Free the bees

Anyone who knows me knows I am terrified of bees. Bumblebees, wasps, hornets, anything bee-like, I'd rather it kept away from me. I've even had a bee fly into my ear. It stayed there for a good ten minutes while I wondered what, exactly, one is supposed to do in this situation. Stay calm, good. Sticking finger in ear, bad. I've even gone to the extreme lengths of getting bees tattooed on my arm, figuring that if I could get multiple needles piercing my flesh for two hours, what harm could a little bee sting do?

But I'm still terrified. Bees are angry. Bees have wrath, and bees exert their vengeful wrath at the slightest provocation. They are completely irrational, and I fear irrational beings.

Yesterday, I was taking a good, honest look at myself. I'm an attractive girl(I cannot bring myself to call myself a "lady" yet) But something was amiss. It was my hair, or rather, the tumbleweed atop my head where my hair used to be. How did I fail to notice how ratty it'd become? I was so excited by the length-anyone who's had short hair foisted on them from childhood will understand the fulfillment of Crystal Gayle-length hair daydreams-so much so, that I didn't care what condition it was in. So, in the spirit of frugality and self-sufficiency, I got out the scissors, as I have many times before, and started cutting my hair.

I feel the need to explain my fear of hairstylists. When I was small and my mother used to take me and my sister to TopCuts in Yorkdale, I was always given the short bowl cut my mother found so adorable on me. And once, as we were leaving, one of the "stylists", I use the term loosely, mistook me for a boy. It's been seared into my memory. From then on, I wanted long hair. And every time I grew my hair out and went for a trim, they would not listen to me "please, I'd like to keep as much length as possible", and I would leave with short hair and feel like a boy. So as soon as I could, I started taking haircare into my own hands. I'm actually not bad at it.

Only, this time, I was not so good at it. When you have a bad haircut, you feel so vulnerable, so exposed. Who among us doesn't have a Sampson complex to some extent- 'my hair is integral to whatever hotness I may possess'- and how many of us are jaw-droppingly beautiful or confident enough to laugh off a bad coif? My heart was racing, because I didn't trust myself to go on and try to fix it. So I picked up the phone and called the salon I go to whenever I screw up my hair, which is now averaging about once a year. And today, I ignored the clammy hands, the upset stomach, the shortness of breath, I sat back, and I trusted. I trusted that my stylist would listen to me, would leave me with some hair.

It was not easy. I was forced to engage in "chitchat", which I'm not really great at under pressure. I was subjected to styling products, which are always used with rather too much creative license. And I found the hairdryer nozzle a tad invasive. I emerged from the salon an hour later, a little poorer, a little unsure, but with the satisfaction that I'd faced a pretty stupid fear. I'm walking a little taller today, I don't know if it's that I like my haircut, or that, more and more, I'm starting to just not give a damn what strangers think of me and my hair. Slowly and surely, I'm letting go of the scaredy-cat who lives in my belly.

Look out bees. There's a new gal in town.

musings from the sickbed

Saturday night, too many drinks. Some first-year university student is firmly attatched to my backside as I dance, but I'm drunk and happy, so I let him. I'm with friends, I'm having a "Saturday night" with no inhabitions, and as I trip home at two in the morning, I feel at one with all the other revellers lining up for hot dogs or pizza, anything to soak up the excesses starting to rear their consequences on health and decision making.

And at approximately five in the morning, I wake up. With a migraine.

I've suffered from migraines all my life. I used to get them a lot as a kid, brought on by hypersensivity, and tension. I would spend hours, vomiting and writhing in agony, my family standing by in case there was anything they could do to ease my pain. But these are migraines, ain't nothing you can do but pray for the end.

The funny thing is, when I get sick with such a concentrated bout of suffering, my life does flash before my eyes. I count the seconds till the naseau subsides, for moments of normality I'd previously enjoyed unnoticed. I wonder if this is what death feels like, or if this compares to the pain of childbirth. I would sign just about any document or commit to any type of illegal activity just to make the hurt go away. And my heart swells so full of love for the poor family members that stand by me and offer words of support and advice as I stare pathetically up at them from the bathroom floor.

This time, I called my sister. It was the first time I've had a migraine away from home, and I haven't called my parents. I called her. "Let me finish stuffing this bagel down my gob, I'll be right over". She was at her boyfriend's house, I was undoubtably disturbing their cozy Sunday morning, but sure enough, within half an hour, she was there, rubbing my back and bringing me ice packs, staying on hold with TeleHealth Ontario to find out if I needed to see a doctor. She cancelled her plans with her boyfriend to stay with me. It was exactly what I needed, it's something no pill or promise of better health could do. Make me feel safe and loved, amidst the physical manifestations of all the insecurity and heartsickness I've been feeling of late.

Something sweet came of all this. I was reminded of my childhood, and the way my mother would look after me when I was struck with migraines. There would always be her soft hand smoothing my forehead. A glass of apple juice on the night table. A popsicle melting in a bowl. Cool sheets on my bed. And when relief and sleep would overcome me, she'd turn out the lights, close my door just enough so that some light from the hallway would keep me company, and I'd hear her and my father talking and making dinner downstairs. There is no greater thing you can give a child but that. That sense of being cared for. It's the gold of parenthood.

Those days are gone now, but I was brought back to them by my sister, who is the closest I have to a mom now. I know she will move out one day, and live with her boyfriend, and I will have to learn how to save myself, but for now, I will let myself indulge in those tenderest of moments when I can forget just how much life has changed.

Born yesterday

I'm 28 years old. I've had enough experiences with men to have at least some insight into the male mind. And yet, when it comes right down to it, I haven't the foggiest clue.

In the past two weeks, I've amazed myself, both with lack of clarity when sober, and astuteness when drunk.

A few doors down from my house, there's been ongoing construction, and as with most construction, there've been construction workers. I get up rather early these days to take the dog for her morning walk, and on these early morning, dewdrops-on-your-sneaker-tips kind of mornings, I've walked by the site. There was a rather attractive fellow working there, and he and I would exchange hellos, gradually lengthening the scope of our conversations to "how are you's", and "bad weather we're having". Not exactly sparkling, but a start, anyway. One day, as I walked by and went up my front steps, he ran after me, and introduced himself properly. He suggested we exchange phone numbers and maybe go out sometime. His phone, he said, wasn't working, but it was getting fixed that day. I, admittedly turned on by his rather well-muscled physique and lovely blue eyes, said yes. I mean, not everything has to mean something, right? A date or meeting with someone new doesn't immediately have to send me into apoplectic fits worrying how I'll break up with him if it doesn't work out. Emboldened by my new disregard for my usual over-thought, I sauntered that day. I felt filled with a certain brand of freedom, both sexual and from my own nature. I felt hot.

Later that night, my best friend called me up, and we made spontaneous plans. Wow, I thought, this is a new me. I never make spontaneous plans, I don't even know if I'm spelling spontaneous correctly! We met at a bar near both of us, and had a few beers, and a great time chatting and watching the cute waiters. Confidence is infectious, and both of us were feeling a bit more !!! that night. Sitting next to us was a fellow who came and joined us after his female companion left. I'd noticed him earlier as he walked back from the bathroom, we'd made prolonged eye contact, and I was again amazed at how un-self conscious I was being.

He talked a lot about the ridiculously interesting life he'd been leading, his fantastic job, which put him in league with the upper eschelons of Canadian music gods, his philosophies on life and choices. Both me and my friend found him entertaining, and not too arrogant, for one so well-connected and travelled. I noticed he was pretty much ignoring me, and for some reason, I knew it was because he was trying to be aloof. Usually, I'd think he just didn't notice me, but the construction worker's interest in me had bolstered my ego a bit, and so, without the headache of lowish self-esteem, everything was standing before me, remarkably clear, even as I got progressively drunker. When my friend excused herself to the bathroom, my suspicions were confirmed, and he started in on how he'd fancied me from the moment he saw me, he wanted to know me, and that he'd been playing it aloof so I'd think he was cool. I was tickled, and at the end of the night, under the initial intention of walking my dog, we went back to my place.

I don't know when exactly I cottoned on to the fact that he was completely coked out, that there was a very strong possibility he was actually something of a liar, and a rather grand one, at that. But after a rather unmemorable encounter, and some pathetic excuses as to why he wouldn't be able to join me for breakfast,(I didn't invite him!) I saw him, in my drunken stupor, for what he was. It wasn't that far off from who I thought he was at the bar, someone used to partying and saying what sounded good. And amazingly, there was no shame or self-criticism involved, post-revalation. It was what it was. A one-off. Not without a lesson or two.

Fast forward to not one, not two, but three sweet phone messages from the construction worker. After the second call, I had decided I wasn't going to call him. I know, it sounds despicably classist of me, but I just couldn't see it, couldn't fathom what we'd have in common. A week went past when the third call came, and with it, a sharp reminder that I can be a bit too judgemental and introverted with people I don't know, and so I fished out his phone number and gave him a call.

A woman answered. I asked to speak to "Bob". 'Who is this?' she asked, suspiciously. I told her my name, and when he got on the phone, the jig was up. He was cold, aloof, positively reluctant to talk to me. A colonoscopy might have been more comfortable for him. There was that clarity, just a bit on the tardy side. His phone was broken? Asking me about the construction site that he was no longer working on? Oh, you silly, naive simpleton, you daft, not-tuned-in-to-your-first-instincts girl. I'd been so worried I was being a bitch and not giving him a fair shot, that I ignored whatever the heck it was in me that initially said "don't call". He tried to get out the words "I'll call you later", but I cut him off and hung up.

I was embarrassed. My ass was a bit sore from falling off my chair in disbelief, both at my ignorance, and his idiocy. But I reminded myself that I've fallen off several turnip trucks before, and I'm still able to laugh about it, even with that purpley-red emotional bruising.

They're out there, my future bad dates, blissful and short lived love affairs, and perhaps, if I'm lucky, one or two more deep, enduring ones. I'll try not to shy away from musicians and hard hats out of past experiences. I'll just have to go by my guts.

Survival Revival

It's been astonishingly easy to recede into my new life as dog owner, insomniac and dutiful daughter. This new life has consisted of a near obsession with getting my dog to eliminate bodily waste outdoors, never ever sleeping in, and sobbing internally at the sight of my mother fast becoming vegetative. When you put it like that, I tell myself, it's no wonder you're so bloody crusty these days!

And yet, all I need do is pick up the trusty Toronto Star as I've been doing daily now, and there it is in black and white for me; the gift of perspective meted out by my favourite journalists and reporters. They are my unsung heroes, I don't know what most of them look like, and I doubt they have any ideas about me, but time and time again, they post cautionary tale after cautionary tale, warning me what ignorance does, what unchecked egomania turns into, what fucked-upedness lurks when broken spirits are left to reset their own bones.

I nearly wept with admiration when I read about the two Aussie miners who survived on one cereal bar and licked water off the collapsed mine shaft walls, only to emerge two weeks later(I think it was two weeks) with the energy to raise their fists in triumph and fashion smiles of gratitude for fresh air and the sight of loved ones' faces.

Or the Ugandan mothers dying of AIDS, writing memory books for their future-orphaned children, to compel them not to stand headlong and crippled in their losses but to remain steadfast with a happier past that will accompany them through the loneliness and hardship ahead.

Or the Palestinian families who didn't support the Hamas faction's rise to power, who are subsisting on lentils and despair till their wages are re-instated, watching the scant emergency supplies being passed by them to their Hamas-supporting neighbours. All for the price of bearing witness to the unpopular outcome of their democratic process, an outcome the international community feels makes them unworthy of their daily bread.

I could go on. And on. And so on. I read these stories, I see the pictures, no less potent in a black and white freeze frame, and I wonder what right I have to sob or panic or wring my often idle hands. I know suffering is subjective, and I've never really liked those people that would begrudge you a good sob at your hard luck simply because suffering is more severe elsewhere. But goddamn if it doesn't humble me some to realize I have food in my fridge. That I live in a country where the LRA doesn't steal my neighbours' children away to arm them with guns and fates worse than death. I am not amidst a civil war that fells family trees swiftly and without mercy, leaving human forests barren in its daily wake.

I'm a complete sap for happy endings, even though I know that the older you get, the harder they come. I know my mom won't get better, but occasionally, I need reminding that life will go on with and eventually, without her. There will be bills to pay, dogshit to pick up, and the odd moments of perspective found, to light the way between the darker coridoors I so often find myself in.

And so, I count the days till my entry to that world of perspective provision called journalism. This is not the happy ending I'm so prone to tacking onto my writings. It is the exhausted hope of someone gleaning illumination from whatever crack it breaks through.