Broken Heart Rescue Balm – A Home Remedy

Before Broken Heart Rescue Balm

Now, I myself am not capable of incurring a broken heart (because I’m, you know, a superhero and all), but it occurred to me that perhaps some of you might need a fix for this particularly annoying human ailment.

Because sometimes the universe does things like, say, dump a person in your lap that seems to be super-special and you think, “Gosh, the universe isn’t so bad after all!  I should send a gift basket with a nice thank-you card tucked inside!”  But sometimes this seemingly kind gesture is tempered by the fact that the universe – being the sick little pulling-wings-off-flies little fucker that it is – also chose to dump a big fat ocean in between you and that special person and things just don’t work out.  (In the movies, this wouldn’t slow things down, of course, but instead would inspire a cinematic climax involving a bouquet of flowers being waved out the sunroof of a limo, or at the very least, a boombox serenade.  But alas, that universe is actually a parallel one, one that is less of an asshole than your own.)

So should you find yourself in the blue zone (not me, because of course, my own heart – yes, I have one…a tiny one – is made of high-grade titanium wrapped in Kevlar with a thick coating of Teflon, thus I am impenetrable by such weak emotions as anything resembling this ‘heartbreak’ that I have heard so much about), I have a few suggestions for you.

First of all – it is important to make the most of your wallowing.  It is like sweating out toxins.

Ingredients to have on hand:

1.  A plentiful supply of tissues (or for the environmentally friendly, a pillow that you don’t mind getting snot and tears all over).  A cat will also do.

2.  Chocolate.  This likely won’t help a whole lot, but it won’t hurt, either.

3.  Ice cream.  Ditto.  (And what the fuck if you get fat, you’re never going near anyone ever again anyway.)

4.  A large stack of trash magazines with a high volume of articles about LiLo, Britney, Jon and Kate Plus Eight, etc.  This will serve to show you that somebody else’s life probably sucks more than your own.

5.  The phone – for when your best friend calls repeatedly to offer condolences.

6.  Sleepy drugs that you can’t OD on, like Nyquil or Benedryl.  Feeling drowsy will help you feel vulnerable and sorry for yourself.  This is a good thing – if you can count on no one else to pity you, at least you can pity yourself.  Plus, you are probably sleep-deprived from all the being-in-love crap.  But under no circumstances should you indulge in alcohol or other recreational drugs just yet.  You don’t want to numb the pain or risk a drunk-dial.  So spoon yourself around that box of Kleenex and give in.

7.  Soft, comfy clothes (even better if you have one of his old sweaters to wrap yourself in.  But improvise if you must.  Just make sure you don’t coordinate.  You need to look as bad as possible.)

8.  Hot showers – though you don’t want to waste any wallowing time on grooming, you will need to periodically rinse the salt out of your eyes or you will risk going totally insane from the burning.  Even better if you can manage to actually cry in the shower.  This is another one of those cinematic acts that will make you feel like a tragic heroine, which is a highly desired state and a key ingredient in Broken Heart Rescue Balm.

9.  A box in which to put everything that reminds you of him – pictures, letters, gifts, anything and everything.  It all goes in.  You might think this goes against the rule of wallowing, but it doesn’t.  You see, you have been living with his photo next to your bed/on your fridge/on your computer for so long that the absence of them now will be more tear-jerking than if you just left them where they always were.   You may replace these items with other things, just make sure the substitutes will not, under any circumstances, make you laugh.  For example, replace his photo with a photo of a sad-looking puppy.  (Not a puppy you actually know, or else your angst will be re-directed, forcing you to begin the process of wallowing over him all over again once you finish crying over the puppy.)

10.  Male friends who think you are fabulous.  Surround yourself with them.  Don’t under any circumstances let them kiss you, though – at this point, you will just be reminded of the person you wish you were kissing and this may lead to contaminating a perfectly good friend with the broken heart virus.  Perhaps later you can come to some sort of friends-with-benefits kind of arrangement, but right now it is too soon….far, far too soon.

11.  Caller ID.  You do NOT want to have to deal with mothers or telemarketers right now.  They do not deserve to feel the burn you are giving the universe right now.

Take all ingredients in any combination desired or required, as quickly as possible before scar tissue begins to develop.  (For those of you with hearts, you really want to keep it as young and healthy and flexible as possible.  It’s good for the circulation.)

The next day, shovel all those used tissues into the compost, put on your hottest shoes  – with the highest, sharpest heels possible, all the better to drop-kick that asshole of a universe – and go back to planning your summer vacation.  Go somewhere fabulous, like Paris.

After Broken Heart Rescue Balm*

*Results not typical

The Curse of the Ringbearer

Some of you already know that I wear one of those oh-so-millenium symbols of feminine independence, the right-hand ring.  It’s one of those ‘marry yourself first’ kind of things – it went on right after I gave my last serious live-in the boot and it pretty much never comes off.  It’s a reminder to be a little more cautious in the future about what kind of crap I put on that same finger on the other hand.  (Yeah, okay…and it’s pretty…)

But today I took it off to do dishes (okay – fine - I wasn’t doing dishes.  It was to measure my finger for some half-baked Facebook quiz a friend challenged me to.  Whatever.  Shut up.)  No biggie, I put it back on right afterwards and carried on with my day (which still didn’t include doing the dishes, sadly).

Imagine my reaction when I had that ’something’s not right here’ tingling – and looked down to see that I had somehow put the ring on the wrong hand!!  You may be having trouble picturing it.  Okay, try this:  Imagine the reaction I would be likely to have if I looked down and saw a seriously pissed-off tarantula about to take a slice of my finger for lunch.

Why this drama, you ask?  Why the slightly mental overreaction?  Let me illustrate.

I’ve been proposed to a lot.  This is not a boast.  It is case in point of the fact that I possess that je ne sais quoi that brings out the crazy in people.  These proposals have ranged in seriousness from the dude who threw himself down on one knee three seconds after being introduced to me – to the tool who showed up at my parents’ house in a suit and tie, requesting an audience with them to ask for my hand (result:  mom, wearing her Rolling Stones tongue logo t-shirt, secretly wishing she were a drinker; dad, not saying a word, but quietly chuckling away to himself the whole time.)

People probably think that the reason I haven’t gotten married yet is because I have commitment issues (not really), or because I value my freedom too much (possibly), or maybe I just haven’t met the right guy (could be).

But I believe the real reason is this:  Every time some guy sticks a ring on my finger, I get hurt!  I don’t mean emotionally – no, I mean full-on physical, literal HURT.  Like with blood.  I swear to god.   Here, I’ll show you…

Ring # 1:   4th grade (shut up – it still counts).  Royden…somebody.  I arrive at school one day and on my desk is a small brown box.  Inside – a ring (gold with a green stone), 29 cents in change and a note on a scrap of paper that says, “Just a little something.”  Cute, huh?  Yeah, sure.  Until I tried the thing on, and immediately developed a horrifying rash highlighted by the bright green circle it left around the afflicted digit.  Not cute.  Not at all.  Of course, setting a pattern for later stages of my life, I still let him take me to the movies.  (Okay, so not a lot of actual blood in this one, but hang tight – I’m just setting the stage here, people.)

Ring #2:  Age 28.  Fiancee #1.  We’d been together for 10 years.  I’d moved out and moved back in about five times that year.  Things weren’t going so great.  In a final act of desperation, during lunch one day he comes over and does the whole one-knee thing (which I just find really silly – and my first thought at the time was “Shouldn’t he know I would find that silly?”).  Now, you should know that if this had happened about 10 years earlier – hell, five years earlier – I would have been ecstatic.  When I was in my early twenties, I wanted nothing more than to marry this guy.  A classic case of too little, too late.  And I believe the actual proposal went something like, “If we work things out, would you consider marrying me?”  (At that moment, a tiny rift occurred in the fabric of space/time and my younger self, overhearing this, paused in her browsing of china patterns and proceeded to slit her wrists.)

ANYWAY – the ring.  It was silver (score – I hate gold).  It wasn’t a diamond (score – at the time, I hated anything so traditional.  I have since been enlightened.  Though I still only approve of fair-trade bling.)  It was wrought in the shape of a sun; a recurring theme in our relationship…partly because of a dream we once shared of starting our own theatre company in Jamaica and partly something to do with me being (yeah, I know) the centre of his universe or something (yes, I am aware that the sun is only the centre of a very small solar system, not the whole universe.)

It didn’t take long.  As it turned out, the sun shape had some very pointy bits.  Which proceeded to completely shred my fingers.  One day it got so bad, I ripped the damn thing off and threw it across the bedroom, where it was forgotten about until later that day when it embedded itself in the sole of my foot.

Ring #3:  A couple of years later.  Fiancee #2.  This time I picked out my own ring – a simple silver band with a small round amethyst set flush with the rest of the band.  Loved it.  Until the day I was being rushed out of the apartment by F2 and in going to turn off the light, the ring somehow got caught on the corner of the switchplate.  In some freak moment of ridiculousness, the momentum was just right to force the ring to open up at the seam where the ring had been re-sized (made smaller for me), pulling the ring, with its now raw metal edges, all the way up and off my finger, creating two long ragged gashes the entire length of it.  I still have the thing, actually, and it looks like it was hit by a train.  That wedding never happened, either, by the way.

Ring #4:   A few years after that.  Fiancee #3.  This one proposed on the second date, so a ring was not immediately produced.  Actually, this guy was bipolar and refusing medication, and was also an artist, so while there was big talk of the amazing ring he was going to design for me, and many intricate drawings made, no ring ever actually was produced.  So technically this ring never actually hurt me, but since he tried several times, I still feel it counts.

In any event, this is why I panic at the sight of any jewelry anywhere near that hand.  My friends find it kind of entertaining.

But you know, I might consider marriage…if I ever got a ring on that hand that didn’t try to kill me.  I’m not holding my breath, though.

Boys Make Me Stoopid

Okay, now that you’ve all seen through my running-away-to-join-the-circus ruse, do you want the real reason I’ve hardly been blogging lately?

It’s because my brains have been sucked out by a MAN!  (By the way, if that sounds even remotely sexy to you, you’re a big pervert and should seek immediate solace in the knowledge that it must have sounded that way to me, too, since I mentioned it…okay, never mind.  Where was I?)

It’s true, though.  I’m turning into a frickin’ Disney animation.  Actually, he said it best the other day:  “I’m just a big mess of wanting to kiss you all the time.”  Or something to that effect.  My short-term memory is shot, too.

I mean, I just bought a laptop computer.  When they said, “What colour do you want, black or pink?”  I was all ready with my answer – black, of course.  Jeez, what do I look like?  Some kind of girly-girl?  Cripes.

Yeah.  So I am now the proud owner of a pink laptop computer.  Fuck.

And shoes – I’m out of control about the shoes…the voices in my head are having a field day:  “Oooooo, wouldn’t he like those!”

I’ve been gazing out the window a lot.  Smiling like the village idiot.  Which is now apparently me.

And staying up too late.

But not blogging so much.  No, not really.  And even now, I’m not focusing on this.    No.  I am thinking about how cute he is.  Pathetic.

And you know what?  He’s even making me face the evil voice mail lady on a regular basis.  It’s disgusting.  (But you’ve probably already guessed that if you leave a message and you’re not him, I probably won’t be getting back to you anytime soon.  I’m too busy thinking about rainbows and bunnies or some warm, fuzzy crap like that.   I haven’t been returning emails very well, either.)

But if you’re reading this, Shug (you know who you are), well…never mind.  I forget what I was gonna say.  *sigh*

Barack – I Totally Relate, Man. Seriously.

 

Okay, I know by now you’ve all seen it – Obama’s ‘faux pas’ [*coughgoodone*] on The Tonight Show. 

You know, when you are as spectacularly famous and influential as Barack and I are, you have to be very careful.  Pretty much anything you say could be misconstrued and taken as offensive to someone, anyone.  ESPECIALLY anything humourous. 

It leaves us in a pretty pickle, us superstars.  I mean, the comedians that reeeally make me laugh are generally saying something that would piss somebody off.  Do I really care?  Hell, no!  If it’s funny, it’s funny, even if it’s making fun of me (that being said…watch your step, my friends.  Watch your step.)

But, like my dearling Barack, I too have to choose my words carefully. 

For instance – and this is just a random example, now – were I to make fun of my mother’s dog…or the way it alternates between trying to cuddle me and/or bite my face off (and there is good material here, people)…there is a strong likelihood that someone – say, one of my AUNTS – might read my blog and RAT ME OUT to my mother, causing her feelings to be hurt.  Just as an example.  Hypothetical, of course.

The self-censorship required to constantly be monitoring my words, second-guessing myself at every turn, ensuring that all are offended equally…er, I mean, to ensure that all are respected equally – it’s a full-time job.

Because there is no telling who is reading this.  I mean – suppose I were to blog about the misadventures of one of my former lovers and/or stalkers, and they were to google words such as ‘vampire’, ‘unmedicated bipolar disorder’, ‘kidnapping and hostage situations’, ’secret rooms’, ‘automatic redial’ or any number of things that could lead them to my ramblings about them?  Though I am cleverly disguised as ‘Drea M.’, there are a handful of them with IQs high enough to possibly figure it out.  And I shudder to think where that would lead.

And then there is the problem of the Rogue Publicist.  I’m sure Obama has to deal with this as well.  Though even the best of us need a break at times, and thus she comes in handy about once a month, Evil Drea has the potential of a loose cannon.  A tight rein is required, my friends – a tight rein.

In short, what this means is that:

If you weren’t all such a bunch of tight-asses, my blog would be a lot funnier.

 

Sunsets and Skyscrapers

 

 

There is a photo on my desk that people often ask about.  It’s a photo of a young, tall blonde boy, barechested in low-slung jeans and hiking boots, wearing leather cuff bracelets and a bear-tooth on a thong around his neck, playing guitar, his hair hanging in his eyes.

Most of my boyfriends get very jealous and weird when they see it.

But have you ever been lucky enough to meet someone who was able to show you an upside-down view of the world and make you a better person for it?  That’s what Tim was to me.  I keep his photo there not as a tribute to our relationship, but to remind me of the freedom he helped me find.  I believe that people show up in your life when you need them.  Tim was one of those people.  I sometimes wonder if he was even really real.

I was 24.  Working two jobs.  Sleeping…rarely.  A pre-med student specializing in neuroscience, planning to undertake four more years in a basement laboratory in order to: a) prove to myself that I wasn’t stupid; b) prove to my family that I wasn’t stupid; and c) hopefully, along the way, help others.

I wasn’t happy.  But I’d kind of given up on ‘happy.’ 

It was summer break, and my best friend and I were indulging in a rare night on the town.  We were stumbling up the hill toward our favourite alternative club, Birdland, when Keri grabbed my head and pointed it in his direction.  “Look at that guy!  He looks just like Leonardo DiCaprio!”  

He and a friend, I would later learn was Darrell – also beautiful, with shoulder-length curly auburn hair – were busking with their guitars outside the Art College.

I was wasted.  I wanted to dance.  I could have cared less about Leonardo DiCaprio lookalikes.  But we went over and said hi.  And somehow ended up inviting them to join us at Birdland.  As we walked, we paired up – Keri with Darrell, leaving me to speak to Tim.

He was 20.  He had busked/hitched his way across the continent after spending time in the Mexican rainforests with nothing more than a tent, a blanket, a tin cup and a journal.

By the time we hit the club, Tim and I were in a full-out debate about life in general…and hours later, still at it.  We talked about the western part of the country that I had never seen.  He told me about the mountains I had never seen.  He belonged to another time – he was fresh air and earth, innocence and an old soul.

He moved in with me the next day.

That summer, this younger, much freer man drilled me about myself.  He was my mirror and I was his.  He had grown up the middle child in a middle-class family much like my own, but longed for more.  Unlike me, he had stopped trying to please others long ago.  He went out of his way, in fact, to test people.  In public, he deliberately acted like a jerk to try to offend people.  Later, we analysed one another and when I told him my impression was that he purposely tried to drive people away just to see if they would climb over his hurdles, he became pensive, and admitted I was the first one to ever point that out.  He constantly tested the limits of society.  I was fascinated by the strength of his sense of self; although alone, he was romantic and vulnerable.  When I asked about his travels, envious, “What colour are the Northern Lights?”, he paused for a moment, thinking, and then said, “They’re the same colour as your eyes – green and gold, with bits of blue.”

We read each other’s diaries.  We wrote in each other’s diaries.  He drove me nuts, because he would wake me in the morning, playing Velvet Underground songs on his guitar, singing at the top of his lungs, or he would storm out of bed, dragging the blankets with him.  When I followed, cold, with hands on hips, to demand what he was doing, he would laugh and hold his arms open, saying, “I just wanted to see if you would follow.”  He dug around in my apartment, scanning my bookshelves, pulling out long-abandoned paintings and demanding to know why they weren’t finished.

The moment that changed my life was the night we were heading out of town in my car, with friends in the backseat and Tim riding shotgun.  I was so used to the jaded ‘city’ mentality – keeping up with the Jones’, making fun of anything that wasn’t ‘hip’ and ‘of-the-moment’, that I didn’t get it when we drove past what was obviously someone of a very lower class – wacky wardrobe, slight stagger – and Tim muttered under his breath, “Oh – would you just look at that!” 

A part of me shut down.  I was so disappointed in him.  I had thought he was above making fun of people for how they looked.  I shot him a glare from the driver’s seat and heaved a massive sigh.  He looked at me, mystified.  I began to explain my disappointment, when he said, “Come on – have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

And I looked where he was pointing – and saw, beyond the skyscrapers, beyond the city skyline – the most gorgeous sunset, magenta and orange, filling the evening sky, that I had ever seen.  He hadn’t even noticed the person on the sidewalk.  That shame remains with me today.

He stayed with me for the summer.  His friend Darrell, after having a brief fling with my best friend Keri, headed off back to Alberta, but Tim decided to stay.  I was torn – I didn’t know how to resume my basement laboratory life with him in it. 

He asked me to come back out west with him.  He said, in his middle-child-afraid-to-commit way, “We should get married on a mountaintop in the Rockies.” 

I couldn’t.  I had responsibilities.  I was committed to finishing school.  I was a grownup. 

One morning, I awoke in a blaze of sunshine and he was watching me.  He said, “I think today is a good day to hit the road.”  And I knew it was the right thing.  I was sad, but it was time.

So we said good-bye.

I’ve never really regretted not going with him…because Tim taught me to accept that there is a part of me that can never tow the line, resign to the status quo, be happy with city skylines. 

A few weeks after he left, I covered my car with painted flowers.  And I did the drive west that we had talked about.

I finished my degree, but opted to defer grad studies.  I had things to do first.  I needed to see the Northern Lights for myself.  Now, I’m pursuing my art for real.

And you know?  The men who come into my life have nothing to fear.  That photo on my desk is not a symbol of my regret.  It’s a talisman, a reminder of who I really am - a reminder to look beyond the skyline and not lose her again in other people’s dreams.

Bow In Worship, Bitches…Evil Drea is Back!

Okay.  Yeah.  Soooo…the plan had been to let Nice Drea write this post, but she’s been nauseatingly happy lately and wanted to write about butterflies and rainbows and fucking lollypops or some such crap, so I – her sister, Evil Drea – was forced to intervene.

Nice Drea is now sitting in the corner where she belongs, gagged and duct-taped and glaring at me, and I am in full control of your vertical (and your horizontal, should you like it traditional.)

Welcome back to ME!

STUFF I HATE TODAY BY EVIL DREA

Dumbasses that don’t recycle.  Seriously, you morons – it’s not rocket science.  I’ve known 2-year-olds that were easier to train than some of you adults.  I mean, honestly, if the climate crisis were more selective, I wouldn’t care.  It’s not like the gene pool couldn’t use a little cleansing.  But it’s my fucking planet, too, and you’re stepping on my toes when you chuck that bottle in the black bag, baby.   So I’m telling you now and don’t make me say it again.  RECYCLE – LEARN HOW!

Shared office equipment with mystery keyboard gunk.  Use a freakin’ napkin, for god’s sake.

The men I date stealing all of my cutlery to do hot-knives.  Nothing wrong with a little toke now and then if you need it, but leave me something to butter my fucking toast with, assholes.

Socks.  Yeah, that’s right, socks.  I just hate ‘em.  They suck.

The Atlantic Ocean because of its current location, which is directly between myself and people I would like to be able to visit without an airplane.  The ocean is an asshole.

[Nice Drea:  "mmfffttt...beach...surfin'....mmfftt...."

Evil Drea:  *throws ashtray*]

Having cold feet.  Not the anti-wedding kind – that kind, I highly endorse.  No, I mean actual cold feet.  And if you even say the word ’socks’, I will kick your ass into tomorrow.

Wings.  The band.  I mean, do we really need any more proof that John Lennon and George Harrison were the only things holding The Beatles together?  RIP, guys – you are missed.  Paul McCartney’s a sap.  (Notice the omission of criticism for ol’ Mr. Starkey.  Who can make up their minds if he sucks or not, really?  He’s too strange.  Which puts him at least a couple of rungs above our Paulie boy, in my book.)

[Nice Drea:  *hums a few bars of "Silly Love Songs" with dreamy look on face*

Evil Drea:  *chucks a mug*]

Fishermen’s Friend throat lozenges.  If you happen to be fortunate enough to live in a land without such things, imagine Buckley’s cough syrup mixed with cyanide and vomit, solidified and disguised as candy.  Now you know what I’m talking about.  I’d rather eat razor blades.  I mean, really, whose fucking sick joke was that?  I hope they die choking on one of those things.

[Nice Drea:  *nods head enthusiastically*

Evil Drea:  We-ell...I guess I can set you free now that you're coming to your senses.]

Later, peeps.  ‘Til next time.  *rubs hands together with wicked glee*

Life Lessons

In the spirit of the New Year that is coming, I have been reviewing my life thus far.

Over the years, I have had many incarnations and with each one, I have learned many valuable lessons which I feel it only right to share.  I know how you live for my advice and wisdom.

Here are a few of the things I’ve learned, broken down by era:

The Actress Days

If you accidentally fall on stage and later the director praises you for your creative acting choice and excellent stunt abilities, smile modestly and take the credit.  Tell people you are ‘method.’

Don’t ask every other actor you see if your ass looks okay.  You’ll sound like a wanker.

When you show up for an audition and they ask you how old you are, say, “How old did my agent say I was?”

Stage kisses are just that.  Stage kisses. No need for off-stage rehearsals.

The Rave Days

Dancing too hard for hours and hours = Overheated = Taking off shirt on dance floor to cool off  and dumping water over head = FREE BEER!

People in country-western bars do not appreciate when a couple of punkish club kids crash the party and try to mosh in the middle of a line-dance.

Don’t panic when your feet leave the floor in the mosh pit.  This is the safest place to be.

Don’t immediately write off the cute guy who buys you roses and wants to go out with you, just because he is currently living in his car and working as an Elvis impersonator.  He may be the lead singer of INXS one day.

Being asked to be the keyboardist in an all-guy band is not really an insult, despite the glaringly obvious fact that you are just the token female, because you don’t really play keyboard all that well.  Just enjoy the attention.  One day you will be old and boring.

The Neuroscience Days

Being a brain surgeon does not necessarily mean you are sane.

A major final research project can indeed be carried out and written up in a single 24-hour session.

If you are in a class of only 8 people and choose to sit in a seat in the top far corner of a 200-seat auditorium because it happens to be the only left-handed seat, be well-prepared because the professor will inevitably assume you are a slack-ass and will call on you repeatedly.

If your Abnormal Psych professor dresses like Madonna circa 1984, you may want to consider switching to another class that fulfills your clinical requirement.

The Artist Days

Artists who claim to need expensive paints and brushes are wankers.  Don’t waste your money.  A decent artist could create a painting with nothing but pocket lint if they wanted to.  And they have.

Use artistic license.  Make people look prettier.  If people wanted stark reality, they would just take a photo.  That being said, don’t make them look too much better or everyone will know you’re full of shit.

The Extreme Sports Days

ALWAYS listen to your skydiving instructor.  Unless he’s been smoking pot.  Then you may want to take a quick glance through your skills manual on the flight up to altitude.

The insurance company will not insure you if you tell them the truth about your hobbies.

Sunscreen.  Always.

Invest in a belt chain for your cell phone when jumping out of airplanes.

When approaching large groups of teenagers on the trail when barreling along at high speeds on your mountain bike, yell at them to get out of the way well in advance if you don’t feel like stopping, because they.  will.  not.  move.  voluntarily.

Next time:  The Skater Years (or How to Figure Skate Without Becoming Tonya Harding or That Other Chick);  The Rubik’s Cube Years; and The Martha Years (or Who The Hell Are You and What Have You Done With Drea???)

Some Assembly Required

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately.  No, not because I’m in it, but because everyone I know seems to be falling out of it. 

BUT because I worship and adore my friends and want so badly to fix them all, I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of brainpower attempting to come up with a profound and lasting solution to the heartbreak epidemic.

Sadly for them, when I allow my mind to wander, it often ends up in weird places, lost and embarrassed, with neither a trail of breadcrumbs to indicate how the hell it got there, nor a cell phone to call for help.

So I’ve also been thinking a lot about Sweden lately (for reasons too convoluted to go into here, but it is likely not helped along by the shiny new Ikea catalogue that’s been lying on my desk between loving fondlings for the past few weeks now).  Which brings me to my very deep and potentially award-winning findings.

The human heart is a lot like modern Scandinavian furniture.

Seriously, think about it.

• Can be flat-packed to reduce risk of damage during transit.  Won’t, however, be of much use or give you much pleasure unless you grab the ol’ Exacto knife and just go ahead and rip it open.
• Rarely ready for immediate use; some assembly generally required.  Those that are shipped intact are generally very small and generally decorative, which may give you instant enjoyment, but rarely provide a strong foundation for your interior.  Those that require a lot of work can be frustrating at times, but leave you feeling pretty damn good about yourself at the end of the day.
• The strongest have undergone rigorous quality-testing, often involving pummeling with boxing gloves.
• Sometimes there is nothing but crap available in a person’s own neighborhood, and so shopping must be done online.  Of course, this inevitably carries risks, as when making any major purchase sight-unseen.  That bed may look pretty sharp in photos, but you don’t really know how it feels, smells or tastes …um…looks until it arrives and you spend the night with it, and it may not always be of as pure a quality as advertised.
• You get what you pay for.  If you are only wishing to spend a certain amount, you may have to settle for lesser-quality goods.  This means veneers and particle-board, people.  Particle-board that disintegrates at the first sign of dampness.  If you are willing to give a little more, you take home something solid that may endure for quite some time.
• Can also be recycled indefinitely.  Of course, sometimes this means inheriting something that is severely outdated and smells kinda funny.  However, if proper care is taken, even those found on the side of the road in apparent abandonment can be taken home and revived, providing many more years of service.
• Can also be broken in sex-related mishaps.
• Attempts to divide between more than one individual household generally results in a useless pile of broken crap nobody wants.
• Usually comes with warnings and/or some form of instructions, but 100% of the time, these things are written by someone for whom English is obviously a second language.  Not that it matters, because you never bother to read them anyway.
• If you really take care of it, it could last forever.

What all of this devastatingly enlightening information means is that I have absolutely no idea how to help my lovelorn friends.  I am completely useless.

I also really need new furniture.

Trick or Treat!

 

Ask me how much I love Hallowe’en.  No, seriously, ask me.  How much do I love Hallowe’en, you ask?  How much?

Not that my life isn’t already pretty spooky and filled with weirdness, but Hallowe’en!  Hallowe’en opens all kinds of doors to the spooky/weird realm.  And it is fun on so many levels.

I love everything about it.  I love the grown-up parties with green and/or smoking cocktails.  I love the kiddies running around thinking they look scary in their costumes while their snow pants peek out from underneath.  And I mean, OBVIOUSLY I love the candy. 

Sadly, this year I am working the ol’ emerg dispatch on Hallowe’en night.  (Ask me how much I love working emerg dispatch on mischief-based holidays.  Go on, ask me.)  So what this means is I won’t be dressing up.  (It’s just not as much fun dressing up to sit in an office all alone in the middle of the night.  It’s just kind of sad.)

So I’m feeling a little sentimental about Hallowe’ens past.  Allow me to share.

Growing up, we never bothered with costumes.  We just blackened our faces, donned black toques and turtlenecks, slipped a couple dozen eggs in our coats and engaged in egg wars in the woods behind the park – boys against girls.  It was epic, man.  We even lay in wait on the roof of the museum waiting for the guys to pass below so we could snipe them.  But my favourite moment was when one of my friends fell and ended up with 24 smashed eggs in her shirt.  (What a traitor I am.  But it was really funny!)

There was the Hallowe’en where my friend Zena and I had planned not to dress up, but to join the festivities at our favourite boozehole, Backstage.  If you’ve never been there, it’s a wonderfully atmospheric place – lots of different levels, shadowy nooks, old-world frescoes, twinkly lights, wrought-iron, and even a big-ass life-size papier mache tree growing up through the middle of the floor.  And most important, I was chummy with the bar staff, who knew exactly how I liked my drinks (free). 

So I show up at Zena’s place, dressed in a rather fetching dress-which-was-not-a-costume (floor length, empire-waist, spaghetti-straps, black with flowers sprinkled around the hem…sorry for the tangent.  I have a weakness for pretty dresses.)  What do I find?  A roomful of freaking people in costumes. 

Luckily, I am a resourceful gal.  Taking inspiration from the fountain I had passed in the foyer on the way up, I threw together an 11th-hour (literally…haha!) costume.  I powdered my skin to make it even paler than it is normally.  I used blue eyeshadow and created pretty convincing bruises all over (I know what you’re thinking…zombie – BORING!  But you’re wrong.  I’m far more clever than that.)  My lips got a good coating of blue as well.  I soaked my long hair and gelled it well to keep it stringy.  The final touch on the way out of the building was to grab a few lily pads out of the fountain to tangle in my hair. 

I was not a zombie.  I was Ophelia from Hamlet.  AFTER she’d drowned.  (Zombie.  Hmmmph!  Fooled you.)

When we got to the bar, the waitresses were passing around trays of masks, which I thought a very classy touch.  Of course, the waitresses were dressed in dominatrix gear, but whatever. 

This was the Hallowe’en that I gained the attentions of this guy we’ll call…Rave.  Long hair, dressed in one of those period costumes we gals are such suckers for, you know, poufy blouse, lots of velvet and floppy cuffs.  I’d had a lot to drink. 

So we’re swapping tales and he informs me that he is a vampire.  I’m all, yeah, great costume.  He’s all, no, I’m serious.  I’m all, gigglegiggle, aren’t you funny.  

I’m about to let the dude kiss me when my friend Tim swooped down out of nowhere, gathered me in his arms and literally swept me through a curtain that led to the back rooms of the bar, where I was sequestered and forced to smoke pot with the staff for the rest of the night.  Turned out Tim was already familiar with this Rave guy.

But did this slow me down?  Oh, no.  I ended up agreeing to have drinks with Rave the next night and well, it turns out the fop costume wasn’t reeeeally so much a costume.  Sigh.  I had gone to his place to meet him, and well…the guy had a coffin in his kitchen.  And he tried to bite my neck.  For real.  Turned out he was involved in some sort of blood cult.  Turned out he was less turned on by my drunken rendition of Ophelia’s monologue and more excited by my undead appearance.  (Only me, you guys.  This could only happen to me.)

Another one of those ‘only me’ stories:  When I was in theatre school, I went to a party dressed as a vampy vampire (okay, just so you know, I wasn’t just being trampy…I actually used the liquid latex in my makeup kit to create very realistic fangs, which I attached with false eyelash glue.  They looked quite wicked, if I do say so myself.)  The party itself was okay, but the gory part comes later, when I found myself using the back door off the loading dock as a shortcut to my house, which was right across the street.  I’d forgotten that they lock the gates leading out of the loading dock at midnight.  The gates of a 10-foot high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.   And the doors to the building lock automatically behind you.

Of course, being Fearless, I quickly summed up the situation, decided I am most definitely not the type to scream for help and proceeded to rescue myself.  Took off the heels, chucked ‘em over the fence with my purse.  Hiked up the dress and started climbing. 

Woke up the next day covered in blood, wearing shredded stockings.  Hands weren’t in great shape, either.  Made me feel tough, though.

So those were sort of authentic kinds of Hallowe’en, but I’ve had lots of other spook-nights that weren’t so creepy.

Like the first time I went to see Rocky Horror.  If you’ve never gone, you absolutely must.  Try to go when you are very young and have no idea what to expect, and are not accustomed to being encouraged to create mayhem and disorder in public places.  And I recommend sneaking in booze, because truth be told, the film gets a little dull at the end (I think the writers may have been working under the influence, too, and their minds were wandering by that point).  Make sure you dress up or you’ll feel really square.

Sometimes people dress you up without your permission.

And Mardi Gras.  Halifax used to shut down the downtown area every Hallowe’en night, but as far as I know they don’t do it anymore, because the chaos became too much.  (I like to think I was in part responsible for this decision, but perhaps I boast.)  It was so nuts that if you didn’t somehow tether yourself to those you were with, you would be sucked into the crowd and never heard from again.  Which usually ended up being the more interesting experience, of course.

I remember stumbling back up Spring Garden Road after one particularly sucessful Mardi Gras, arm in arm with my ex-boyfriend (still broken up, but still partying together…yeah, yeah, I know.  We’re still friends, actually.  I’m weird.)  He says, “Hey, look!  It’s Jimmy M.!”  I glance over at the doorway ahead of us.  Jimi Hendrix is standing there.  I say, “Yeeeeeaah…Jimi…coooool…”  “No, no, it’s Jimmy.”  “Yeeeeahhh, cool…Jimi…”  It went on like this for some time, until Rob dragged me over to talk to our friend Jimmy.  Who, despite being a white guy, made a very convincing Jimi Hendrix.  (I may or may not have been under the influence of one or more somethings.)

Or the time I won the Best Costume award at the restaurant I worked at during the Actress Years.  (Wednesday Addams, complete with headless doll and negative attitude.  I even stayed in character when taking orders.  It was awesome – the ruder I was, the bigger my tips.  A server’s dream come true.)  Actually, the Marilyn Monroe costume the following year got me some hefty grats as well.  But I think it was just the boobs.

One of my favourite, most inspired costumes was the year I threw an All Hallow’s Eve party and in keeping with the ‘party’ theme, and since I had short platinum blonde hair at the time, I went as Edie Sedgewick, complete with floor-length electric blue fuzzy duster coat, purse full of heroin paraphernalia and track marks.

 

Of course, I don’t know how many times I’ve ended up alone in graveyards because I’ve wanted to sneak in and freak myself out, but I can never convince anyone to go with me. 

Sadly, I don’t have pics of most of these dazzling events because I generally end up being too busy creating memories to actually record them.  This bums me out, but what are you gonna do?

Of course, what it all really comes down to is this:

Why wait for that special season to dress up weird, gorge on sweets and play pranks on people?   Let’s make that extra effort and make it Hallowe’en every day!  

You know you want to. 

  

 

Debauchery Prep List (or…how to drink your ass off and still be alive in the morning)

As we get older, we grow…uh…wiser.  Yeah, that’s it.

Thus, I have come up with a simple checklist to allow someone to continue to party like it’s 1999, while avoiding the…snags that can occasionally accompany partying like it’s 1999.  Which, incidentally, without giving away my age, I was actually able to do in 1999 without breaking any underage-drinking laws.  Whatever. 

1.   The Post-It.   Prior to engaging in drinking activities, it is important to leave reminders for yourself, lest the memory begin to fail in the wee hours, under the influence of…whatever.  (Whatever.)  

Suggestions: 

• a post-it on the bathroom mirror reminding you of the early-morning meeting that you really shouldn’t blow off.  (It may be helpful to place one of these on the inside of the toilet lid, too, just in case.)
• a post-it on the telephone which reads something along the lines of “DON’T DO IT!!!” (referencing, of course, the infamous drunk-dial.  Never a good idea.)
• a similar post-it (only larger…much, much larger) on the computer.  (The reason for the larger size being that the results of drunk emails/blog posts/Facebooking are potentially much more detrimental, due to the fact that while slurred speech might be forgiven and forgotten, things in writing are forever.  And trust me, while you might think your spelling is okay while inebriated…it isn’t.  Trust me on this.)

2.  Staging.  The most important setting is your bedroom.  There are many reasons for this (see #3 and 4), but the most important one is…hangover prevention.  This is why you will place the following items on your bedside table:

• a large vessel of water; drinking glass optional
• a large vessel of oral analgesics (something coated is nice)
• a dark sleep mask (trust me – the sun, while fun to watch coming up, will burn like,…well, the sun, once the liquor wears off)
• a bucket (again, just in case)

3.  Protection.  Okay, first of all, I know you are not a slut.  I do.  But let’s just think outside the box.  Let’s just say, you are hijacked en route to your home at a not-unreasonable hour by, oh, I don’t know, a sexy vampire who deeply resembles Johnny Depp, and he mesmerizes you with his supernatural gaze and you end up home in bed with the dude.  The last thing you need to worry about are sexually/blood-transmitted diseases and/or half-demon spawn.  Thus, condoms.  Place them strategically.  Suggested locations:

• on your pillow; use tape
• on the other pillow; just in case
• scatter a few across the bed and under the covers, just for good measure
• within reaching distance of the sofa, the dining room table, the lawn furniture, the bathroom counter
• taped to your forehead if you hang with a liberal crowd who won’t judge
• if you happen to have a pair of those funky little panties with the built-in condom pocket, by all means go for it; under no circumstances, however, do I recommend using duct tape anywhere in that area

4.  Sexy stuff.  You are not a slut, and do not intend to end up in bed with someone, but if you do, do you really want them seeing what you really wear around the house?  Put out the slinky V.S. robe and the cute tap pants/cami set for the morning.  Just because you are hung over is no reason to let yourself go.

5.  Place your phone on its charger so you can phone your best friend in the morning to commiserate/make plans for breakfast.  Make sure not to dislodge any previously placed post-its.

6.  Food.  Nothing staves off a potential hangover like a late-night snack.  If you are really together, you could try ordering a pizza ahead of time and leave it near the bed to be ready to be consumed cold just prior to pass-out.  I do, however, realize this requires a great deal of foresight.  Therefore, it may be prudent to simply stock up on an emergency supply of quick fixin’s.  Recommended:  Chef Boyardee, Mr. Noodle, or anything in the toast family.

7.  Danger Prevention.  Give away, hide, or bury your car keys.  I’m serious about this one.  It is altogether too tempting to careen homeward under your own steampower when Prince Charming gets toadish or you just feel the need to crash.  (Macabre pun intended)  If you lean toward accident-prone, you may want to move any really pointy furniture well out of the way and maybe lock the cat in a safe room.

8. And finally, it is highly recommended that you tell your mother in advance that you will be out of town and out of cell phone range for the next 48 hours on very important business.  Because nothing harshes your mellow like a hangover migraine being split open by your mom’s insistent voice wondering why you haven’t called her in the past two days.

This list is an ever-evolving entity, so by no means consider it complete or written in stone.  Feel free to apply any modifications you deem necessary (and if found to be highly successful, it is expected that you shall not be stingy and shall share in kind).  Stay tuned for updates. 

Play safe, designate a driver, and have one (or six) for me.