10. The lovely brookem makes me laugh often, and is the only girl I know who I’ve drank beer while typing to (with?). This post shows how honest she is and how much we share in common with our inability to properly post pictures. For one that warmed my heart, read this.

11. Airam has been asking more thought provoking questions than Anderson Cooper lately. This post made me think- not just about myself, but about everyone I see daily. It was thoughtful and insightful. Read it.

There’s honestly so many more out there that I enjoy, but I’m trying to keep this post shorter than the unabridged version of Anna Karenina. Comments are not needed, save your mad typing skills to leave comments on all these bloggers sites (Did I just save you from carpal tunnel syndrome? Feel free to send me a present.)

And yes, the pensieve mention was just for you Arm.

* Feel free to send me your analysis of this dream via email.
** Clockwork Orange is perhaps the worst movie to watch when you are drunk and fooling around. Honestly. It happened many years ago, but I’m still scarred. Once that movie started, the poor boy didn’t have a chance. Which is too bad, because he was cute. Sigh.

Dear Everyone who is planning on dressing up for Halloween this year,

Let me preface this by saying I love Halloween. I do. I think it’s my theater background, but the idea of searching for the perfect costume leaves me feeling drunk with happiness. I purposely accidentally kept the keys to the costume department of my old job and plan on spending a lovely Saturday searching for my perfect costume.

The last couple of years I’ve been a Ninja Turtle (complete with nun chucks), paper bag princess, Ashley Olsen (Trout was Mary-Kate), a member of the three little pigs (my house was the house of straw) and part of a band of pirates- complete with stuffed parrot on my shoulder who was affectionately named Vladimir.

I take Halloween seriously.

So it’s with much love and respect that I come to you all with this plea: Can we all bypass going out this year dressed in our bras and calling it a costume? My heart sinks when I enter a room and find myself surrounded by groups of girls dressed in nothing more than a bra and panties, with the truly ‘creative’ girls adding wings. Adding wings when you are 97% naked doesn’t turn your outfit into something. Really. I promise. It just makes you the girl in your bra wearing wings.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that Halloween is about expression. It’s about taking chances, finding something that sets you apart, taking a risk. And for some of you, maybe ‘taking a risk’ implies leaving your pants at home (and for some of you sadly, it does not). But I want you to know, that when it’s your third Halloween wearing the plastic bra and fishnets, you are no longer taking a risk. If you truly believe that Halloween is about expression, take a real risk and put more clothes on. Be something (or someone) unexpected. Because going out dressed like a member of *”ho train” doesn’t show me that you’ve put any thought into your costume. In fact, it just makes me think that your house burnt down, you have no friends to lend you clothes and you’ve showed up almost naked hoping someone will give you a shirt to put on.

And if I run into you while you stand there in your push up bra and and fishnets and ask you what you are (because I will do that- seeing the panic in your eyes and you try to think of what to call yourself is one of my Halloween highlights), at least have something prepared- calling yourself a whore in a roomful of similarly dressed girls isn’t original. Call yourself a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue girl. Then you will at least have admiration, but not my respect.

I save that for the group of girls who dress up like garden peas with bruised eyes and call themselves “The Black-Eyed Peas”.

I told you I take Halloween seriously.

A spirited plea,
brandy

* I had a very good friend dress up as a member of Satan’s ho train one year. It made me reconsider our friend status. I’m as serious as a heart attack.

After much deliberating, I’m just going to come clean.

I actually like Britney’s “Gimme More” song.

And not only do I like it, when I hear it on the radio- I dance to it like I’m famous.

Deal with it universe.

“I used to know a guy…“

I was talking with a friend, and suddenly caught myself saying your name. As I stumbled and stuttered, trying to reclaim the words I had already given away, I felt an old frustration seep back into my skin and wrap around the air I struggled to breathe. Suddenly the silence got loud and I became uncharacteristically shy. Because saying your name feels like sharing the secret combination to my heart. It’s as simple as that.

I used to know a guy, implies that you weren’t important- that your place in my life was something easily wiped away like chalk from a board. That you didn’t make a mark in my life, that you were replaceable, your name easily forgotten. That you were a goal to cross off a list. And none of that is true, do you know that? I hope you do.

God you were funny. I don’t think that’s something I ever told you. We always talked about how funny I was. I was funny and you were smart. But you were funny too. In a way that very few people are- in the ‘miss or you blink‘ joke that flies above the head of anyone who isn’t paying attention. I loved that about you. I wish you knew that.

I wish you knew about my neighbour who smokes outside with her pink foam rollers pulled so tight, every wrinkle is removed from her face. You would love hearing of her. I wish I could tell you about the new car, the old job, the moment last week I somehow got a fork knotted in my hair. Those are the stories that I wish I could tell you. I know you would laugh in all the right places, ask all the right questions. But saying all the right things, wouldn’t change anything… we would still be wrong. Sometimes too much history cancels out a possibility of a future. I’m learning that.

We don’t talk anymore and it’s saved me. I’m better off without you. So why do I find myself wistful? Listing off stories I will never tell you, remembering tales we shared that we will never discuss? I would guess it’s because since the moment I said your name out loud, I’ve been thinking of you. And despite remembering the deepness of your laugh, your enviable ability to win at any game, the way your voice changed when you were tired, the details of you are getting hazy around the edges.

You’re forgetting me. I know that. Because despite my want to keep the best parts of you memorized forever, you are not alone.

I’m forgetting you too. The guy I used to know.