Random Channel Surfing

Most people have a "type". They're into tall dudes, or redheads, or prefer a little T over some A. I used to think I had three types. There was the type who looked like First Him (which, surprisingly enough, included Second and Third Him--both of whom physically looked like First Him). There was the type with dark hair, hazel eyes, and rosy cheeks (I called this my Gilbert Blythe type and I think it's the type I physically like the most). Then there are redheads--I like gingers. 'Nough said. But I'm also starting to notice that I like certain personality types, too. I like friendly, enthusiastic guys who make jokes. I like guys who whistle when they're doing mundane things. I like guys who drum on countertops or their steering wheel. I like guys who start up a conversation with the person next to them in line. I like guys who notice little details and comment on them. I like guys who make whoever they're speaking to feel like they're the on...

He opened his eyes (every morning), turned on his side (every morning), and lovingly gazed out the window (every morning). Every morning, he was greeted with the sight of three little birds on his windowsill. Singing sweet songs, a message to him and you, and even me. Songs about the happy feeling that bubbles in your chest. Songs about taking every day one second, minute, hour at a time. And every morning, he smiled to himself knowing that every little thing was going to be all right. Knowing he was going to have a damned good day.

Ten years ago, I was in the middle of planning my temporary move to Montreal. I was both excited about the move and anxious about living away from my family and friends. It was exhilarating and I was very optimistic about the temporary relocation. When I talked to Nicolas (the guy whose lease I was taking over) on April 4, 2008, I didn't have a clue that I would undergo as much as I did when I lived in Montreal. It might not seem like a whole lot to an outsider, but Montreal living was my first real taste at complete solitude. It was the first time I took a bite out of life and understood what it meant to be an adult. It was also the first time I fell in real love. I've mentioned my past loves on this platform. From First Him through to Third Him, I have detailed how my love for these men shaped me into the woman I am today. Well this post isn't going to be about them. No. This post is going to be dedicated to that moment in time when I genuinely felt in love with mys...

Q: And realistically, what's the worst that could happen? A: My heart caves in on itself, collapsing from grief and disillusion, never to beat again.

I used to think I had good taste in men. After all, I usually fall for guys who are pleasant; earnest in every way. Good guys. (Not to be confused with Nice Guys™.) But upon deep reflection, I have realized that I have yet to meet a truly good man. (For me, that is.) That's not to say that my friends are not good men; hell no. In fact, I'm starting to realize that my male friends may be the only good men I know (apart from my own father). But whenever I meet a potential leading man, I idealize him and ignore the warning signs that point to him not being quite-the-good-man-I've-made-him-out-to-be. In actuality, things go this way: Step 1  I see attractive dude.  Step 2  I sputter when speaking to said attractive dude.  Step 3  I replay our conversation over and over and analyze it to death.  Step 4  I fantasize different scenarios involving said attractive dude.   Step 5  I see attractive dude again.   Step 6...

I have a hard time letting go. I especially have a hard time letting go of people. That's why my friend breakups are hard to accept. That's why I continue to like and obsess over men from my past even when I've moved on. That's why Hims one through three have entire tags dedicated to them. And I really have to accept that things happen the way they happen for a reason. It's not a bullshit reason; it's reality. And I really need to accept that.

(I think.) Like a ghost or a memory, he's popped back into my life and I'm feeling so unsettled by his reappearance. I don't know what to make of my emotions. My stomach is unsettled, my heart won't stop racing, my head spins. Part of me is elated to know that he is doing well; that he's back in the city; that he's going to school. Part of me is terrified that even though he's reemerged, nothing I do can control what will happen between us. He can still choose not to reciprocate; he can still choose to vamoose out of my life like he did so long ago. (Please don't disappear again.) And it's funny to me because now that he's back and that I want him (and only him) and have my blinders on and my eyes are zeroing in on him (and only him), it's raining men. Men who want me and want to spend time with me (and only me) and I want him (and only him). But, of course, he does not want me, back. My stomach is unsettled. My heart won't stop r...

Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo. *cue fanfare* And... It's off to an okay start. I had three story ideas, so I decided to write all three. I don't know if I'll keep that up, but for now... it seems to be working. I mean, whenever I feel inspired for one, I'll write that. When creativity for that story is zapped, I'll start working on either of the other two stories. It's interesting because my approach to this exercise is very non-committal. All I want is to write the 50'000 words in thirty days. Past that? I don't really have any real drive or motivation or impetus. It's all about the numbers for me, baby! So I don't know if it's because I'm only going through the motions with this: Whether it's because I want to be able to say, "I've written a book!" or really if it's because I'm feeling slightly pressured, but... that's how I'm approaching this year's NaNo. Plus, let's not forget the fa...

You know when something pretty awesome happens to you, but you're too shocked to really believe it happened? Like, you can't stop pinching yourself or second-guessing your memory because it almost feels as though you're making it up. It's too good to be true. It's the kind of thing that happens to other people, but never you. Well. Something pretty awesome happened to me and I'm trying to be cool about it. But, as much as I want to keep my cool, a quiet part of me is insisting that I just go for it and lay it all out there. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? (Cryptic blog post, I know...)

She arrives first; sped-walk most of the way, really, and fidgeted for the seven minutes she had to wait for him. She took a hold of a nearby newspaper to keep her hands from shaking, reminding herself to be cool be cool  and forcing herself to take several deep, calming breaths, continuously looking up the moment anyone walked through the door. The anxiety kept building and it was beginning to make her fret again. Peering out the window for the first time since picking up the paper, she saw him on his bike; his camel-coloured satchel at his side, his white helmet bouncing the sun's rays like a ping-pong ball, the white of his shirt momentarily blinding her. Fearing she'd be caught gaping, she turned her back to the door, choosing to feign indifference when he walked through the door. Still, despite her best effort, she blew her cover the moment she heard the door open and she caught herself looking at his worn KEDs shoes. And when their eyes met (hers shy and eager, his ...

I'm learning to let things go. Or maybe it's not so much that I'm learning to let things go, but that my perspective or focus has shifted; that I'm learning to temper my expectations, my impatience, my fire. Because I used to be of the mind of going 0 to 100, but I'm learning to gradually increase from 0 to 3, to 6, etc. It's taken me a while and, while I cannot say that I have full control, I know that things are getting better and, maybe, by this time next year, I'll have finally learned how to #adult.

This month is National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo. I've been a member of NaNo for close to five years and have attempted to start writing a novel three times already. Each time I started writing my novel, however, I would give up because the words felt forced and the story wasn't flowing and I was too hung up on how awful everything was coming out. Instead of just letting the words flow through, I was fixating on my shortcomings and, regrettably, gave up a few paragraphs, sometimes sentences in. This year, Tamara and I decided that we would participate and that we would write a novel by the end of November. In this case, a novel is the equivalent of 50 000 words and, so far, I'm at 36 666. SAY WHAT?! It's funny, but the story is flowing and the characters have a life of their own; they're behaving in ways I never intended them to and they're doing things that are morally repulsive to me. I love it! But I think the reason why this story is f...

I saw First Him at Southgate mall yesterday. I was walking into the mall, scanning the people on their way in and out, when my eyes landed on an average height dude, wearing a navy blue sweater and skinny jeans. My first thought was, "He's cute" and my eyes flitted away when I thought, "Wait, was that him?" I did a double-take, craned my neck back to look again and realized it was First Him. He hasn't changed. He even has the same haircut. His sense of fashion has improved, though.

I used to loathe having to dress up on Halloween for work. My coworkers thought I was a killjoy and would be annoyed if I didn’t participate, but I just wasn't comfortable. I mean, sure, my boss and everyone else was decked out in their costumes, but I just didn't want any part of it. Although, to be fair, I used to loathe having to dress up for Halloween in general. After my 14th birthday, I just didn’t see the point to costumes and make believe if I wasn’t getting anything out of it (and by that I mean candy. I do a LOT of things of things I don’t want to do for candy). So I would go as "me" to parties, opting to spend the night in, watching horror flicks or my favourite Halloween movies. The last three years, though, I’ve really gotten into the Halloween spirit! I blame Rylan, who’s birthday is on October 31st, for this. The year Nicole officially moved into her house, she hosted a birthday party for Rylan, which started the tradition of celebrating Rylan'...

Not entirely out of order, but not entirely in order either. Remind myself how problematic he is (counting calories, misaligning political ideologies, racist comments, etc) Delete his phone number from my phone. Avoid places and events I know he's attending. Repeat the words, "God, I hate him" whenever I think about him. Convince myself I'll never see him again. Imagine that his breath is nas ty = crush almost over. Make a secret playlist of songs that remind me of him. Write a list of why he sucks. Rationalize why we wouldn't work out. Get sad when Nicole challenges this belief. Imagine him with another woman who -- in my mind -- is a better fit for him than I would be. Help him romance said woman. Get sad when Nicole challenges this belief (yes, this happens twice for two different reasons).  Force myself to like someone new whilst I simultaneously... Avoid the opposite sex like it's my part-time job. Take a trip or two or five. Drown m...

Going through this blog, I know who I was smitten with by the content of the things I would post. First Him was for the first few years. I know this because the first few years are littered with posts in which I confess to starving myself or wanting to escape Edmonton because everywhere I looked, there were memories of him. Second Him was from the summer of 2008 and onward. I was constantly fretting over not seeing him, or seeing him, or knowing he would never feel the way I did. But liking second Him wasn't only about him per se; liking and thinking about him was also tied to my one true love: Montreal. Montreal is the one constant in my posts. My love for this city has never wavered and you'll find posts sprinkled throughout this blog as odes to the city; it may just be my one great love, seeing as I've gone through bouts in my life where I hardly notice men, but my adoration for Montreal is ongoing. I had a bit of a break from getting random crushes on men when I...

For close to fifteen years, September 21 has been a day of big events. I've had my heart broken on September 21 (twice); have moved clear across the country; have celebrated loved ones' happy occasions. But this year, nothing happened. In fact, I'll go as far as saying that today was a happy day. Thank goodness today was a good day.

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When I first visited my sister and her husband in Frankfurt ( 2012 ), I went to this amazing store called   Primark . I equate this Irish store to the US's Forever 21 or the UK's TopShop. It's an affordable clothing store that has very trendy and fashionable clothes and accessories. I spent around  € 300 on new pants, shirts, blazers, cardigans, shoes, and dresses. In short, I created a new wardrobe for myself. After that trip, I think I really created my "fashion identity". These amazing shoes have become a staple in my outfits. They're comfortable, they're pretty , and they're my favourites. Alas, after the past three-ish years of wear and tear, I think they're ready for me to say goodbye.  I've done some research on the subject and have learned that Nike has a Reuse-A-Shoe program and that Edmonton's Salvation Army (a society I rarely support because of its stance on homosexuality and, well, marriage equality ) have shoe r...

I'm finding more instances of circumstances where people think people are failures because they don't conform to societal expectations. And I'm finding that, by and large, I'm one of those failures. But I don't get it.  If I'm doing right by me, then how am I  the failure? What, because I'm not chasing the same things other people are, I'm less of a person?  I just want to tell so many people to fuck off.