Wednesday, 9 November 2016

Untitled (I'm Too Tired to be Clever)

Here we are. Day seven. One week of (trying to) write every day. And I’m caught up (in manner of speaking). This will be short. Mostly because I’m exhausted and I’ve done a stellar job of procrastinating. Today, writing seems like a chore (yet I’ve done every other chore in my apartment; cleaning, dishes, meal prep, laundry…) and I don’t want to do it. I want to drink my tea and go to bed. But here I sit in front of my laptop, because I told myself to sit down and write. Ugh.

I’ve spent all day thinking about today’s prompt…If you could redo one moment in your life, what would it be and why? How would it change who you are now?

The idea of the past, regrets, and sorely wishing you could do something differently is one I’ve already spent a fair amount of time on. I’m trying to spend as little time on the past as possible moving forward. I could come up with a million tiny moments to change. There’s a few big ones back there I certainly could have handled differently. Maybe delving into them would lead to a good story or two and some salacious reading for you. But here’s the deal.

I’m pretty talented at gripping tightly to the past, and I drag it kicking and screaming into my present, forgetting to relax and enjoy what is happening around me; in whatever moment I find myself. Thing is, I’m not sure I would change a damn thing, and I don’t want to dwell on the past anymore. Every time I let it steep in my thoughts for too long, it limits me. Past hurts cut down my self confidence. Mistakes make me cower from pushing forward with something new. Lost loves bring a debilitating ache to the surface.

So I would not change a thing. Every last shitty experience or terrible choice has landed me right where I am, and I kinda like where I am. Maybe I still have a few things to learn from, and a little bit of work to do (ok, a huge heaping shit-ton of work), but I’m through with letting my past hang over me. I’ve said it before (not so long ago, here) and I’ll say it again. Fuck the past.
I’m standing with my two feet firmly planted in the present; looking forward and embracing the unknown as best I can.

Maybe this quote doesn't fit, or perhaps it doesn't speak to you as it does me. But read it anyway - come back to it one day. It has all kinds of wisdom.

“…be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.” - Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet


Day Four/Six/Five?

You might have noticed me lagging behind (already) on this daily blogging challenge. I got lazy this past weekend working night shifts and opted to spend more time taking in old episodes of The Office on Netflix than writing. Coupled with my utter lack of motivation to write was the realization that I had the choice of whether or not I write a post on Saturdays and/or Sundays. A divine recipe of procrastination for April.

Technically I owe you three posts. One for Friday, yesterday, and one for today. I suspect if I was truly dedicated to daily blogging, I would also be lacking in providing reading material for Saturday and Sunday. This would mean I should have battled through the post-night shift tired drunk feeling I get to offer up such literary delights as “Celelry is a Useless Vegetable” and “How to Avoid Inciting Road Rage in Night Shift Workers” (mostly, get the fuck out of my way if I’m driving home after a night shift). You can see why I’ve shied away from posting the past few days.

I do not have time for even three posts today, with a multitude of reasons/excuses as to why. At the moment, my mind is racing to combine the prompts for these three days into one concise post that will wow you with my wordsmithing capabilities. How does one roll fall television programming, Thanksgiving food fails, and revamping one moment in my life to ensure a better outcome in the future into one fabulous post?

One does not. One cheats a little, and says fuck it to the Thanksgiving food fail - because I have never made Thanksgiving dinner and thus far my culinary luck has been strong when it’s come to cooking dinner for my family for the past couple of years - I’ve hit it out of the park. I’m skipping that one, delaying the post about what moment in my life I wish I could go back and change (until tomorrow), and bundling up Friday and tomorrow’s prompts in one neat package for you. Here goes.

Friday asked what television programming should be canceled already this fall…and tomorrow is asking what I want to say to Hillary Clinton. Well.

I am not well-versed in politics, in fact I'm perilously close to being an apathetic voter. In Canada's most recent federal election I voted what I have always voted, without much real thought or effort into determining if that was in fact the right choice for me. I know very little about the working of America's government, and even less about their electoral process. I’m not up to date on trade agreements and not incredibly well-informed on pipeline proposals and politics. I’m definitely mystified as to how the results this evening will trickle into Canadian and world politics, but I suspect politics on the whole (obviously and most notably American politics) have been irrevocably changed.

I am Canadian, and I don’t have cable. These do not exempt me from having thoughts and feelings about fall television programming, but they are certainly less directed toward whatever NBC flop has come out this fall, and more directed toward the insanity of this year’s election cycle in the States. Cancel that. Cancel the hateful and frightening diatribe Trump spits out every time he opens his mouth in an advert or speech. Shut down Hillary’s responses turning Trump’s words in favour of her and repeatedly pointing out his short-comings as a presidential candidate. Taking the high road, in my mind, is more about addressing the actual issues and laying out a solid plan for how to take your nation forward, not giving your opponent even more face time. It should all be stopped.

Impossible, I know. The show must go on. The spectacle of everything, and the amount of people devouring every last lick of absurdity, is amazing in the worst possible way. But I suppose, how can we not pay attention? This is the culmination of so much turmoil, unrest, and division. Is it a surprise that a man has managed to bully, lie, bigot and belittle his way to where he is now? Is it really a shock that a historical moment such as a woman running for president should be undermined so persistently?

Does this all feel a little too much like a bad reality television show to anyone else? I’d dearly love to change the channel, but even without cable I can watch the world shifting.


P.S. - This is a song by one of my most favourite of Canadian bands, Wintersleep. It seems appropriate right about now.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

The Best Policy

Ok this whole writing every day thing is fucking hard, and it’s only day three. Maybe I’m not supposed to feel like this on only the third day, maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here staring at my laptop for 20 minutes and wondering exactly how to frame this post. There the question is and I’m not quite sure how to run with it…

…If you could be completely honest with no regrets, what would you say and to whom?

This could open an honesty shit storm of epic proportions. I’m excited to see not only what other people come up with, but also what spews forth onto my currently empty-ish page. What I’m realizing about my writing process is that I could have an entire post banged out ahead of time, and then sit down to edit, and end up re-writing the entire post, creating some iteration of the original. So really, as I sit here thinking about this whole question of honesty, I have no clue what’s coming next.

I could be brutally honest with several people, mostly unsuspecting figures from my past. I could tell a few people how much their own dishonesty hurt me. There’s a few people whose honesty with me was painful, but cathartic in its own stinging way. There are feelings rumbling in my heart that will eventually need to make their way out of my mouth (or, alternatively, through my fingers and onto the page), but I’m not ready for anyone else to know them, yet.

So today, at this very moment, I’m choosing to be honest with myself.

First off, April, you’ve had some shit judgment when it’s come to members of the opposite sex (as clearly demonstrated in many previous posts). I know you know this, but take a second to realize that even some of the most unfortunate situations you’ve found yourself in have also had a slight tinge of April’s bullshit in them. This is not meant to make you feel bad, quite the contrary. It’s meant for you to realize that for something to genuinely work, you have to stop thinking you’re not worth it. You are fucking worth it. (Thankfully you’ve happened upon someone who shares that sentiment - don’t fuck it up.)

Secondly, you actually can write something EVERY DAY. You have ideas coursing through that brain of yours on the regular, and while not every post is going to be literary gold, you might be surprised with what comes out. Stop being your own worst enemy (your mom has always been right in this matter) and start letting your creative side flourish; the results may be exciting and astonishing.

April (this is an important one) do NOT go and buy those beautiful but completely unneeded boots tomorrow when you get paid. Yes, there really is never a question of need when it comes to shoes. But you’re fucking horrible with money. Really. This is not a strong suit for you, and it certainly won’t get better if you drop $300 on those babies. Wait for a sale. Or realize that your priority right now should be the idea of first/last month’s rent for new digs in the big city. You know for a fact that moving closer to the mountains means snowboarding expenses increase exponentially, what if that pair of boots in your closet actually stops you from hitting the mountains for a weekend!? Unforgivable. Time to grow up and gain some financial responsibility. (Seriously, this is fucking important to wrap your head around, don’t just slyly think you’ll sneak those bad boys into the closet without me noticing…I’ll notice, and I’ll bring the buyer’s remorse down haaaaard.)

And lastly, but certainly not the least…you are allowed to feel afraid right now. There is some big change heading your way; change you have sought out and pursued. You’re moving six hours away from the majority of your support network. You’re leaving the place you’ve called home for 34 years. 34 years! That’s a long time! In my humble opinion (speaking from your common sense, that is) you’re allowed to be nervous, anxious, excited, and cautious. You are not (no matter how many times your mom kind of jokingly says it) abandoning those people who are the core of your people. You will still be there for them, and they for you, albeit usually in an online form. And if much of this change is (at the heart of it, literally) for a man - that’s ok. Especially if it’s a bonafide genuine, handsome, kind-hearted man. That’s definitely ok.

Thanks, self.


P.S. - The lovely David Gray came floating through the speakers at the coffee shop I've holed up in to write this post, and something about the melody drifting through the many conversations being had created a bit of a warm fuzzy feeling for me. So, cheers :)

Wednesday, 2 November 2016

And on the second day...

Vulnerable - (adjective) capable or susceptible of being wounded or hurt, as by a weapon; open to moral attack, criticism, temptation, etc.

Vulnerability is not today’s prompt, but it occurs to me…the subject of today’s prompt, bravery, is inextricably linked with vulnerability. When was the last time you did something brave? What happened?

Is it terrible if I can’t remember the last time I did something I would categorize as brave? My fuzzy memory may be due to a lingering cold medicine hangover; or another late night listening to Mr. Upstairs Neighbour trudge around noisily until midnight (just when I gather the courage to go up and give him a piece of my mind, you know, be brave; he quiets down). Or is it because my personal feelings of bravery don’t have much to do with heroic acts (i.e. the super-duper cliché act of saving someone from a burning building) one usually associates with being brave?

In elementary school I was teased a lot, and one day the ringleader of the girls called me a loser. I responded by telling her that just because she was a bitch, it didn’t necessarily follow that I was a loser (stooping to her level of name-calling may not have been the right way to handle things, but she was being a bitch and I call it as I see it). That may have been one of the first times I remember doing something brave. I stood up to her and in the process lay myself open to so much immaturity - more name calling, exclusion, and schoolyard antics. Yet I found myself with a smaller circle of friends who decided to stray from the bitchiness and said bitch didn't much bother with me after that.

Years ago, while traveling in Africa, I called my parents to let them know I changed my flight and would be coming home a week later than my original return date…because I had met a guy (one day I'll give that story the words it deserves and share it with you, it was surreal and kind of amazing). Big ups to my parents for having a calm, rational conversation with me. I’m quite certain when their 25 year old daughter (who had never before left Canada) called to say she would be spending a little better than a week with a 30 year old winemaker from South Africa, they wanted to lose it (and probably hop on a plane to drag me back to Canada on schedule). Just a wee bit of bravery on both fronts there - my very lovely parents who bravely trusted I wasn’t putting myself in the hands of a serial killer, and I made a choice in the name of love. The search for love takes a fuck-ton of bravery to open oneself up to. Genuinely opening yourself up to someone - laying your true self bare - is fucking scary. It takes all kinds of bravery and courage to love.

I once threw myself off a bridge, bungeeing 216 metres into a gorge on the coast of South Africa, all in the name of conquering my fear of heights and spiting the asshole ex-boyfriend who swore I would never go through with it. (I may have sent him a picture of me jumping in an email with the simple subject of “And you said I could never do it.”) Choosing to face one of your greatest fears, all the while leaving yourself open to the possibility that the fear might conquer you instead? Brave.

I’ve spent a lot of time afraid of vulnerability. In relationships, with friends, and definitely when it comes to putting my thoughts to paper and letting anyone (and everyone) read them. But as I’ve sat here and fired off this post, I’ve realize the times I’ve let myself be vulnerable and open are the times when bravery and courage have risen up. And not once have there been negative consequences.



P.S. - On rotation today (and on repeat a few times) is this little diddy, enjoy.

Tuesday, 1 November 2016

On the First Day...

I keep saying I’m going to write more. I’ve threatened you with notions of more blog posts, more musings from the mysterious mind of April. Just, more.

And then life kicks in and I find every excuse to avoid sitting my ass down and writing. There’s cleaning to do, books to rearrange, wine to drink, friends to visit, Netflix to watch, and a million other things to do rather than bear my soul to the blogosphere. Today, however, I’m challenging myself.

I was surfing through Twitter this afternoon whilst taking a bubble bath (or was I pooping…? I can’t remember now, either way I was in the bathroom…a bubble bath sounds more lady-like so let’s go with that), and I saw the kick in the ass I’ve been waiting for when it comes to writing. A month-long blogging challenge to post every single day in November. Thank you, BlogHer.

Now, given my not-so-regular work schedule and propensity for procrastination, this challenge may not go so well. In fact, I’m sitting here fighting the urge to watch the latest episode of This Is Us (a must-see if you are a suck like me; it pulls at every possible heart string, making you feel all the feels - perfect for a Tuesday night couch sesh - click the title to peep the trailer and try not to cry), and am being pulled into (read: actively pursuing) text convos about everything from changing my wireless provider to how a friend should overcome nervousness about sleeping with someone new for the first time (sometimes getting iMessages on your laptop is not so handy…but these are clearly crucial convos). The chances of me being able to pull off a post on the daily feels a little slim at the moment, but I’m going to give it a go.

So here we go, day one. Thank fuck the wonderful people at BlogHer are providing daily prompts, because I’m not sure what kind of content you would get otherwise (more Wayne's World gifs anyone?). I’m entirely unprepared for this little writing journey, so I plan on taking full advantage of said prompts. Today’s was a question directed towards self-care on a “bad mental health day.”

I drink a glass of wine and vent, to person or paper (whichever is most readily available).

That was easy. 

Post done? (The part of me dying to watch that episode has just realized it won’t be on my iTunes until tomorrow…so no, post not done. And I already cleaned my teeny tiny apartment with my second wind this afternoon. So pervasive is my boredom and procrastination, I actually rolled the coins from my piggybank too. Le sigh.)

I’ve spent the last six days chained to the couch with a cold that’s grown nastier and snottier by the hour. Thankfully, it relented late this afternoon and I can now breathe through my nose, hurray! Taking care of myself has been my main focus. How can I make myself feel better? What will get rid of this cold? What remedy, drug, or trick will finally work and break this constant bag-of-shit feeling?

Well, let me tell you. Having your upstairs neighbour stomp around at 4 am like he’s crushing a spider with each footstep does not cure a cold. Neither does his loud, seemingly raunchy sex. Nor does chocolate or ice cream (I was convinced on Friday night these would be the answer; despite their deliciousness I felt only a brief sugar high). Sweating it out in a scorching bubble bath drinking tea laced with bourbon (my usual go-to) only served to make me feel shittier the next morning. FaceTime-ing with my boyfriend buoyed my spirits, but sadly did nothing to clear my fucking sinuses. Exhausting my Netflix options to the point where I’m forced (not really, but once I started I couldn’t stop) to watch the vacuous Scream Queens only served to highlight my utter boredom and desire to feel better. I made a Pinterest tea recipe containing ginger, turmeric, and lemon. It seemed better suited to a colonic cleanse than clearing a sinus infection.

While none of these pursuits is directly related to my cold abating, I did realize one crucial thing. Taking care of oneself is of paramount importance. I’ve spent a few of months now with a crazy-hectic schedule. If I’m not working, I’m picking up overtime or squeezing in face time with my family and friends between trips to see my main squeeze in Calgary. I’ve been busy devouring every second with him and at the same time, soaking up as much home time as possible because soon enough the Paris of the Prairies won’t be “home” anymore. It’s exhausting, in the most wonderful of ways.

While I despise looking like Rudolph (lotion-infused tissues my ass), furiously popping cold meds, and living on soup and tea, the last six days have forced me to slow down. Well, to stop actually. I’ve been cozily bundled on my couch and come to realize how much I love my small space, and the memories it contains. My mind had an abundant number of uninterrupted minutes to chew on things as I’ve stared vacantly at the television. Long-distance relationships, no matter how incredibly frustrating and annoying, have their own kind of beauty. Change is not something I handle easily, but it is something I’m so ready for. I should likely do something with the pile of nursing texts propping up my stereo speaker, no one is going to want to deal with that box on moving day…

…I’m killing my hydrangea. Fuck.

Sometimes taking care of yourself can be as simple as spending some time with yourself. Pearls of wisdom from a recovering Advil Cold and Sinus addict…

Until tomorrow!


P.S. - A disclaimer. I cannot be held accountable for however crappy these daily posts may be. If they're brilliant and you love them, I take full responsibility and humbly thank you. (Honestly, still waiting for a universal sarcasm font...and a bacon emoji. Someone get on that please.)

Monday, 17 October 2016

Live in the Now

Does anyone else re-evaluate every dating experience in their history when they start seeing someone new? Sifting through all previous dating attempts to determine if this new guy (or girl, whatever floats your boat) is actually different from past offenders, or if he's simply another wolf in sheep's clothing waiting to pounce on your heart and tear it into pieces?

I'm imagining crickets, but in reality (given conversations I've had with nearly every girlfriend of mine, and a few dudes) I'm certain I'm not alone in this. I realized over the past few weeks this may be the biggest faux pas I make when it comes to dating, and I do it. A lot. All the time; every time I meet someone even mildly worth consideration (or in my current case, someone worth all the consideration).

Perhaps, sometimes, a little comparison to past experience can't be helped. Especially when you're trying to keep your excitement responsibly in check for fear you're about to repeat your classic mistake of loving hard and fast - and getting hurt the exact same way (though I'm not totally convinced that's a mistake per se, despite many broken pieces of my heart and tender spots where someone jabbed the knife in a little too deep). The past is the past, you should leave it behind you, don't look back, blah blah fucking blah. You cannot change the past (unless you are a time traveler and in that case I need you to go back and tell my grade 11 self not to wear a skirt to school that fateful day because she'll live to regret the entire class seeing her panties - don't ask). But what if the past starts sneaking into the present, causing you all manner of stress because some moron nine years ago cheated on you and threw you out of the house by putting your things on the lawn to be collected by your parents as you were traveling in Southern Africa at the time?

True story. No, I didn't know about the cheating until six months after the long-distance break up where we never actually spoke a word. Yes, we had been dating for four years and living together for almost one. You bear your soul to your boyfriend in an email (for lack of reliable phone access) - acknowledge all the shit the lies between you and the unhappy reality of your relationship, finally  - and his response is to have his friend call your parents to inform them when your things would be on the lawn for collection. A number of descriptive words come up when I think of this but my favourite one is: COWARD (it is truly deserving of all possible emphasis). A break up devoid of any emotional attachment from a relationship lacking in emotion and any apparent attachment. And so perpetually-single April was born and her string of disappointing and occasionally heart-wrenching dating experiences started.

I originally sat down to weave that web of a story for you. To share the relationship and break up (an amazingly epic break up, no less) that surreptitiously set up my future dating attempts. It's the tale my friends urged me to write down, and part of what motivated this blog in the first place. Stories of my dating faux pas, dating forays, and horrid tales designed to warn you all against making whatever ridiculous mistakes I make time and time again. And here I sit, realizing my biggest mistake of all time, that I make, all the time.

I am terrible at living in the now (and I am unable to say those words without Wayne's World entering my brain). I spend an inordinate amount of time rehashing my dating past when I'm starting something new in my dating present. At best, I go a couple of months of dating bliss (where I'm blissfully ignorant of bullshit and am completely twitterpated) before old wounds fester and seep into my thoughts, slowly leaking doubt and hesitation. Inevitably, the comparison starts, and my mind kicks into high gear - actively over-analyzing every minute detail of my past, looking for clues that will lend to deciphering whatever hieroglyphics await in my new relationship. It's fucking exhausting. And it creates a myriad of problems for me. Which in turn starts to create a myriad of problems (overt or otherwise) in whatever relationship I'm in.

Why do I let myself slide into this pattern time and time again? Why am I constantly standing in my own way? My mom used to tell me when I was younger that I was my own worst enemy - oh how right she was (there, I admitted it). The fact is, right now there is just no need for these mental acrobatics. Today, and for the past three months, I have no reason to do anything but smile in anticipation and full-on twitterpation. In this moment, I have no basis for doubt outside of my own shitty past experiences oozing their way into the present. So I'm going cold turkey. Fuck the past. Fuck the idiots who never appreciated what was standing before them. Fuck the guys who didn't have the guts to hack a relationship with me (since it always seemed so entirely frightening). And fuck the morons who chose cowardice. I refuse to let you interrupt my happy present, or stifle my exciting future.

According to an Instagram post (which we know is where all life truths reside), "Your past is meant to teach you, not hold you hostage." What a novel idea, learning from your mistakes. How intriguing, this whole concept of moving forward.


P.S. - As an attempt to figure out my (at times) ridiculous thought processes, I've started meditation. For reals. I scoffed at first when the roomie suggested it, but then I tried it a few times's helping. There's a clarity and focus in my every day I've struggled with finding for a long time. I'm like, so zen now (heavy on the sarcasm since I just spouted out a bunch of f-bombs and still lose my shit on the terrible drivers in this city). As per usual, there's a little bit of music in the background of this post, and lending itself to a more chill April is the incomparable Bon Iver, so check out a track from his new release (that I'm devouring on the daily):

Sunday, 18 September 2016

Oops, I Did it Again

I'm referring more to my prolonged absence, but now I'm singing Britney circa 2000 and it's going to be stuck in my head for days. Does my knowledge of pre-mental breakdown Britney Spears lyrics age me in an unflattering way? I mean, I did just turn 34 years old (frighteningly close to 35, placing me within striking distance of 40 and that is fucking scary). I can't quite decide if 34 is genuinely old, or if I feel that way since my knees have betrayed me with their creaking and cracking. And when did hangovers become such a bitch to get over? In my 20s I assumed I would become such a veteran at over-imbibing, hangovers would be a breeze. Not the case at all. But I digress.

I've been monumentally silent (again, I know) for the last few months. As usual, summer rolled around and life became hectic and I rarely had a moment to sit down with my thoughts, let alone process them in written form and jot them down for you. I also toyed with abandoning the blogosphere (again, I know). I spent the majority of the past eight-ish months yo-yo-ing between apathy and staggering amounts of frustration when it comes to my perpetual search for love (who are we kidding, I've spent the last eight fucking years feeling that way). Yet another post about yet another 30-something woman's struggles in the dating world seemed so...redundant. So I neglected you and went about my summer; flitting from home, to the lake, the Calgary Stampede, to the lake, and back to home sweet home, Saskatoon.

In the midst of racking up thousands of kilometres on my car, my apathy and frustration with dating disappeared. Spending time with family and friends puts things into perspective for me; those amazing humans have a way of soothing my soul and filling my heart. Doesn't hurt when a drunken April (in fine Stampede form, let me tell you) is introduced to an actual man and that weaves its way into an actual relationship. (Like how I slid that in there?) Yes, that's right, there's a gentleman caller in my life, and he's lovely. (Am I playing it cool enough? I'm trying to be laid back; in reality I'd like to litter this paragraph with sappy phrases, heart emojis, and exclamation points...I'm employing a tremendous amount of self-restraint.) However, I didn't sit down to write with the intention of singing his praises (however amazing he may continually prove to be...sorry, it can't be helped, I'm twitterpated).

I did sit down with the intention of figuring out whether or not I should keep writing this here blog. My cyclical notion of deleting the blog stems from a shit ton of self-doubt when it comes to writing (if I can be so bold as to call myself a writer). Much of this blog has been cathartic for me, a way to get those feelings of frustration and apathy out of my head. Inevitably when I sit down to write one thing, a post morphs itself into something completely different - I become aware of what is truly weighing on me. But since I'm insanely self conscious about what I toss out into the writing atmosphere, I constantly second-guess myself and assume it's shit and I should stop. Part and parcel of the writing process, right?

I have decided not to let the demons win.

I don't quite know what that means. Some things might not be very funny, or very good. It's possible not everything from here on will be about dating/love/relationships/etc. Who knows what will work its way out of the woodwork of my mind. I might reach into the past and share some epic break-up stories I wish were only make believe. I might ask for suggestions, or I might pick one of the many unfinished posts lingering on my computer and finally fucking finish one. Or two. Who knows.

What I do know is the urge to write keeps rearing its ugly head, and I don't think I should ignore it...yet.


P.S. - Currently in rotation, The 1975. This song, in particular, pairs incredibly well with solo apartment dance parties. Also, it successfully removed Britney Spears from my head, so, you're welcome.

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

It's the Little Moments That Count Too Much

There was a moment a few weeks ago. A passing glance without a hint of acknowledgment that managed to send a lovely day careening into the depths of my emotional bullshit. I was in line at Starbucks, in the midst of enjoying my day. A day designed to make me nothing but happy. I walked through a light mist of rain into downtown Saskatoon, had acupuncture, bought a hydrangea plant, and stopped for a coffee on my way home. I've spent a lot of time over the past six months this way, scrambling to find some semblance of myself in the wreckage he left as he walked out of my apartment in December. I’ve been trying to spite him somehow. To arrive in the future ahead of him in some way - maybe with some arbitrary accomplishment like a relationship, or perhaps just to arrive at that moment in such a state of ambivalence toward him that his lack of acknowledgment would mean nothing. Six months of simultaneously dreading that moment, and doing everything I can to be ready for it.

We all know that moment. The one where your heart plummets to the floor because you’ve spotted that person you care(d) about for the first time since whatever it was they did to you; and despite already feeling the hole in your heart from their casual stab into it, they manage to twist the knife ever so slightly deeper by completely ignoring you.

Yeah. That fucking moment.

I stood there bewildered as he walked past me, glanced my way, and ushered his…friend (read: chick I'm pretty sure he's now with, not just fucking around with)…to the end of the line. I began to vibrate. I do this, in these moments. When I see someone who had a profound effect on me, yet I yearn for them to have no effect at all. I vibrate, as though the emotions raging in my mind have organized themselves into a hum reverberating throughout my body. I can only hope the vibrations are not actually palpable - it would negate the enormous effort I make to maintain my cool-as-a-fucking-cucumber exterior. My heart (after returning to its rightful home in my chest and not hanging around in my shoes) pounds so loudly I’m convinced everyone can hear its violent beating. At times, I feel almost near implosion - which would be helpful, as then I wouldn’t have to endure the awkwardness of trying to maintain my shit whilst strategically holding my hydrangea plant to obscure me from view.

Every ounce of hurt I had been holding onto came flooding in, and I suddenly found myself not only fighting to maintain some semblance of a human form, but also fighting back a tear. What the fuck, April? Seriously. It’s been six months. Why does this fucking matter anymore? He has clearly moved on, and you’re standing here rattled by the sight of him with his new fling. Fuck you, asshole. Fuck you for stringing me along and then snatching away something that finally felt good. Fuck you for making me feel like a big fat bag of ass over something so trivial as spotting you in a coffee shop. Fuck. You. (End April's fuck-laden inner monologue.)

I hastily retreated with my iced chai latte, hearing the faint ping announcing the arrival of a message. I had furiously fired messages to my friends seeking some placating bullshit that would calm me down. Instead, one of my best friends Beans fired back with a tender truth: "It's about's a little about him, but mainly about you.”

My first instinct was to deny, deny, deny. What the fuck are you talking about Beans?? I mean, the guy pursued me. Hard. We spent a significant amount of time together for the three-ish months we were, ummm, together? And there it is - a little hit of insight. I've been clinging to a fucking non-relationship, and I've wallowed for six months because of a fucking non-break up (there are apparently many more than zero fucks to give here). I'm quite certain that for us to have had a relationship, the other party would have to refrain from planning a trip to England (yes, ANOTHER FUCKING CONTINENT) solely to screw some broad there. It follows, then, that a non-break up would happen when he shared that little tidbit of information with me after I spent the night sharing his bed. You're right, Beans. I've let that moment have far more than the time it's due, and now I'm done. I'm exhausted from carrying that punched-in-the-gut feeling everywhere I go. I'm so fucking spent from letting someone else's choice dictate my feelings. And I am definitely done with curating my life to make someone (who doesn't deserve my energy) jealous. I allow that to happen all too often in my life. 

Let’s live life in the pursuit of happiness for the right reason - for ourselves, not out of spite for someone else.


P.S. - How could I be a scorned woman without Adele to guide me through!? The timing of her new single and this post could not be better. And neither could her eyebrows in this vid.

Friday, 10 June 2016

Fan Girl

I'm going to nerd out here for a second. Well really for a few minutes. Don't judge. If you are going to judge, well fuck you. But keep reading the blog please. That was a friendly fuck you, not a fuck off. Anyway.

I have been waiting for tonight since, well, almost as long as I can remember. Since I first heard The Dance. Since that song ushered my grandma and grandpa's caskets out of a funeral home and gently into a hearse. Since my cousin and I belted out Friends in Low Places for the first time, somehow sealing our friendship in a single song. Since I met one my closest friends, spending a summer working with her and unabashedly pelting the Saskatchewan landscape with many renditions of Shameless. Since I heard Unanswered Prayers and realized when I send tiny hopes out into the universe, there is something so much bigger at work than all of those lost wishes. Since I had my first road trip with the roomie, barreling out to Table Mountain for some snowboarding, nearly screaming out Ain't Goin' Down. Ever since To Make You Feel My Love drifted through my stereo, helping me realize someone in my life was just not the right person - because I didn't feel even a fraction of love the way that song describes. Since The Change became my mantra for hard, emotional, scary days at work. Since that same best friend sat across the table from me, hazily drunk on wine and scotch, singing Shameless once more and vowing we would find Garth, and we would see him.

This weekend, it's finally happening. Twice. (I'm grinning from ear to ear right now, and if it was acceptable to inundate this post with sentences in all capitals and so many emojis, I would. But I'm trying to be a grown up here.)

I've heard some comments of ridicule about the nearly 90 000 people who are flocking to see Garth Brooks this weekend. You may choose to make fun of me for my unabashed love of country music and you may even think it's ridiculous of me to write a blog post dedicated to this one night - to one country music artist. Before you get your judgey pants on, let me just say something.

I am a huge fan of music, when I say there's a song on repeat while I'm writing it's the absolute truth. There is always music on in my home, and absolutely in my car. Road trips are not complete without the proper soundtrack - and that ALWAYS includes Garth Brooks for me. I would hazard a guess that nearly all of us have a song (or ten) that have touched our lives in some way. Moments of the past inextricably linked to a song or an artist. Memories become nearly tangible when the chords of that one song float through the speakers. For you, that song might be by Metallica, The Beatles, Death Cab for Cutie, Drake, Snoop Dogg, Waylon Jennings, or Nickelback (let's all fucking hope that last one isn't actually true...I'm such a hypocrite). For me, there are so many moments tied to a Garth Brooks song. Break-ups, heartaches, good times, beers, dancing, loss, love and every possible situation in-between.

So tonight, I will lose my shit when he steps on stage and morph into a Bieber-esque crazy fan girl. Garth promised to kick my ass, and I certainly hope he does. This one is at the top of my bucket list so for me, it deserved a few words (I've already bungeed, sky-dived, and gone cage diving with Great Whites, just so you know).


Friday, 13 May 2016

On Nurses (And How Fucking Amazing They Are, Since I'm One of Them)...

Boy (after some generic introduction or a terrible pick-up line): "So, what do you do for a living?"

April: "I'm a Registered Nurse."

Boy (I say boy because I haven't really met an actual man in a long time): visible interest in April perks up. Invariably there is a chauvinistic question about the uniform (either picturing a stripper-esque teensy white dress with thigh-high stockings or believes what's under the scrubs is a fabulous pandora's box of sexuality) or makes a remark about "always wanting to find a sugar mamma." There's probably some cheesy remark about nurses being angels thrown in for good measure. Dismay quickly sets in when he realizes I wear the equivalent of baggy pyjamas to work and while I may appear angelic, the trucker mouth and unique nursing sense of humour is a perfect addition to the fact that my scrubs are likely covered in any number of bodily fluids that no one wants to know about.

All kidding and stereotypes aside, yesterday marked the culmination of National Nurses Week (and due to technical difficulties I had to delay posting this). I haven't blatantly advertised my profession here on the blog, and I'm not one to waltz around on a high horse making sure everyone knows what I do for a living. But, this profession that I stumbled upon and have come to love fiercely, changed my life so drastically; my nursing colleagues are such brave, ridiculously hilarious, and amazing humans - I had to say a little something about nursing, at least from my perspective.

I truly lucked into nursing. I was nearing the end of a physiology degree with the intent of heading into medicine and becoming a doctor, and I was at a crossroads. I wrote the MCAT, and ended up one point short on the physics section (my arch-nemesis, fucking physics). My choices were...take the one class I had left remaining as a prerequisite for my physiology degree and fill up the remainder of a full load with classes that would lend to upping my overall average (and thus make me look somewhat intelligent), or find something that could lead to an actual job. Enter a serendipitous admission to the second degree nursing program at the University of Sask. I started nursing in May of 2006, and completed it in May of 2008 - an insanely gruelling two years that ground out an entirely different person than the one who shyly entered the lecture theatre at the start.

My convocation from nursing came along with some of the most life-altering circumstances I've experienced. The first time I left Canada was at the ripe old age of twenty-five, when I trekked across the globe to spend six weeks nursing in a rural area of Mozambique, accompanied by five other amazing women (one of whom has become one of my closest and dearest people, and my non-lesbian life partner/ex-roommate). I arrived home from three months of travel in Southern Africa a freshly single and far more adventurous version of myself (one day I'll share that break-up story with was, interesting), and started a full-time job in the real world on one of the more emotionally challenging wards a nurse could choose - oncology.

I have worked for a total of eight years as a nurse - six on oncology, and the last two in intensive care. My experience is by no means exhaustive, and I definitely have not "seen everything." I have definitely seen some things...I've cared for someone bleeding to death in a most unfortunate way. I've held dying hands and shed tears quietly in the bathroom afterward. I watch time and time again as families and friends cross the emotional chasm of "do everything," to "it's time to let them go." I have had some of the most difficult conversations a person will ever have in their life, requiring brutal honesty in order to bring someone into the reality of their situation instead of clinging to one last shred of hope. When you break it down to the absolute bear bones of reality, us nurses see and do some pretty ridiculous shit.

Craziness aside, I am in love with this job. I may not always like it (say, when you turn a patient and have to dodge actual projectile shit with Matrix-like precision), but I am in love with it. And the good - oh the good of this job - far outweighs any of the bad experiences. I've been so very lucky to derive so much good from this job. From working with some of the most courageous, miraculous and strong people who fight tooth and nail for their lives - to equally amazing humans who accept death's inevitability and the heart-wrenching fact that for some it comes all too early. Nursing has given me some of my closest and most important friends, and it has given me courage. It has given me a unique perspective on life, and allowed me to work through difficult situations in my own life with a keen understanding of where my priorities need to lie (and large quantities of wine).

Nursing is not a profession for the faint of heart, and thank goodness for that. There is no group of people I would want alongside me other than those I am deeply fortunate to call my friends and coworkers. These men and women are so much more than angels - they are intelligent, disgustingly hilarious (and I mean rankly, awfully, grossly humorous), big-hearted, caring, and empathetic individuals; I am honoured to work with them. It is such a privilege to be a nurse - we witness the amazing capacity of human beings daily, and have the honour of working with and helping people through some of their worst days. How blessed we are.


Sunday, 8 May 2016

On Mother's Day...

I, am not a mother. (I know you know this, but bear with me.)

If you've been following the blog, you know I can't conceive children naturally (if you need a refresher, click here). I've spent the last number of years coming to terms with my infertility; and more recently, with the idea that motherhood, in the traditional (or maybe any) sense, may not be in the cards for me. I'm not being whiny or searching for sympathy when I say that - it's simply my reality. Regardless, motherhood is something I've coveted since I was little. I grew up in a generation where expectations of women were still entangled with marriage and child bearing (much to the chagrin, I'm sure, of feminists everywhere). And because I have the mother that I do, I desperately wanted to be a mom, too.

My mother - Momsy to me - is one of the most beautiful human beings I know. Usually I would join countless others on Facebook as they espouse their amazing mothers - but today, I have a little more to write than a status update should allow, and a new (to me) perspective on motherhood to share.

I am incredibly proud to call my mother, Momsy. She has not only sacrificed the world over for my brother and I, but is also one of the most kind-hearted, funny, intelligent, generous, and beautiful women I have ever met. But that's not the whole of it; I now realize my pride in my mother comes just as much from who she is outside of being my marvellous Momsy. She is a fierce supporter of her friends and family - if you fuck with them, she will fuck with you right back (she would not say fuck as much as I do, to be clear, but the statement stands). She is not, and never has been (at least it seems to me) afraid to be exactly who she is; and I aspire daily to carry that into my own life. I have watched her tenderly devote her time to caring for friends and cherished family members at the end of their life, and I know precisely where my inspiration for nursing came from. I've watched over the last number of years as my Momsy has grown in her own right - creating a life and an identity for herself (and dragging my dad into her bustling social life) - which is possibly what makes me the most proud of her, and gives me strength in moving forward on my own. How fortunate my brother and I are, to have such a woman to call mother.

It's obvious why I would emulate such an example and strive to be even half the mother my Momsy has been to my brother and I. Having spent many years clinging to a traditional view of motherhood that my own reality doesn't quite support, I struggle in coming to grips with my situation. Now, I realize there are couples who have adopted, women who have chosen to pursue artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization on their own, and blended families who would all passionately argue the idea that motherhood is not based solely in a biological connection. But I'm stubborn and I take fucking forever to work through things, so it's taken me a long time to envisage an alternate concept of motherhood not hinging on me expelling a tiny human from my vagina.

I spent a sunny Saskatoon Saturday with my mom and a close family friend who, coincidentally, was like a second mother to me growing up. As we sat at lunch sipping our rosé and devouring delicious pizza, it hit me - my shot at motherhood isn't completely gone just because I'm not going to pump out 2.5 kids and raise them in a house with a white picket fence. In my mind, motherhood is just as much about striving to be a strong, independent, intelligent, graceful, and beautiful woman as it is about raising children to follow suit. If my identity as a woman doesn't need to be tied to childbearing, then a mother's identity is still just as much about her being the woman she is as it is about her being a mother.

I'm beyond fortunate to have my own Momsy as a prime example, but I also grew up with women around me who I have always regarded as the epitome of strength and grace. As I navigated my way into womanhood, I was fortunate to make friends who astound me with their capacity for love, friendship, and courage. And now, I get to witness some of these same women becoming mothers themselves, and I get to participate in their children's lives as Auntie April, something I cherish every minute of. My version of motherhood may not look like what I pictured at five years old, but I can certainly strive to be a strong female example for the children around me. I may not be a mother per se, but I can definitely set my sights on being the best damn Auntie those fucking kids will ever have.

At some point I'll get the whole grace thing down, I promise.


P.S. - As always, there's been a song on repeat while I've hammered out this post. It's a song that is forever entwined with thoughts of my own good mother...I will never be able to say or do enough to express how fortunate I am to have the parents I do, but this song always seems to sum it up so perfectly, "I've got a good mother, and her voice is what keeps me here...feet on ground, heart in hand, facing forward, be yourself."

Happy Mother's Day, Momsy.

Sunday, 13 March 2016

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle...Really?

Reality, after 10 hazy, sunny, beer-filled days in Mexico, bites. Reality means donning lulu lemon pants and a bunny hug when I wake up instead of a bathing suit. Reality is looking out my window to see a dirty, snowy street with bare tree branches instead of palm trees and mangrove. Sometimes I do question living in a prairie city that spends more time below zero than not. Alas, here I am. As I touched down in Saskatoon and took my phone off airplane mode, the actuality of my love(less) life came into sharp focus.

A: Hey, how are you? Any days off this week?

At first glance, a totally innocuous message. The context however - oh, the context - is convoluted and ridiculous, and a prime example of my dating life. Mr. A and I met a couple of years ago, we started dating, and things seemed to be going well (if I had a nickel…). He joined me on a New Year’s snowboarding trip, and morphed into a complete jackass; a total 180 from what I knew of him to that point. We spent a silent 16 hour car ride home, went on one more date, and didn’t speak to each other again. The end to another in a long line of flawed relationship attempts.

Fast forward to this past summer, and we find ourselves on opposing slo-pitch teams and ending up at the same bar for post-game beers. Since mutual friends and friendly competition forced it, we talked and navigated the awkwardness so as to be friendly when we run into each other (entirely inevitable in this small-town “big” prairie city). Later in the summer I started getting messages asking me to “hang out;” which I politely declined given that at the time, I was seeing someone (or so I thought, turns out he was playing the field and deftly fooling me into falling in love with him…see previous post). Now here I am, receiving an inquiry and an invitation as a welcome home. I turned him down once already. Our attempt at dating did not go particularly well, and it ended in a relatively uncomfortable way. What exactly makes him think a second go round would be a resounding fucking success!?

I should come clean. I’m the queen of giving people second chances. My first real boyfriend was someone I broke up with after a year of dating, and then got back together with after being apart for a year. I spent almost two years going back and forth with the next guy I dated - we repeatedly slunk back into each other’s life one way or another. I spent the better part of my 30th year going back and forth with a certain someone from Regina, fooling myself over and over into thinking it could work. My most recent heartbreak was courtesy of someone I reconnected with last August after having had a few dates earlier that year. Are we sensing a pattern here?

I will shamefully admit, for a brief second - as I sat waiting to get off the plane and get home - I wondered, should I be giving A a second chance? A brief moment of weakness (and stupidity) followed by a tidal wave of epiphany from the ocean I had just finished swimming in. I’ve reached a point in my dating experience where it is an available option to recycle dates. Sure, the occasional fresh meat is thrown in the mix; but in large part, my dating life is littered with reruns. Filler, until I get to the real thing. Is this inevitable? Does everyone eventually start circling back to past lovers, wondering if they're worth a second look? Is this what happens when your dating philosophy hinges on questions like "why not?" and "what if?"

What dangerous questions, especially when applied to your love life and past loves. My numerous failed dating attempts, are exhibit A. Somewhere along the line, I allowed myself to tumble down the slippery slope of “what if?” and it’s led me nowhere but into a maze of shit. I remember, having a conversation with one of my aunts about my love life and I told her I was somehow convinced the man of my dreams (whoever he may turn out to be, if he is in fact meant to be in my life) is someone I have already met. What a twisted way to live out a self-fulfilling prophecy (and what the fuck do I know about who Mr. Right might be…I’m the one who keeps selling herself short).

What if I re-framed the question “what if?” Instead of always asking myself that when I meet someone…maybe I should be looking at myself, my own life, and saying “what if?” There is a shift happening inside me, a possible byproduct of my last foray into dating and having my heart broken in a way I didn't think was possible anymore. What if I take the emphasis away from finding a relationship? What if I focus instead on forming a life I want, without having constant consideration for the mysterious Mr. Right who may materialize one day? What if, instead of allowing myself to recycle old feelings and lovers, I break the cycle and move forward, on my own?

What if?

(I'm thinking the same thing you's about fucking time, April.)


Tuesday, 8 March 2016

Where My Ladies At?

I've now sat here, staring at a blank screen, for about 20 minutes. I've written and subsequently erased a number of opening sentences for this post, attempting to introduce what I regard as one of the most complicated subjects on the planet.


You may giggle, thinking I'm making light of the fact that men often voice their woes about dealing with the female gender. This is partially true - I've been asked numerous times (as my perpetual single status lingers on) if I've ever considered "switching teams" and becoming a lesbian. My usual answer to this is a quip along the lines of my adverse reaction to dealing with another crazy chick (because I myself, am a little wacky sometimes). I realize this plays into every terrible stereotype and does nothing to aid our gender in moving forward toward genuine equality. I will admit, I'm not the best feminist. In reality, the subject of women and the myriad of issues facing our gender across the world is staggeringly complicated.

As part of a growing demographic of single women, my view on the subject is of course steeped in my own experience. I am but a speck on the horizon of the female experience; but I'm increasingly coming across literature about single women and how their growing numbers are influencing society. As part of this spinster movement, I can't help but devour anything coming across my path that speaks to this - I've just finished Kate Bolick's Spinster: Making a Life of One's Own, a piece of writing I'm still digesting as it speaks directly to my very single soul, who struggles constantly with societal expectations (however outdated they may be) and my own goals in life. I've come across articles in Maclean's and New York Magazine, adding to my growing collection of information about what it means to be a single woman in today's day and age (click the links to read the articles).

It's International Women's Day, and the theme for celebrating women this year is drenched in gender parity. It calls for women to have parity with men; equality in status. I might be a terrible feminist, and I'm quite certain this blog has played into the stereotypical issues that have plagued women for centuries, but it always comes as a surprise to me that our society still struggles with this issue. I could launch into a rant about gender parity, but truthfully my knowledge on the issue is sparse and I'm a relatively non-political person. I've been a part of the largely female-dominated profession of nursing for 8 years now, and am fortunate enough to know that my male counterparts make precisely the same amount of money as I do, and may actually experience what some women may come across in their male-dominated workplaces.

When it comes to being a woman, I can only speak for myself - we are a complicated bunch; our lives are a unique tangle of expectations, dreams, emotions, goals, and struggles. My worth as a woman is sometimes still entangled with my inability to bear children, harkening back to the caveman view of women as part of a production line for the human race. I grew up grappling with viewing myself as "womanly;" a skinny, flat-chested girl who spent more time with the boys next door drowning bugs in a pool and playing with Lego than I did with the girls, playing Barbies and dress-up. I endured ridicule because I didn't have breasts, and didn't quite fit into the feminine mould adolescent boys (and fully-grown men, even now) had in mind. I, like every other woman on Earth, struggle with my body and my self-esteem. My negative experiences pale in comparison to those sustained by so many women around the world - genital mutilation, domestic violence, and inequality to a horrendous degree...just to name a few.

Despite any negativity I have experienced, from within just as much as without, I am a woman. And I would be nowhere without the women in my life who are a constant source of strength, inspiration, and grace. It would be easy to attribute that solely to my mother - she is hands-down the most influential woman in my life. But I have been incredibly fortunate to collect the most amazing friends, and to create friendships with the women in my family. I have watched these women face every circumstance - divorce, single parenthood, death, domestic violence, mental health struggles, and basically just life - with so much courage and grace it brings tears of pride to my eyes.

So today, I want to recognize the women in my life: my mother, grandmothers, aunts, cousins, coworkers, and friends. You inspire me, every day. I am in awe of how you move yourselves through life, taking so many different kinds of struggle in stride, and exuding so much grace. I am blessed to have shared tears, laughter, conversation, and love with you.


P.S. - Adding to the ever-growing soundtrack of my life (and blog), this song crept into my thoughts and onto my iTunes while I wrote...

Monday, 8 February 2016

The Human Condition

If it’s cliché of me to return to blogging after breaking in a brand new year, I don’t give a shit. I’m well past the point of being fashionably late to wish you a happy new year, which is good; I don’t need to engage in a conversation about my resolutions, or lack thereof. I don’t make resolutions, because I think they’re as much bullshit as the over-hyped holiday they’re associated with. The over-hyped, stupid holiday…that I buy into every year, hoping one night will miraculously erase the crap in my life and I’ll wake up January 1st invigorated, with a fresh outlook, and maybe even with a boyfriend (or at least someone I shared a magical first kiss with at midnight...I am that cheesy).

If I had one of those really loud, annoying buzzers from a game show that signals the very WRONG answer, I would use it right now.

Did I awake and find some amazing man in bed who materialized overnight to sweep me off my feet? Hell fucking no. Did a night of champagne shot-skis and drinking games erase the emotional baggage I’ve gained over the past year(s)? Of course fucking not! (It was a lot of fun though.) Is my path in life now cleanly laid out in front of me with a rainbow and a pot of gold at the end? You guessed it - NO! I have no fucking clue what I’m doing 99.9% of the time; though I am apparently upping the fuck quotient in my vocabulary.

You know what I did wake up to on New Year's Day? Me. April. All of my intelligence, wit, beauty, neurotic tendencies, insecurities, and quirks that make me, me. I woke up and spent the first day of 2016 snowboarding with one of my closest friends; breathing in the crisp mountain air, soaking in the sunshine of a pure bluebird day, and relishing the feeling of my board cutting down the mountain (with a lot less powder than I’d like, but hey, as a prairie girl I will NEVER complain about a day in the mountains). Me…and the human jumble that I am.

There was someone in my life for a few months at the end of 2015. Something was happening with someone, and it was…something. It was a connection I never knew I always wanted. This something was deceptively simple. It was rare, and somehow simultaneously exciting and comfortable. I was twitterpated. I could see it becoming official, and amazing. And I could not have been further off-base. As subtly and easily as it began, it unfurled in a stupefying confession and left me bewildered, and with the heaviest of hearts.

During our parting conversation he said something that surreptitiously laid the groundwork for this post. After apologizing for his behaviour, which he realized had led me to believe he also intended for our thing to become something...maybe even the thing, he said he "needed to be the best version of himself in order to fully commit to one person."

Insert gameshow buzzer here. WRONG.

This has been pulling at me for a while. It's been winding around inside my mind, slowly coming to the forefront. It does seem crucial to me that a person would want to be the best version of themselves for their someone else. I want to be my best self for that person (if I should ever fucking find him). But...we're human beings. However pristine our exterior, it belies the tumultuous interior of a human. At our core, we have hearts and emotions that defy all logic. Those hearts and emotions can muddle things, especially relationships. We can strive for perfection, for our "best version," but there's always going to be a bit of mess, it's inevitable. We're humans, and we fuck shit up (maybe more often than we care to admit). Case and point: being so much of a mess that you throw away the woman standing in front of you saying she wants you just as you are, mess and all.

I don't (only) want the best version of you, because I won't always be the best version of me.


P.S. - Because Bon Iver is the embodiment of sad bastard music, this song must be shared. And because this post turned into my heartbreak instead of whatever vision I started out with. Also, because it might tug at your heartstrings as much as mine and then I won't be the only sap with a tear or two in her eyes.

Monday, 1 February 2016

Some beach...somewhere...

Ladies and gentlemen, we are 8 days away from vacation and I cannot contain my excitement. That's right, I'm eagerly counting down the moments until I step onto the plane, settle into my seat, and order a caesar.

Mexico, I'm coming for you.

So today, as I distractedly put the finishing touches on my next post, I will share this with you. My current mood. In 8 days, I will be on a beach sipping whatever concoction tickles my fancy (likely something with a substantial amount of rum in it), reading Shantaram, and working on my freckles.

I will not apologize for unashamedly announcing my impending high dose of sunshine. If you don't like it, fuck off. These past couple of months have perhaps not been the easiest, and I need some fucking sunshine. I need to breathe in the salty ocean air, have my hair defy all logic in its ability to become a frizzy mess, and I need to get the fuck out of Saskatoon for a minute or two.

See? I really need a vacation.


Monday, 18 January 2016

Return of the Prodigal Single Girl.

I'm the biggest flake ever. Four months ago I said I had a Matt Corby song on repeat and I was working on my next post...

...four months ago.

Oops. Quite the little hiatus I took there, hey?

Don't worry, there are no delusions of grandeur here. I'm quite certain no one was religiously checking their computers to see if I had posted something new. To be honest, I was contemplating deleting this blog. I know, in the grand scheme of things, that my trite musings about dating and my perpetual singledom are just that - trite. Trivial. Superficial. Trifling.

In the grand scheme of things - in light of terribly frightening world events and a tragic family loss - my incessant single status is the last thing I should worry about. Yet I keep circling back to love, and my lack of it (in a manly, romantic, boyfriend-type of way). Love is something I continue to want in my life, for some absurd reason. It's this one elusive thing - a part of my life that just won't seem to work out, despite how hard I might try (or not try, since that's everyone's advice - "It'll happen when you least expect it," or "You just have to stop trying, then it'll happen." Fuck off everyone, it's not happening).

Somehow, spitting this out into the universe helps. Writing has always been the best way for me to figure out what the fuck is really on my mind. There are diaries tucked away at my parents' house full of teenage angst and twenty-something, tear-stained pages. At first, the idea of blogging scared the shit out of me; baring this part of my life and my emotions about it is certainly not the easiest thing I've ever done. And though I might be a little late to the blogging craze, it's become quite the outlet for me. Or at least I'm fooling myself into thinking my vague ambitions of writing something meaningful can someday be realized. Practice makes perfect, right?

So. You're stuck with me. Maybe not quite stuck, per se - if you're reading this, it's entirely your choice. But I'm still here. Still single, and still entirely frustrated with the prospect of continuing to be single. Scratch that, single life is not frustrating. Being single lets you make your life into exactly what you want it to be. It may be lonely - but it's something solely your own. Dating - the actual process of meeting people and getting to know them and deciding if they're worth the effort (because you've been spending so much single time figuring out how to make your life exactly as you want it)...that is the most frustrating fucking process on Earth.

So I'm here. Still single. And I'll keep writing about it, whether it matters or not.