I have something deeply embarassing to admit to you, dear readers. (However, since I imagine there's only one of you out there, I don't feel so shy about doing so.) I recently went to see a movie. I was supposed to go see something with friends but that didn't work out so I went by myself. AM I EVER GLAD I DID, because even though this movie was a comedy, one line made my stomach feel queasy and my heart squeeze in my chest. Before I even knew what was happening I had tears streaming down my face. It kinda bummed me out for the remainder of the show.
What was it? The Simpsons Movie. Yes, the one movie that I'm sure has made no one else cry in the whole world made me weep like a willow. The line came somewhere near the middle. Marge was mad at Homer for being such a dolt (surprise) and he was trying to defend himself against her attacks. He said that he's not really the type of guy who thinks very much, though he does admire people who do. Then he said the line that was so achingly beautiful and sad that it reached into my soul: I just try and make the day not hurt until I can crawl back into bed with you.
I realized that this is what I do all the time. I try to get through my days with as little thought as possible. In the mornings, I go for a walk before work. A lot of people would use this time for self-reflection and soul-searching. Not me, nope. I pop on the earphones and listen to music. Loudly. Then when I'm getting ready for work, I turn on the radio and listen to CBC. Sometime I get mad at the morning show host, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I ponder the problems in the world, sometimes I'm merely amused. What I don't do is turn those thoughs internally. For my walks to and from work, there's more music to silently sing along to. While I'm at work, I'm generally focused on the tasks I'm doing or the people I'm having lunch with. And finally, when I'm home again, I busy myself with television, radio, or (again) music. Even just before I go to bed, I read a few pages of whatever book I happen to be reading so that I'm thinking about the plot or characters as I'm drifing off.
From the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep, I do everything in my power to avoid thinking about myself. I'm pretty sure this is because I know, deep down, that I'm dreadfully unhappy, and I also don't believe there's a hell of a lot I can do about it, so why think about it too much, right? I'm doing what I can to "try and make the day not hurt." Some people turn to chemicals to do this. Apparently I turn to the entertainment industry and to socializing (with some chemicals thrown into the mix on the weekends).
I'm sure that I won't do anything with this new insight into myself but one thing's for sure: I'm going to be avoiding any so-called comedies from now on.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Observation
The distant noise of someone zooming around the interwebs with the scroll wheel of a mouse sounds much like my grandmother grinding her teeth.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Oh snap!
Scene: Nat is in an empty elevator, going to the cafeteria for something involving caffeine. The elevator stops at the third floor. Of course. The elevator always stops at the third floor. That's because people who work on the third floor fall unconscious to the ground if it is even suggested that they use the STAIRS to go to the 2nd floor. Anyway, the elevator doors open...
Shiny, bespectacled, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting golf shirt #1: Uh...[looks around] We'll, ah, we'll wait for the next one.
Shiny, bespectacled, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting golf shirt #2: Yeeeeaah...[nervously glances around] We'll wait.
[Doors close]
Nat: What the fuck?
Shiny, bespectacled, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting golf shirt #1: Uh...[looks around] We'll, ah, we'll wait for the next one.
Shiny, bespectacled, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting golf shirt #2: Yeeeeaah...[nervously glances around] We'll wait.
[Doors close]
Nat: What the fuck?
Sunday, August 26, 2007
To whom it may concern
I used to live in a house with no doors.
Well, to be more specific, I lived in a house with no bedroom doors. There was a bathroom door, a basement door, and deadbolt-encrusted front and back doors, but absolutely nothing separated the inner santum of our bedrooms from the raucous free-for-all of the upstairs hallway.
At first I HATED it. Where was the privacy? What was there to slam when I was mad at my sister or my mom? After a while, though, it wasn't bad - it just was. I forgot that it was an oddity and accepted it as normal. At night, if the three of us were going to bed at the same time, we'd lay in our respective beds and chat with each other about the books we were reading or the crappy days we had.
My sister scared the hell out of me countless times with her habit of talking loudly in her sleep. One time I was being so quiet because everyone else was sleeping, and, as I snuck by my sister's room, she shouted, "JUST GO TO HELL!" and then continued snoring. Almost made me fall backwards down the stairs.
Not only did I grow used to this flaw with the house, but I grew to love it, just as I grew to love all the other quirks and flaws. See that red stain on the ceiling? That's from my birthday when the wine-opener broke and we were forced to push the cork down into the wine bottle. My sister wasn't aware of the geyser effect that occurs when this is attempted with too much gusto. Notice how the second-from-bottom stair creaks loudly? That was the one to avoid when you had to sneak upstairs past curfew. Yes, the basement is gross and creepy, but it comes in handy when you want to freak out your friends. And yeah, the yard is full of tree roots and weeds - that just means we can play badminton in the yard without being told we're wrecking the grass.
Growing up, this was the one house I really felt at home in. I had always had a tenuous relationship with the notion of "place," due to the many moves we went through. By the time I entered university, I had lived in 6 houses, 1 apartment, and 1 condo in 5 different cities or towns. The longest I had ever stayed in one place was 5 years. The shortest was 1 month. But my mom stayed in the doorless house (both with and then without my sister and me) for 13 years. That's 13 Christmases-worth of memories. 13 birthdays, countless dinner parties, a scary break-in, and the lifespan of our family cat.
Now she's selling the house and I can't really think about it for too long because otherwise I start crying. I know it's irrational and silly, and that there will be fantastic times to be had in her new place, but I can't help it.
If you happen to buy the house with no doors, keep it that way, okay? And say hi for me.
Well, to be more specific, I lived in a house with no bedroom doors. There was a bathroom door, a basement door, and deadbolt-encrusted front and back doors, but absolutely nothing separated the inner santum of our bedrooms from the raucous free-for-all of the upstairs hallway.
At first I HATED it. Where was the privacy? What was there to slam when I was mad at my sister or my mom? After a while, though, it wasn't bad - it just was. I forgot that it was an oddity and accepted it as normal. At night, if the three of us were going to bed at the same time, we'd lay in our respective beds and chat with each other about the books we were reading or the crappy days we had.
My sister scared the hell out of me countless times with her habit of talking loudly in her sleep. One time I was being so quiet because everyone else was sleeping, and, as I snuck by my sister's room, she shouted, "JUST GO TO HELL!" and then continued snoring. Almost made me fall backwards down the stairs.
Not only did I grow used to this flaw with the house, but I grew to love it, just as I grew to love all the other quirks and flaws. See that red stain on the ceiling? That's from my birthday when the wine-opener broke and we were forced to push the cork down into the wine bottle. My sister wasn't aware of the geyser effect that occurs when this is attempted with too much gusto. Notice how the second-from-bottom stair creaks loudly? That was the one to avoid when you had to sneak upstairs past curfew. Yes, the basement is gross and creepy, but it comes in handy when you want to freak out your friends. And yeah, the yard is full of tree roots and weeds - that just means we can play badminton in the yard without being told we're wrecking the grass.
Growing up, this was the one house I really felt at home in. I had always had a tenuous relationship with the notion of "place," due to the many moves we went through. By the time I entered university, I had lived in 6 houses, 1 apartment, and 1 condo in 5 different cities or towns. The longest I had ever stayed in one place was 5 years. The shortest was 1 month. But my mom stayed in the doorless house (both with and then without my sister and me) for 13 years. That's 13 Christmases-worth of memories. 13 birthdays, countless dinner parties, a scary break-in, and the lifespan of our family cat.
Now she's selling the house and I can't really think about it for too long because otherwise I start crying. I know it's irrational and silly, and that there will be fantastic times to be had in her new place, but I can't help it.
If you happen to buy the house with no doors, keep it that way, okay? And say hi for me.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Kitchen bitchin'
To the horror of my younger (more radical) self, I work in an office. Of a financial institution. Do see that crowd in the distance? That's 22-year-old Nat leading a solidarity march to protest my bourgeois, capitalist existence. Just wave and smile.
Where was I? Right. I work in an office. I've sort of ended up here by accident, where an entry-level job turned into something a bit better, which turned into something that pays well but is mind-achingly boring and soul-destroyingly awful. Over the years, I've discovered that I don't quite fit in with the corporate culture here. Many of my colleagues have kids and spouses and cottages and minivans and fridges full of wine coolers and back decks with barbeques. I have a cool old apartment and three cats and I live in a state of arrested development that prevents me from even considering the possibility of being responsible for another human life.
I'm pretty sure that I was going somewhere with that but instead, I'll give you a photograph:
I know, I know. Bad shot. I didn't have my camera with me that day so I took that with my crappy cell phone camera. Anyway, to answer the question I can hear you asking as you squint and tilt your head, that is a tray of dirty dishes and three notes.
In my office, there is a large cafeteria on one floor, as well a small kitchen (fridge, microwave, coffee machine, sink) on each floor. There is a chronic problem of people ordering food from the cafeteria, taking the tray of deep fried, doughy goodness to their desks to eat, and then depositing the dirty dishes in the kitchen. It's quite unreasonable to expect them to go all the way to another floor to take their dishes back.
One day I arrived at work to find the above tray in the kitchen and a note saying Your mother doesn't live here, please take your dirty dishes to the cafeteria instead of expecting someone else to do it for you, Thank you.
This made me a bit mad. Not only did this note contain horrible abuses of the poor, misunderstood comma, but it was rife with outdated gender role stereotypes. So I (foolish Nat) added my own note. It said That's a bit of an outdated stereotype, don't you think? It's 2007.
Did it end there? No. Later that day a third and final note appeared saying Yeah, it's 2007 but how good does it sound to say, your father's 3rd wife is a liberated type who isn't going to pick up after some step kid from a husband she doesn't even love, and she is really just in the marriage because she is terrified of growing old alone! The bottom line is NOBODY is going to clean up after you so just take your own dishes to the cafeteria.
Who ARE these people I work with? I mean, jeez - my dad has only had TWO wives, not three.
Where was I? Right. I work in an office. I've sort of ended up here by accident, where an entry-level job turned into something a bit better, which turned into something that pays well but is mind-achingly boring and soul-destroyingly awful. Over the years, I've discovered that I don't quite fit in with the corporate culture here. Many of my colleagues have kids and spouses and cottages and minivans and fridges full of wine coolers and back decks with barbeques. I have a cool old apartment and three cats and I live in a state of arrested development that prevents me from even considering the possibility of being responsible for another human life.
I'm pretty sure that I was going somewhere with that but instead, I'll give you a photograph:
I know, I know. Bad shot. I didn't have my camera with me that day so I took that with my crappy cell phone camera. Anyway, to answer the question I can hear you asking as you squint and tilt your head, that is a tray of dirty dishes and three notes.
In my office, there is a large cafeteria on one floor, as well a small kitchen (fridge, microwave, coffee machine, sink) on each floor. There is a chronic problem of people ordering food from the cafeteria, taking the tray of deep fried, doughy goodness to their desks to eat, and then depositing the dirty dishes in the kitchen. It's quite unreasonable to expect them to go all the way to another floor to take their dishes back.
One day I arrived at work to find the above tray in the kitchen and a note saying Your mother doesn't live here, please take your dirty dishes to the cafeteria instead of expecting someone else to do it for you, Thank you.
This made me a bit mad. Not only did this note contain horrible abuses of the poor, misunderstood comma, but it was rife with outdated gender role stereotypes. So I (foolish Nat) added my own note. It said That's a bit of an outdated stereotype, don't you think? It's 2007.
Did it end there? No. Later that day a third and final note appeared saying Yeah, it's 2007 but how good does it sound to say, your father's 3rd wife is a liberated type who isn't going to pick up after some step kid from a husband she doesn't even love, and she is really just in the marriage because she is terrified of growing old alone! The bottom line is NOBODY is going to clean up after you so just take your own dishes to the cafeteria.
Who ARE these people I work with? I mean, jeez - my dad has only had TWO wives, not three.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Conversation with a cat
Lucy: [jump] Hi! Whatchya doin’?
Nat: Lucy, get off the couch. [shove]
Lucy: Oops! Hahaha! I accidentally fell off the couch! [jump] Sooooo…whatchya doin’?
Nat: I told you - get off the couch! [shove]
Lucy: Heeheeheeheehee! I did it again! Can you believe it? Silly me. [jump] Um, so where were we?
Nat: Geez, cat! You’re not allowed up here, remember? [shove]
Lucy: WOW! What is with me today? Maybe it’s an inner ear thing. Okay, this time, I’m jumping up there, sitting on your lap, and tilting my head just so. Maybe that’ll help. [jump]
Nat: WOULD YOU GET OFF…[looks down at the cutely tilted head] Aaawww, never mind. [petpetpet]
Lucy: [puuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr] I thought that might help.
Nat: Lucy, get off the couch. [shove]
Lucy: Oops! Hahaha! I accidentally fell off the couch! [jump] Sooooo…whatchya doin’?
Nat: I told you - get off the couch! [shove]
Lucy: Heeheeheeheehee! I did it again! Can you believe it? Silly me. [jump] Um, so where were we?
Nat: Geez, cat! You’re not allowed up here, remember? [shove]
Lucy: WOW! What is with me today? Maybe it’s an inner ear thing. Okay, this time, I’m jumping up there, sitting on your lap, and tilting my head just so. Maybe that’ll help. [jump]
Nat: WOULD YOU GET OFF…[looks down at the cutely tilted head] Aaawww, never mind. [petpetpet]
Lucy: [puuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr] I thought that might help.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Left behind
A month ago, I took this photo:
I've passed by this house every day for the last 4 years, while walking to and from work. The dishevelled yard and the GIGANTIC satellite dish never ceased to amuse me. I mean, who even has those anymore? Well, apart from sheep farmers from Kalkaringi, Australia. (Probably somewhere near here.)
Anyway, I decided to photograph the house and post it on my Flickr page. I gave it the title "Communicate with the Aliens."
Apparently, the aliens have responded because this is what I saw on my way home from work today:
Seeing this house being torn apart made me feel really odd and I can't quite put my finger on why. Maybe it has something to do with the ever-changing landscape of the modern city. (Blink and you've missed it.) Maybe it was the fact that a very solid piece of reality was soon to be no more and I had captured evidence of its existence.
Or maybe I was over-thinking things. Maybe that the crazy old coot who lived there with his five monstrous Rottweilers had finally made contact and the six of them hitched a ride outa here.
One thing is for certain. This lady was especially interested in the process.
Perhaps she was supposed to catch a ride with them and can't quite believe they left without her.
I've passed by this house every day for the last 4 years, while walking to and from work. The dishevelled yard and the GIGANTIC satellite dish never ceased to amuse me. I mean, who even has those anymore? Well, apart from sheep farmers from Kalkaringi, Australia. (Probably somewhere near here.)
Anyway, I decided to photograph the house and post it on my Flickr page. I gave it the title "Communicate with the Aliens."
Apparently, the aliens have responded because this is what I saw on my way home from work today:
Seeing this house being torn apart made me feel really odd and I can't quite put my finger on why. Maybe it has something to do with the ever-changing landscape of the modern city. (Blink and you've missed it.) Maybe it was the fact that a very solid piece of reality was soon to be no more and I had captured evidence of its existence.
Or maybe I was over-thinking things. Maybe that the crazy old coot who lived there with his five monstrous Rottweilers had finally made contact and the six of them hitched a ride outa here.
One thing is for certain. This lady was especially interested in the process.
Perhaps she was supposed to catch a ride with them and can't quite believe they left without her.
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