Even Atheists Celebrate Samhain – It’s One of the Candy Holidays

 

 

 

I got off work this morning and it was like the entire universe knew what day it was – the day of All Hallow’s Eve…aka my favourite day of the year.  There was an orange haze in the sky as the rising sun was smacked down and put in its place by ominous-looking clouds; the delicious scent of wood-smoke hung in the air, which was warm, but with just enough of a crispy edge to remind you of the date.

Sadly, I have to work tonight.  (Though I’ll be working the graveyard shift…BAHAHahahaahahahahaaaa….*ahem*)

So no revelries for me, unless you count dealing with the garbage fires set by the local teenage losers (I can say that now that I’m not one of them).  But as I drove, I was listening to appropriate Hallowe’en music.  Well, okay, ‘Zombie’ by the Cranberries kind of counts, right?  I mean, we of Celtic blood are kind of dark and moody at the best of times and I wound up in one of those contemplative moods that just screams for a walk in the cemetery.

(What  – you don’t get those?)

Normally after work, I go for a run or a walk either in the park, on the beach or at home on the treadmill, but today I thought:  what better place than the graveyard that I just happen to be driving past at this moment?

The cemetery in my town isn’t all that grand.  It’s not like the ones in Halifax that I used to haunt (BAHAhahahahahahaha…) – there are no Titanic victims buried there, nor any huge steles towering over the entire area dedicated to the guy who invented beer or whatever.  But it’s quite nice, nonetheless.

There’s a duck pond (mental note:  take bird seed next time).  Lots of pretty trees, huge old trees, scattered about randomly so that the whole place feels like you just accidentally came across it in the forest.   (I would really think that would be cool.  Spooky mid-forest accidental graveyard stumbling.)  There was a thick blanket of autumn leaves over the frighteningly healthy (go figure) springy moss, making a ghostly rustle as I walked.  I even have to thank the enormous raven for making an appearance.  What’s a graveyard without a big, spooky bird that makes you think of Edgar Allen Poe?

All in all, it was a pleasing experience.

However.

(You knew it was coming.)

I have been inspired to add to my online Last Will and Testament, based on my observations.

Last Will and Testament of Drea M. – Amendment #1

There shall be no placement of plastic flowers or dollar-store tchotchkes upon the grave site.   Failure to adhere to this request shall result in a bony hand emerging from the soil to grasp unerringly the wrist of the offender.   What follows thereafter is a surprise.  *NOTE:  The fact that Drea M. is to be cremated in no way lessens the severity of this warning.

Full approval IS given for the following:

• One of those funky new-fangled grave markers with the laminated photo of the deceased.  Please choose one that makes me look all angelic and sweet and completely deceives any random mourners that may happen by;
• A decorative urn on top of the monument proper; preferably one with a removable lid, to allow its use as an ice bucket for gatherings – be they specifically toasting yours truly or just a bunch of particularly classy teenage losers (like my former self), drinking in the graveyard before the high school dance (hey, it’s not my fault the location is so convenient – blame the genius who chose to put the school a block away from the dead people);
• A cute little bench for my peeps to cop a squat while having said drinks.  Built-in cup holders might be nice, too.
• Engraving of the name of my significant other on the other side of the gravestone, with the spot for his date of death left blank to be filled in later.  Because I get a kick out of the idea of him moving on and getting remarried and then having to be buried next to me anyway because he’s too cheap not to.  But should the other plot be sublet to a stranger, please refer to the first clause (above).

Well, that’s all I can think of for now.  But rest assured (in peace) that there will be more to follow as I think of it.

Have a creepy night and a Merry Samhain!

 

(And oh, yeah – it’s pronounced Sow-inn, by the way…because I know you were wondering.)

You Suck, Nicholas Sparks

TO:  Nicholas Sparks  c/o Warner Books

1271 Avenue of the Sellouts

New York, NY  10020

Dear Nicholas ~

I have been very busy working on my novel lately, so I haven’t been blogging much.  But I am 260 pages into reading your book, A Bend in the Road and it has spurred me to action.

My darling Mr. Sparks – you should know that I am a deeply loyal individual.  And I have been on board since I found that crummy, lonely copy of The Notebook in the bargain bin at the local second-hand bookshop way back in the mid-90s  -  the copy that looked like it had never been read, wallowing in that bin because no one had ever heard of you, the book, or Rachel and Ryan.  But I took that little book home and fell in love with it, long before the big shots at Time/Warner.  I recommended it to friends, way back when you were still working in pharmaceuticals and hoping to become a writer.  I even started buying your books new so that you would receive the royalties.

I read your tips for new writers that you posted on your website.  I kept your success story in my head as inspiration.   It bothered me a little when you started churning books out as fast as the Kings and the Koontz’, but I still kept you around for nostalgia’s sake.

I even forgave you for your occasional bible-thump and that terrible movie with Mandy Moore.

Yet I find myself having to say this:  I want to start seeing other people.

Why, you ask?  The answer is simple, my bazillionaire friend.

Product placements.

I am halfway through this novel and I have already been told what specific brand of all-purpose kitchen cleaner the protagonist uses, that he received an application form for a particular credit card in the mail, I’ve been given the history of a particular popular soft drink and the guy’s kid has been taken to a much-loathed fast food joint for a ‘Happy Meal.’   (And unlike you, I won’t be naming names, not even if they do offer to compensate me.)

Now, there are so many levels of ‘fucked’  to this that it is almost impossible to determine where to start.  Really, I shouldn’t have to – isn’t it obvious?  But I’m on a rant, so I will find a way….

First of all – SERIOUSLY??  Seriously?  You really needed that year’s supply of McTakingovertheworld gift certificates that badly?  Gosh – I’m so sorry that all those movie deals and bestsellers aren’t enough to feed your family.  That really sucks for you.  I’m enclosing a donation of 10 bucks because I FEEL SO SORRY FOR YOU.

Second, if you HAD to sell your soul, could you really not find something better to plug than those particular products and companies?  I mean, c’mon!  Foods that cause cancer and promote global warming?  Chemicals that pollute the water supply and cause birth defects in marine animals?  Financial companies that are essentially loan sharks for the uneducated and unsuspecting?  Gad.  I mean, how about…oh, I don’t know…  “Miles kissed her passionately after writing out his monthly cheque for the S.P.C.A…”? Or “He jumped in his enviro-conscious Toyota Prius and sped to the scene”? Jesus, Nicholas.

I mean, with crapola books like Twilight, it wasn’t all that unexpected that the only thing the girl ate before she got turned into a vampire was a single brand of toaster pastries.  In fact, the overload of sugar and lack of nutrition seemed rather suiting.  But I really expected more from you.

Well, it’s been a good run.  I’m really going to miss you – probably more than you miss your soul.

So long, sucka.  Enjoy those colas.

Your former fan,

Drea M.

P.S.  Seriously, the term ‘all-purpose kitchen cleaner’ really has no place in any novel, of any genre, any time ever in history.  Just FYI.

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

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.

The Batty Old Lady I Shall Become

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple, With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me, And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter”  – Jenny Joseph

I’ve known for some time that I would likely have to deal with getting old.  (You know, once I realized I was a superhero and thus unable to be killed.  *pause to listen for ominous horror movie music indicating imminent flamboyant death scene…*)  Most of the time I am able to achieve complete denial about it, though, through an elaborate combination of avoiding mirrors, heavy drinking and dating men younger than myself.

But the other day, I got sick of looking at my profile picture on Facebook and changed it to the most recent one I had of myself, one that was taken just a month or so ago.  It was a test for myself, a part of an attempt to include my own face in my appreciation of ‘good’ wrinkles on other people.

Don’t get me wrong.  I know I have wrinkles.  I mean, thanks to Olay beauty products (yes, I will plug them, because I just love them that much), I’m better off than many who have spent as much time in the sun.  But they are there.  But most of them are small and easily ignored by one as easily deluded as myself.

But check it out:

Do you see it?  Right there between my eyes?  The ginormous furrow??

So, I am getting older.   Which is a bit of a surprise, because in my teens I always assumed I would die young – probably of something sordid like a drug overdose.  In my twenties, I  figured I would be murdered by a jealous boyfriend or something.  For most of my thirties, I’ve maintained this line of thinking, but figured it would something adrenaline-related, like speeding in a car or a parachute malfunction.

Well, I’ve begun laying down Plan B.

I am not going to age gracefully, I’m telling you right now.  No way.

But it’s a fairly safe bet that if I don’t start thinking about this, I run a high risk of dying alone and having my face eaten by cats.  So my best friend and I came up with a plan.  I have to admit, I was somewhat snotty to my friend about this at first, because she has kids, which I presumed would leave one immune to the cat-face-eating fate.  However, she is pretty sure her particular kids would be more than happy to leave her to this fate as well, so we have come up with a solution that makes us both happy.

However we have to make it happen, we are going to end up in the same nursing home/retirement village/mental institute.  (We can’t really figure out why some old people cause such a stink about this.  We can’t think of anything much better than having someone else cook and clean for us.)  We will proceed to hang out on the patio in the sun all day, every day, drinking what people will assume is coffee (it’s not – it’s Kahlua).  She will knit (what look like afghans and mittens but are actually beer bottle cosies and fingerless gloves).  I will work on ‘crafts’ (custom shadowboxes filled with slightly macabre displays created from items left over from various medical procedures).  We will commandeer the community rooms for weekend mosh parties.  We will feign early dementia in order to get away with telling people exactly what we think of them.

It’s gonna be awesome.

Je Vous Adore, Mes Amies <3

On this magnificent holiday, bred to appease the capitalist corporations and push the lonely one step closer to suicide, I would like to offer you – along with my heart, of course – a few of my favourite romantic items, virtually.

A song (WARNING:  Contains hot semi-pornographic opening scene which *may* help you forget that whole breast-implant incident):

 

[What?  Marilyn Manson is romantic...?]

A movie:

 [Because if you're gonna fall in love, go big or not at all, man.  And it doesn't hurt to drop a bit of acid, either.]

But most of all…

A quote:

“Marry yourself first and promise to never leave you.”  – Sark

[Well, it's just smart.]

So share some love today, peeps.  Eat some chocolate.  Drink some champagne.  Laugh a little.  Have some wild hot monkey sex with your favourite lover.

But only because the media tells you that you should.  Tomorrow, it’s right back to being hateful.

On Friendship and F@#*-Wits

You know?  I forget sometimes how lucky I am.  (Well, no, I don’t really, but I feel that a certain show of humility is called for here.)

I know some people whose lives, if they were television shows, would resemble shows like Days of Our Lives – lots of melodrama, back-stabbing, infidelity, things like that.

My life, when I really think about it, is more like Sex and the City (but without the stupid clothes and with better makeup) or one of those other sappy, chick scenarios that make you weep on a semi-regular basis because there is just so damn much love going around.  Meaning I have really amazing friends, the kind that are sweet and kind and are there for you in the good and the bad, the kind that hug every time we say good-bye, who say ‘love you’ pretty much every time we talk.  A little nauseating, yes, I admit, but better than the alternative, apparently.  Because who’d have thought this was not a normal thing?

Up until recently, I actually thought the ‘frenemy’ phenomenon was something dreamed up by the daytime drama scriptwriters.  I really did!  But lately I’ve been watching one of my friends (a new-ish friend, but someone I like very much) going through some crazy-ass frenemy stuff with the crowd she spends most of her time with.

I was going to say it’s like junior high…but truthfully, I had really good friends in junior high, too.  In fact, I still have most of them in my life now.

I guess what I don’t understand is this:

Why be friends with people you don’t trust?  Or like all that much?  Or whatever.  If someone is always picking fights with you, if they make you feel crappy, if they stress you out, or if they are nasty or jealous or just plain tiresome…why bother?  I mean, with almost seven BILLION people on this planet, I’m thinkin’…you can probably do better!

None of us are perfect.  My friends are total kooks.  But they know it and they know I know it.  They feel the same about me.  One of my oldest friends gave me a decorative plaque for Christmas that alluded to this, actually…and it made me laugh my ass off.

As for the frenemy thing – I’m willing to bet that these folks love each other, too…because I don’t think you can get that worked up or expend that amount of emotional energy over someone you don’t care something about.  I just wonder about the functionality of the manifestation of that love.  Kind of that “I only hit you because I love you, baby”, it’s-all-fun-and-games-until-someone-ends-up-in-jail kind of love.

So what do we do when we see someone we care about caught up in something like this?

Well, I’m torn.  Part of me wants to clunk their respective heads together like coconuts and tell them to get their shit together and play nice.  Part of me wants to run the fuck away as fast as possible (to have a nice cold beer with my friends).  Part of me wants to laugh and exploit it by writing a tv drama about it (“Bridgewater B4V 1A9″?)

But most of me just wants to make them a sammich and tell them to come party with me and my friends so they can see how it’s done.

Crap Whose Ass I’m Gonna Kick in 2009

1.  Cords.  Yeah, that’s right.  I’m talking about you, you horrid tangle of discombobulated monsters down by my feet.  Listen up, because I’m about to kick all of your asses.  I’ve done my research.  I’ve been communing with Martha.  I’ve drunk a lot of coffee.  I have purchased a ‘cord closet’ – a glorious piece of fake cherrywood furniture with regularly spaced holes for all of your sorry asses and a sliding panel for access to switch off the power bar that gives you life (see #3).  I’ve made little tags out of little round pieces of card stock, printed neatly with all of your names.  Drea = 1.  Cords =0.

2.  Cordless phones.  (I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.)  So, yeah?  You say you’re going to let your battery die right in the middle of a call from a cute guy?  Yeah?  You collaborated with your homey, the backup cordless so that its battery would mysteriously die at precisely the moment he called back?  HAH!  Sucks to be you.  I’m thinkin’…’cordless’ = ’spineless’…or something that would make more sense if I wasn’t so buzzed on caffeine, but whatever, ’cause I’m going old school on your ass.  I bought a phone with a cord today. 

3.  Global warming.  Okay, I don’t have anything really clever for this one, I just wanted to point out again that I intend to start being more diligent about saving energy.  And the cord closet thingie is really friggin’ cool.

4.  Time.  I am as well-armed as a 5-foot-tall chick in cute boots can be.  I have:  a wall calendar (which is turned to the correct page, I might add *bow*), a daytimer for my new organized, clean and free-of-stray-LifeSavers purse, brand new pens in assorted cheerful colours (not part of the organization plan.  Part of the ‘make things pretty’ plan) and a new notebook for my extensive to-do list (and it’s pretty).  I have programmed my email account to ping me with reminders of important events.  Look out, 2009.

5.  Inertia.  So, yeah, getting older, eh?  Settling down, huh?  Stagnating in the small town?  HAH!  This is the year of zigs and zags, my friends – you’ll never know which way I’ll go…I’m gonna shake it up.  Go back to school?  Maybe.  Give up all my worldly goods and go live in a hut on the beach in Jamaica?  Possibly.  Swim with the sharks at the Great Barrier Reef?  You never know.  Become an astronaut?  WHY NOT?  I’ll give you settled down.  I’ll give you old.  Up yours, Inertia.

 

I bet the space shuttle could use some really good cord management.

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???)

How to Make 2009 Kick Ass

Okay, so…yeah.  I know.  We aaaaallll wanna get skinny, organized and rich in the New Year.   Whatever.  *snore*

I would like to suggest that this year you try it MY way.

Drea M.’s Suggestions for Things to Do in 2009:

• Dance on a different continent.
• Dye your hair a colour it’s never been.
• Learn a new language.  Don’t choose which language to learn based on what you think would be practical or easy.  Base your decision solely on which language has the silliest accent when speaking English with it.
• Go on a road trip completely guided by the eyes-shut-and-point method of map reading.  Take lots of pictures and notes so you can tell funny stories about your adventures when you return.
• Make something prettier.  (Your home, your yard, yourself, your community, your toilet brush, something…)
• Hike as far into the wilderness as possible and spend the night sleeping under the stars (no tent).  Hope to see bears.  (DISCLAIMER:  All encounters with bears are solely the responsibility of the reader.  Drea M. cannot be held liable for any readers eaten by bears.)
• Write funny things on Post-Its and leave them in weird places for strangers to find (Ideas:  “You look FABULOUS today!”, “Don’t look behind you!”, “What are you forgetting to do?”, “Burn after reading”)
• Be part of a flash mob.  Start one if necessary.
• Give blood (voluntarily, that is).
• Give to charity.  (You can SO afford it, asshole.)
• See the Northern Lights.
• Hold a spider (Okay, this one is on my list every year.  But this year I’m really gonna do it.  And I’m going to smile.  And make sure there is photographic evidence.)
• Fall in love (with anything.  Another human, a pet, a book, a song…hell, yourself.  Whatever.  It doesn’t have to be forever.  Just do it for the fun of it.)

• Spend an entire day with a close friend doing nothing but drinking beer and watching an entire movie series (Monty Python, Cheech and Chong *though you may want more than beer for this one*, Lord of the Rings, The Godfather, Star Wars, etc.)  Have lots of snacks.  Even more fun if you are playing hooky from something more serious in order to do this.
• Paint flowers on your car (I’ve already done this, but decided to pass it on because it’s very liberating and you cannot help but smile every single time you approach your car when it is covered with flowers.  This serves to improve your quality of life.)
• Define your biggest fear.  Then overcome it. 
• Decide what you need to live an absolutely fabulous life.  Then get it. 

 

See?  You’re having more fun already, aren’t you?