Happy Birthday to Me - Pt. 2

Why is time going so friggen slowly? I seethe to myself as I lay in the Piazza of this medieval Palazzo; surrounded by couples making out. My shoes are to the left of me. I'm trying to darken the tan lines on my feet from the sandals I was wearing the day before.

I've already paid up at the guest-house. My things are mostly packed. I've booked the first train out of here tomorrow morning. All I have to do is kill a few more hours in Florence and I'm gone. Off to better ventures. Venice calls.

But my efforts to speed up the day have all failed. Dante's house was closed for repairs; and at the last second I chickened out of having a really nice meal at a really nice restaurant. I couldn't bear to be one of those women who eat by themselves (with a book) in Italy. And, there are lots of them: hundreds of lonely recent-divorcees happily taking themselves to Italy in search of love and passion.

I couldn't pull out a book at a fancy restaurant because I wasn't one of them. I wasn't a lonely bitter divorcee searching for solace. I was a tired, over-worked, singleton who had a dream for her 30th birthday and wanted to see it come true. So, I said "no thanks" to the fancy restaurant; tipped my hat at Elizabeth Gilbert and headed to the Palazzo for a different version of loneliness.

I saw things going so differently when I decided at the last minute to come to Italy for 6 weeks as a birthday present to myself. Who needs a man? I laughed defiantly as I sipped on cocktails all the way to Rome. I didn't have any grand disillusions of a whirlwind Italian romance. I just wanted to take myself to Italy and see the sights -- and I wasn't going to not do it because I was single.

Sigh. I look around me. There are more couples making out than there are pigeons. It's really remarkable how romantic this place is -- and how unbearable it can be if you have no one (even a friend would do!) to share it with.

Florence was beautiful. Romantic. And very lonely.

So here I was, lying barefoot in a Piazza in front of a gorgeous Palace; waiting for inspiration to hit -- trying to think of how I can eat up the next 12 hours before my train leaves. At this point, there is nothing left to see. There wasn't a painting, tomb inscription, or sculpture that didn't have me for an audience. I've touched and viewed everything that Michelangelo and Raphael ever finished...or even started. I was actually surprised to discover there are a lot of incomplete works around Florence. Maybe I'm an incomplete work? Like an unfinished Pieta.

I don't know.

Just how did I see this day going? Well, for one, I wouldn't be in my crusty travel clothes; I'd be in designer gems and dripping with expensive jewels. I'd be sitting....(I look around)...in that expensive restaurant over there. My husband and I would be having antipasto while sipping our wine and raving how much we love Florence. Then he'd look at me; with his loving eyes; and say "Are you ready for your birthday present?", and I'd bashfully tell him that the trip around the world was present enough and that he shouldn't have. He'd tsk me, and then hand over a little box. I'd open it; fake aghast, and say something like, Carlo! Your grandmother's jewels! However did the museum let you have it? and we'd kiss like two lovebirds -- shunning all the other pigeons in the Piazza across from us; and I would turn 30 exactly the way I had always wanted to.

But Carlo wasn't here -- or at least not with me. And as I revelled in my fantasy just a little bit longer under the hot afternoon sun; a couple asked me to take their photo. I stood, dusted myself off and thought please don't let them do something kissy kissy. But they did. They wanted a photo that captured the full passion that Florence had given them. And as I begrudgingly snapped a few shots of them soaking up all the wonders of Florence; I boldly (and sarcastically) asked them if they would do me a favour? Would they mug me? Beat me up? Send my bloodied body to a nearby hospital?

I was met with blank stares. Sarcasm can be difficult if English isn't your first language.

They scuffled off quite quickly.

And, as I lay down to continue my birthday sun-bathe in the Piazza, I did (for a millisecond) think that a mugging wouldn't be such a bad thing. After all, Italian mid-afternoon administration is one of the slowest moving beasts out there -- and a trip to the hospital, at the very least, would help eat up time until my train departed the next morning.

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The Space/Time Continuum

"Mee-yaah..." Consuela whines, "move your feet!" She shoves my feet aside as I try to write at my desk.

I think she fails to recognize that this is a dictatorship; not a democracy. She's trying to swiffer under my desk. Her fat little 4'8" frame is squirming underneath me while she annoyingly hums some native Argentinian folk-song from her homeland. It's amazing. I can spend 23 hours and 45 minutes a day away from my desk, but the minute I want to sit here and get some work done she decides to act some-what productive. "Act" being the opperative word. She's not fooling me. I see those mildew stains in the bathtub. The laundry is piled up. Dirty dishes overflow in the sink.

A quick half-assed swiffer of the 8 square feet of floor space under my desk isn't going to counteract all the things she hasn't done today; like bring in the paper, or bang out the mats on the balcony...

"There's nothing in the fridge," I hint -- trying to motivate her to perhaps go and get some groceries; but she does what Consuela does best: pretends not to hear me. She's shuffling around behind me. Eventually the sound of her dollar store slippers dragging against my floor ceases. Like clockwork -- 20 seconds later the wailing cry of betrayed Latina women crescendo into a full-on scream; the telenovella dishes out another dose of Consuela's favourite past-time...

Sigh. If only I could write in Spanish. I'd have a dream career of writing sappy telenovellas while sipping an espresso from some romantic Barcelonian cafe and entertaining the hearts of millions. My Spanish lover would be reading some poetry book while massaging my foot with one of his hands. Every once in a while just to make the stomachs of passer-byes turn to a full level of nausea --he would kiss my toes. Revolting; but fantastic none-the-less.

But I'm not in Barcelona. I'm in my apartment on a Saturday morning trying to pound out some more pages before the inspiration is fully lost.

"Turn down that damn television!" I screech at Consuela, just to reminder her how much I love her. The closest I've ever come to watching a telenovella was about ten minutes of an Italian dubbed version of "Sex and the City". It was ridiculous:

Charlotte: "Carrie, quando la problemo pour la bastardo de Big?"

Carrie: "Me no comprendo. Mio heart c'est la trasho de la bastardo de la Monsieur Big".

Charlotte: "Cordnutto! Bastardo! Mio Carrie. Quando! Quando!"

OK. So obviously I can't speak Italian.

Poor Carrie. I remember when I first caught "Sex and the City"; I was 22. I naively thought, how sad that those women in their thirties couldn't get it together and make a relationship work...

Be very careful what statements you throw out to the Universe. For now, I am that 32 year old woman that I pitied ten years ago. Relationships are hard. Really hard. Especially when you keep choosing the wrong people. Even more so when you fall victim to your feelings; like Carrie did with Big, over and over and over and over....you get it.

The other day I was at a barbecue. The kids outnumbered the adults 4 to 1. I sat beside a woman who had three kids. So...we start chatting. She finds out I'm single; takes me under her wing and begins to tell me how she didn't meet her husband until she was 34, and they took their time having kids, and now at 41 she has three under five...so "You have LOTS of time", she says thunderously with a big smile on her face.

"I'm not worried", I tell her.

"NO, seriously. You have lots of time" She repeated. The volume was starting to mask the voice of The Lord in The Ten Commandments. Should I climb Mt. Sinai and bring back some tablets? Just who exactly was she convincing? I looked around in case she was speaking to more than one of us. But it was just me. Me and my lots of time.

OK...

I started deconstructing my non-verbal behaviour in case there was just a hint of Desperate or Pathetic hanging off of me that I was unaware of. I couldn't think of anything. I wasn't dying to hold anyone's baby. I pretty much ran in the other direction when little grubby children came at me with worms.

Was I really giving off an "I wanna join your mommy club vibe"? Or was I just that pathetic single person that everyone wants to see partnered up so that I have the option to join one day if I so choose?

I wasn't sure. So I smiled, and repeated, "I'm not in any rush!" Charleston Heston stand aside. I used my really loud voice; well, as loud as it could be through my fake smile. It's hard to increase your volume when your jaw is clenched.

But she vollied it back to me like any woman on a mission; eager to convince me of a better understanding -- one that I will (in her mind) appreciate when I get there:

You have LOTS of time.

Good to know, I acquiesce. Resistance was futile. For the reality is; it does take me a little...ok...a lot longer to learn some lessons, I suppose.

I revel in my new-found liberated space/time continuum. I have lots of time I thought as I sucked back the rest of my wine in an effort to ease the conversation that was (apparently) NEVER going to end because time, as she so eloquently kept reminding me, was of no consequence.

Ugly Floral Duct-Taped Baggage

I'm standing in the departure terminal trying to figure out what plane I'm going to catch. The flights keep popping up; but I haven't made up my mind where I want to go. Maybe some rogue traveller will want to go with me? I look down at my baggage; slightly embarrassed. It's old, floral, awkward, and falling apart. Some areas of the fabric have been duct-taped together. It's a sight for soar eyes. But it's my baggage.

Maybe I should look for someone who has the same baggage? But I've never really met a guy who carries around floral duct-taped baggage. If only I could get rid of it and have nice shiny Louis Vuitton baggage -- but I can't; at least, not at the moment. And this is the moment I want to take off -- so, like it or not, I have to stick with my baggage and hope for the best.

I take a seat on one of the benches and start to watch all the men walk by. It's interesting. When you start to look at the baggage and not the men, you see a whole different person. A cute boy walks by; but he doesn't notice me -- or a few yards back he noticed my glaringly ugly floral duct-taped baggage and decided against making eye contact. His baggage is nice and neat. One of those standard airline approved black carry-ons. It's simple. I wish I had his baggage.

Another guy walks buy. His over sized backpack is dirty and torn. Things from his past are spilling out; an arm of an ex-girlfriend, a screaming mother. He notices my nice floral duct-taped baggage and smiles at me. He's cute. Funny. But because I can't help but notice his stinky baggage I avert my eyes, and eventually he goes away.

A girl walks by with Louis Vuitton baggage. I want to tackle her, and run away with it. I bet she's going to somewhere exotic like Bora Bora.

A flock of stewardesses usher their way down the terminal. Their heels click on the tiles. Each of them has the same regulation baggage but some of them have duct-tape on theirs. We smile at each other as they pass; we duct-tape girls have something in common. They look at me as if to say; don't worry, I have ugly floral baggage at home too.

Other men walk by. The baggage ranges really. I'm not sure if the guy with the Sesame Street baggage matches mine or not. We talk for a bit -- but it doesn't seem like a good fit. Then there's the cute guy with the trunk. He drags it heavily down the terminal. It leaves scratches in the floor. He seems nice enough, but I don't even want to know what he's carrying around. It makes him wince and sweat to maneuver it. So, I think, this one is better left to themselves.

I take a break from my people watching and go to get a coffee. I leave my ugly baggage at the bench because I'm pretty certain that no one will take it; and if they did, I would be grateful. I stand in line and wait to order. A really cute guy stands behind me. I can tell he's cute before I even turn around. I can smell how cute he is. I turn; sure enough - he's adorable. Tall, nice eyes, a big smile. I look down at his feet to see what he's carrying around. A decent piece of luggage. Mid-sized. No duct-tape. No tears. It's red. I smell to see if there are any foul smells coming from inside the baggage. He doesn't seem to mind, in fact, I think he likes that I'm being pre-selective.

There are no smells, so I let the idle chit-chat continue while we wait in line to order our coffee. He tells me his name. I tell him mine. I figure what's the harm in talking? I'll bow out after I get my coffee because my baggage doesn't match his. But, for this moment, I want to enjoy the conversation with a nice guy with nice baggage. I order my coffee and turn to leave. He tells me to wait...I do so against my better judgement. It's nice to be talking to someone with nice baggage. He doesn't make this exchange more complicated than it needs to be. I figure I'll say my polite goodbyes in a minute or two; but for now, I still want to chat with him. While he's ordering I listen to make sure there are no screams coming from his nice neat baggage. I strain to hear even the faintest of whispers, but I don't hear anything.

I look back at him and smile. I've been sitting in the airport for a while; so it's nice to know that there are guys out there who have nice baggage. I'm just grateful that I left my ugly baggage at the bench. It's nice to have an uncomplicated conversation -- even if it's only for a few minutes.

He takes out his wallet to pay for his coffee and I smile. It has a floral pattern and is held together by electric tape. It doesn't scare me, because I kinda get why he has it. So, when he asks me if he can walk me back to my baggage I decide that it's ok -- because I think that maybe this guy is cool enough to like me despite my ugly floral duct-taped baggage...especially when I'm working really hard to have Louis Vuitton one day.

The Control Freak

I think if I were more patient life would be a whole lot easier. I can't help it. Something gets on my mind and I need to resolve it right away or the world (just might!) end. Ever since I got into a quasi-fight with my yoga teacher I've been swimming in creative anxiety. Good for the career. Bad for relationships.

And the yoga teacher squabble wasn't my fault. She got mad at me because my hips were too tight one time. Then another time because I wouldn't take my socks off. It was ridiculous how easily I could disturb her chi. She'd look at me; slightly furious -- I'd see her jaw clench. And, just in case it was all in my head; she'd confirm her dislike by smiling good-bye to everyone in the class and by passing me. But I don't care. My Pilate's instructor always smiles at me.

It is slightly frustrating that the very components that make me good at my job make me terrible in relationships. The inner-control freak inside me can never quite seem to sit back and enjoy the ride. She feels compelled to grab the steering wheel and drive it off a cliff every single time. And yes, for those of you who are paying attention, that was an allegory to Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky.

You can't Produce significant others. Could you imagine? How wonderful would it be to put out a casting call for Mr. Right?

Wanted. Strappingly handsome males age 30 to 40. Must have business-like appearance and understanding of chivalry. Please send head shots and CV to...

And, you certainly can't Direct men. How many times have I sat there listening to them say something offensive/idiotic/absurd/cruel and wanting to say:

"Cut! Cut! OK - I need you to say that again ... but this time with a little more feeling, and empathy. Remember your character cares for the person you're talking to. So you should show that in your body language and in your tone. Try again."

Sigh. If only it were that easy. If only I could control the people around me the way I am able to on set. Life would be so much more simpler. Everything would go my way, and I would be perfectly happy all the time! But, God has a sense of humour. So, fortunately or unfortunately, the world and people are not designed that way. Every time I'm forced to bend to someone else's idea of perfection; I grow on some level. So, even though I fight it tooth and nail, it turns out to be a good thing once in a while.

But for those times that I can't bend, direct, or produce the outcome of the situation -- I write. Because in writing you can put any words into the mouth of the person you're trying to resolve something with. You can remove all the bad things they said. You can have the two of you running barefoot through a poppy field on a sunny afternoon. You have complete control. So I write. I resolve the mistakes and regrets of my past, and invariably find some sort of merger between what my heart really wants and what is realistically plausible.

Can't you just go away forever?

How did he even get in here? I thought to myself as my creepy ex-boyfriend entered my dorm room and I had to fake pleasantries. We had just finished orienting the frosh and I was putting posters on my wall to make it cozy for the coming year.

At the time I didn't realize that he would have needed to get signed in. I didn't think to much of it actually -- except that he was now in my very tiny room and I wanted him out as quickly as possible. He did what men usually do when they're testing the waters; the big happy smile, lots of questions, offering to be helpful. All I could think to myself is who are you? For the better part of last year you drove me crazy and hated my guts, and now you're in my room trying to be friendly? It didn't make any sense.

It took me months of distance to get a clear perspective on the situation; there was something very wrong with him. Whether it was lack of maturity, lack of common sense, lack of empathy, or a general lack of control from some hidden drug habit that made him erratic -- he was bad news all around. And I was quite happy to be well and clear of him. But here he was in my room acting all nice and for a millisecond making me second-guess my clear perspective.

"Why are you here?" I snapped. I wanted to get this over with. There was no chance of being friends, friendly, or even a reconciliation -- so the sooner he got off his chest what he needed, the sooner I could be on my way to doing something a million more times enjoyable.

He wanted to get back together. He'd thought things over. He feels bad for the way he treated me. Don't I still feel the same way?

Uh...no. Very no. Was he kidding? He was a complete jerk to me. He bad-mouthed me to everyone and anyone that would listen. Called me crazy. And the thing is -- at one point, he probably did drive me to mild temporary insanity. A person can do that to another person. It's called mental cruelty.

But in any case, I had to deal with the present level of insanity that was now pleading (nicely) before me. So I told him that I didn't still have feelings for him, that I didn't want to get back together, and that I'm glad he feels bad for being such a creep. Let the past be the past. No hard feelings.

But that wasn't good enough. He started badgering me. Pleading. Offering to write apologies on my wall in blood. It got very weird very quickly. The lack of control he had over me started to show cracks in his fake smile and pleasantries.

I've never been one of those girls who gets off on destroying men. I just can't be bothered. If you don't want to be with me...fine. Your loss. I'll cry quietly for months to anyone else who will listen -- I may even try an attempt or two at reaching out, but eventually my pride kicks in and I move on.

I have a friend who was so pissed that her boyfriend broke up with her, that she chased after him for months only to eviscerate him once he was head over heels in love with her. Mild sociopath? I would say so. I mean, really...who has the energy?

So, while some women would be dancing in glee that he was having a moment of verifiable weakness and claiming certain "victory", I was just wanting the whole conversation to be done with. But he wasn't having any of it. He was getting angry that I wasn't humbly accepting his offer to get back together with him.

Sigh.

I looked him in the eyes to be straight with him; and that's when the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Some sort of animal instinct inside of me kicked in.

He got very calm. Looked at me harshly and said in a slow and controlled manner, "Fine. Have it your way." And then got up and walked out. I walked towards the door and watched to see what he would do. He was roaming up and down the hall looking in the open doors. I lived in a residence that was all women...so I wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for. It's not like he knew anyone on the floor -- they had all just started University a few days earlier. He looked back at me - glared, and then walked through the door of a girl who had a single dorm room.

At the time I wasn't really sure what his intentions were. Befriend someone on my floor and try the conversation with me again? Date someone on the floor and try to make me jealous? Or just show up from time to time to annoy me? I really wasn't in the mood for another round of him badmouthing me.

But it wasn't until the girl who stayed across the hall from the girl whose room he walked into that day came crying to me in complete secrecy; that I knew the level of danger was higher than anything my mind could have ever prepared me for.

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Still paying the price

The first blow knocked my glasses off my face and sent me flying. I had just retrieved them from my purse and was heading to my car to drive home after a long night of partying. I was still exhilarated from the high of taking off on him and his lame co-worker. My phone had been ringing incessantly all night long; but as Sue and I jumped from club to club -- I ignored it. We were done.

I hit the pavement and looked back up in time to see him irate and lunging towards me. I had made one fatal flaw: I had not moved my car and so, he was angrily waiting for me in the parking lot the next morning.

It's funny when something bad happens to you. You always picture yourself saying or doing something heroic; and in the end a survival instinct of sorts kicks in. Like an animal pretending to be dead, you lay there; hoping that the monster in front of you will go away.

He was livid. I had usurped him in front of a colleague and now I was going to pay. His hands were bloody and the blows continued. My white shirt slowly started to stain red from the blood.

I'm pretty sure I remained silent through the whole thing; seething him while at the same time allowing him to be a monster so I could reap the benefits of being a true victim. Eventually in the distance I saw a police car -- but they did not approach. Another typical oxymoron of Japanese society: they do not interfere with domestic disturbances. The police were simply there to arrest him should he kill me.

So they watched from their car; and I stared back at them through my swollen eyes -- knowing that they would not interfere.

When he was done lashing out he walked across the parking lot; crumbled to the ground and began weeping. I didn't stop crying for the next three days.

As I slowly pulled myself up from the pavement and re-adjusted my blood stained clothing; I knew that the person who rose in that moment would be forever changed from the person I was just a few hours before. In a moment of weakness amidst brutality -- I would walk away stronger because I survived.

I'm still haunted by that moment -- but not in a way you might think. I never think of him, never justified him, and after I drove away that morning -- never talked to him again. What haunts me is the karmic retribution of my actions that night; and the incessant ignoring of my phone calls any time I'm in conflict with a significant other. It's as if the Universe wants to remind me how horrible I was to him. On many levels -- I still feel as if I am paying the price for a mistake I made when I was 22 or 23.

You can run but you can't hide

My mother told me a funny story once about my grandparents that I'd like to share. It goes a little something like this:

On the southern coastline of Italy, in the province of Calabria there is a little coastal town steps from the water called Bianco. The town runs no more than 5 km in either direction; but the densest part of it at the time of the story would have only been a few hundred feet. My grandmother was the oldest of 13 children, and since her mother was of proud Catholic upbringing, my grandmother spent the first third of her life raising and caring for her 12 younger siblings. At 29 she was the town spinster; feeling obligated to stay and care for her younger brothers and sisters, she put aside her own ventures for the good of the family.

Marriage looked improbable.

My grandfather was the town prankster. A real sh**disturber in every sense of the word. He had a sadistic sense of humour and a horrible (at times) temper. When he was kicked out of the army he returned back to Bianco to farm; and seeing that my grandmother was still available, he married her.

My grandmother was a woman of great practicality. My grandfather was a man of great foolishness. I suppose, on a spiritual level they were a perfect match. But, in any case, for the first year of their marriage they fought incessantly.

The fights were usually set off by something that irritated my grandfather. My grandmother was not about to back down to this fool she married; despite her deep love and devotion. And so, they would enter into Calabrese war with each other on a daily basis. Each unwilling to bend to the other's imperfections, because they believed that they were right. It was more important to be right than to resolve the situation.

When my grandfather's temper would flare, he would storm out of the house in full fury; screaming in sheer irateness as he marched down the dirt road towards the other end of town. Needing to get as far away from his stubborn and insubordinate wife as he could; he would flee every time the conflict got to be a bit too much. My grandmother would listen as his mumblings became faint whispers as he scuffled further and further down the road. In an act of sheer desperation, she would get on her knees and pray to the Lord to bring a blessing upon her husband.

At times, my grandfather would be too stubborn to return home; and so, he would sleep in various porch ways and barns. Oftentimes in the morning; when my grandmother would set about for her morning walk to sell eggs or fetch water, she would see him. He would be shuffling home with hay still sticking out of his hair or shirt; and she would sigh. He would often pretend not to see her and in fact, walk straight past her. And while my grandmother would naturally think, "where the hell are you going?" she too would pretend not to see him and walk straight past him as well. It had turned into a cold war.

When my mother asked my grandmother one afternoon many years later why she resigned herself to tolerate his foolish behaviour; and also why she didn't get irate when he would walk past and ignore her, my grandmother would simply say, "Where was he going to go? There was one road in town and it circled back to our house. The further he walked away from me, eventually the closer he walked towards me. I was not about to waste my time arguing with an idiot."

My grandmother was a wise woman.

Sometimes, when men are acting childish and lashing out because they are uncomfortable with their new found intimacy; it's important to remember the one road town. For, when two hearts are truly connected, as my grandparents' were, the logic was simple. The further he would walk away from her -- the closer he would be brought to her. You can run, but you can't hide from love.





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Forgive me Father

"Go-o-oh, Mia", Consuela insists as she pushes me towards the confessional booth.

"Stop pushing me!" I snap back at her. Years of carrying buckets of water up and down the foothills of her tiny Bolivian village have made her stronger than she knows.

She glares at me. I stare back, slightly defiant. I start to walk towards the booth. Consuela hustles quickly towards the front alter; the rubber from her dollar store slippers clacks against the marble floor and echoes throughout the church.

I slip into the booth. The confessional window slides open. Silence.

"Uh, this is my first time here" I tell the priest. "And I'm not Catholic. My housekeeper is convinced that I'm riddled with evil demons, so I'm here to confess my wrong doings. It's getting warm out, I used to go to the sauna to rid me of negative thoughts -- mostly about ex-boyfriends, but it's getting too hot for the sauna. I thought that maybe by getting some things off my chest I could alleviate some of my emotional burdens -- and possibly loose some weight in the process because I heard somewhere that guilt creates stress which creates extra abdominal fat. But, like I said, this is my first time here and I don't really know what I'm doing".

There's a pause.

"Well," says the Priest, "I'm not sure about the weight loss per se, but it will definitely help to confess your sins to God. Start with the worst and work your way backwards; until you feel you've released everything."

"That's it?" I ask. I'm slightly confused by the simplicity.

"That's it, my child" he says. Even though I can't see him I can tell he has a smile on his face. Like he possibly knows something that I don't.

"Well..." I start, "...we could be here for a while. Did you maybe want to go use the washroom first?" I ask.

"I'm fine" he chuckles.

"Hold on a second," I say. I open the door and peek out to check on Consuela. She's bowing feverously at the front alter; a black lace kerchief covers her head. No doubt she's praying for my eternal soul. I slide back into the booth.

"Well," I say to the priest. "I really feel bad about the bad stuff that has happened to me. Am I allowed to talk about that? Or are those people responsible for confessing their own stuff? Should I just be focusing on the stuff that I have done to other people?"

"God has a way of dealing with everyone in his own time," the priest says. It's cryptic, but I think he wants me to focus on me; and what I've done -- not what other people have done to me.

"OK, well, I feel really bad about snapping at Consuela. She's really good to me -- she brought me here because she believes that I'm possessed by evil spirits and that I need an anointing or something to wash myself clean of them. Do you guys sell that stuff here? I don't think I really believe in evil spirits - but I know that I could be a much better person sometimes. It's just hard, you know, because people can be cruel. It's hard not to be tough and rise above it. It's not like I'm Jesus or anything -- no disrespect. He's a great man; I have a lot of respect for him and his peace walk, believe me when I say I do, because it is so hard not to lose your cool sometimes. Like the other day Consuela was throwing away some magazines before I was even done reading them and I almost snapped at her because I hate it when she does that; and she always does that, but I didn't snap because I know she is just trying to do her job. Anyhow, that's a small example of me trying to be a good person -- but I think it's a lot harder to be good all the time, you know, like how Jesus was".

I pause for breath.

"What else is troubling you?" the priest says.

"Well, I used to be a really angry person. And I feel really bad for anything mean that I might have done to anyone -- because it wasn't about them, it was about me. So I feel bad that I hurt them -- because, I don't think deep down I am a bad person. I just have a low tolerance sometimes. I could list some examples; like when I was younger I fought back with a girl who was being mean to me and I pushed her and she stumbled down a few steps. I feel really bad about that. And then I also kinda beat up a girl once who was moving in on a boyfriend -- at the time I only felt bad about kicking her with steel toe boots; but now I actually feel bad about the whole thing -- because I wouldn't want anyone doing that to me. But for the record, and I'm sure God knows this, she did lunge at me first. Oh, and then once I had a horrible fight with my friend in grade 9 because she was stealing the phone from me while I was talking to my boyfriend..but she started it..."

I pause for air. This is great. I actually am starting to feel better. I continue:

"You know, I'm actually starting to feel better. You Catholics are really on to something. I should have done this a long time ago. I could do this every day, I mean, I could go on for hours -- but I won't because I really need to get my day started. But I really enjoyed this, and I will definitely be back. Should I write you guys a check or something? Who should I make it out to? Oh, and where could I get that anointing that Consuela was talking about?"

I really could sit in this little booth all day -- despite my rampant claustrophobia and the fact that it looks remarkably like a coffin.

The Priest tells me that a donation is not necessary but appreciated, and that the anointing comes from God and the Holy Spirit once your soul is clean -- or on the right path. So I thank him and exit. Consuela has just finished lighting a candle. I wait for her by the entrance, and we go home.

Silent Night

"I'm so sorry," the Doctor say solemnly as he puts his hand on my left shoulder in an effort to show empathy. The rest of the conversation continues without audio. I see his lips move and watch his mannerisms -- but I can't hear a thing.

I thank him and walk out in silence. No one expects to have to face their own mortality at the age of thirty. I'm late for a flight to New York. I have a shoot the next morning.

I somehow manage to get to the airport; then on the plane. I sit in my seat, stoic. I can only hear the whirring of the wind outside my window gusting past me at 30 000 miles an hour. I exit Laguardia and hop in a cab to head to my hotel. There is complete silence both in my mind and in the city on this particular night.

The next sound I hear: luggage wheels clicking along the floor as I walk through the lobby of the hotel I am staying at. I see people, but they are silent. I can only hear the immediate noise of the clunking of my luggage as the wheels click past the separations in the marble tile.

I open the door to my suite and turn on my light. There she is: standing in the corner sucking her thumb. Her long dark wavy hair cascades around her shoulders. She wears her favourite Wonder Woman outfit and has on her shiny black tap shoes with the long black ribbons. She stares at me. She is confused.

I take off my winter coat and place it gently on the chair beside my bed. I sit down on the edge to take off my boots and I look at her.

"You scared?" I ask. She nods like any five year old would. "Come on then," I say and pull back the comforters so she can crawl into bed. She slithers in but remains silent while she fixes her gaze on me. I slide in beside her, brush her hair from her forehead and stare at her for a moment. My heart breaks for all the things I've promised her, and all the things I have yet to give her.

I tell her that everything is alright and that I love her. There are things she wants to accomplish in life that I haven't had a chance to do. I tell her that I'm sorry. I tell her that her dreams are important to me, and that I haven't forgotten any of them. She relaxes a little and her eyelids become heavy. She nestles in a little closer, and I wrap my arms around her. I want her to know that she is safe.

I wait until she falls asleep before I let the tears flow. I don't want to frighten her more than needs be. Her thumb half-slips from her mouth as her chin drops in deep exhaustion. I tell her that she is special to me; that I see her. I want her to know that even if no one else is able to see how amazing she is; that I can. I tell her that I will never leave her. She will never go through life alone.

And as the snow begins to fall outside; one silent winter night in New York City, I too fall asleep, despite the cold dampness of my pillow that has captured all my silent tears.

I'll have a...

"Welcome to McDonalds, can I take your order?"

Why do they always say that? Can I take your order? I dunno...can you?

"Yes, I'd like a happy meal and a..."

She cuts me off.

"I'm sorry Ma'am. I can't hear you. Can you pull up your car a bit closer?"

I take my foot off the brake and inch forward. This time I take off my seat belt and lean further out the window.

"I'll have a happy meal and a McHusband", I say louder.

"What would you like with your McHusband?" she asks.

"I'd like extra Rich, a side of Generous, hold the arrogance. Do you guys still have the McHusbands that come with good morals?"

She pauses. "Ma'am...it's my first day. I'll have to ask my manager. One second".

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel while I wait for her to return.

She returns, "Uh, ma'am, my manager says they usually don't do that -- the good morals was last years special -- but he'll make an exception for you because we still have a few in stock".

Great! "I'd also like a side of integrity, accountability, and honesty. Dependability. Hold the immaturity. If you have any extra packets of sweetness and sincerity; I'd love those too. And if you can; well done." I think I've covered everything...

"Will that be all ma'am?" she asks through the speaker.

"I think so", I say.

"Let me repeat your order: you'll have one happy meal and one McHusband; extra rich, a side of generous, good morals, integrity, accountability, honesty, and dependability. Hold the arrogance. No Immaturity. Extra packets of sweetness and sincerity. Well done."

"Yes, that's correct".

"Ma'am, would you like to supersize that?" she says.

"What exactly is supersized?" I ask.

"We supersize the sides that come with the McHusband; since you passed on the immaturity and arrogance we can throw in reliable if you like".

"Sure, that'd be great! Supersize him!" I say with a big smile on my face.

She continues.

"Your total comes to: two nervous breakdowns, 35 pleasant but going-nowhere relationships, one gigolo, two mild but curable STDs, 4 near bankruptcy's, and a mild depression. How would you like to pay for that?"

"Do you accept credit cards?" I ask.

"I'm sorry. We only accept years off your life," she replies.

"Very well", I sigh. It seems worth it.

"Ma'am. Drive through to window number two. Your order will be ready momentarily. Thank you for choosing McDonalds and have a pleasant day".

Consuela!!! We're Broke!

That can't be right, I say to myself as I look at the outstanding balance on my Visa card. They must have accidentally added an extra '1' in front of the real number. I'll have to call them. People are so stupid sometimes...

But, just to air on the side of caution for when I have my argument on the phone, I tally up the numbers. And then my heart sinks. The numbers are correct. I have single-handedly driven myself into the poorhouse. I look at the Visa statement and see all the post-break up charges that were suppose to make me feel better: a single ticket to Coldplay, this dinner, that show. But all they've managed to do was put me in a state of extreme anxiety. I look at my dwindling chequing account, then my visa statement, then my bills.

"Consuela!" I scream in sheer panic, "Consuela!!!".

Consuela is my "imaginary" Ecuadorean...no Peruvian...no Ecuadorian housekeeper. I live in a modest one bedroom apartment - so having a real housekeeper is impractical; plus (now) unaffordable. She is like the hologram doctor in Star Trek Voyager...she's real; but just kinda not. Anyhow, she makes me feel better even though we have a love/hate relationship. She's like the promise of things to come -- if I ever really make it in my industry. And even though I berate her when I get really down; she stays -- because I have promised to put her children through University.

"Consuela!!" I scream. Where is she?

"Wh-a-a-at Mia?" she says, begrudgingly from the other room. She calls me Mia. I have no idea why. She's annoyed because I've interrupted her telelatino soap opera.

"Consuela!!! We're broke!" I wail.

She comes out from the other room. She looks at me in disdain. Somehow I think Peru has a different interpretation of broke. "Mia," she coos, "dis is Canidah. Why don't you just go on dee Welfare or something?"

So I look up "Welfare, Benefits, Single" on Google. I follow the links (just out of curiosity) and scroll down to the magic number:

"Five Hundred and Thirty-six Dollars...per month...before taxes" I read. Is that right? How can that be right? How can anyone live off of a few hundred dollars a month? How do they maintain their rampant drug habits on that money alone? This is an atrocity! When I'm rich I'll have to figure out a way to fix the state of Welfare benefits in this country -- but for now I have other priorities.

My industry is in a massive slump right now. I have shows in development but they are locked in a state of limbo; and at this stage I'm basically wishing and praying that one of them will get picked up so I can pay my bills. I've gone too long without a contract and am on the brink of financial destruction. I thought I had it made; when the housing crisis hit last year I smirked. I was single -- I never had enough money to buy anything -- so for once, economically, I was actually doing alright in the grand scheme of things. But the trickle-down effect of the economy has put a state of panic in the pockets of the people who usually bankroll us -- and so, this morning; it has trickled down to me.

I used to be good with money. Not Jewish good, but good none-the-less. Maybe I should convert to Judaism...

The first Jewish boy that I ever knew was named Ezra and he was in my grade 5 class. We used to walk home from school together. The Indian kid that sat beside me in school told me that Jewish people pick up pennies from the street. So, at the age of 10, I used to taunt Ezra when we'd walk home together. It was a game. I had no idea what any of this meant because...I was only 10. But, I used to tell him "Hey, Ezra! Why don't you pick up a penny from the street?!" and then he'd turn around and chase me all the way to my front door screaming, "I'm gonna stick this umbrella up your ass!".

It was really fun.

But I realize now that my antisemitic comments at the tender age of 10 have finally caught up with me -- and the whole Jewish banking industry has now turned against me. I am ruined.

"Consuela!!! Bring me a drink!"

I go out onto the patio and slump into a chair. Consuela begrudgingly sits beside me and hands me a glass of something. I take a sip. Vodka!?! At 9 in the morning? She couldn't put some Bailey's in a coffee so I don't look like the white trash I am about to become?

"Oh, Consuela. Things are really bad. I was a Nazi when I was ten and I didn't know it. And now, the banking industry has turned against me".

She stares blankly at me. Her English isn't very good. She probably thinks I'm upset about a manicure -- or that she forgot to pick up more Starbucks for me last time I sent her grocery shopping.

"Consuela, I fear this may be the end for us!" I tell her. She rubs my foot in an act of kindness, but I can tell that she wants to get back to her soap opera; so I dismiss her. I will have to bear this stress alone.

I sit on the patio and take a deep breath. Think, Karen. Think. But my mind draws a blank. I remember an add on Craigslist for porn participants -- and I contemplate it for a millisecond; but then I remember about my ingrown hairs from my last bikini wax and decide against it.

Think, Karen. Think.

I walk into the kitchen to top off my glass. I see Perrier bottles in the recycling bin and grieve them. There will not be anymore Perrier for a while. I take the wine bottles out of the bin. I can return them to the Liquor Store for some change. And, while I'm walking, I might be able to pick up some pennies from the street.

Tiny Dancer

I stick my left foot on the top of the tire and heave myself up. It's slow going because the hood of the car is as high as my shoulders; but I manage. I shimmy my body along the front of the car, bring my right foot over and stand. Victory.

Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack.

I'm not allowed to tap in the house anymore -- so I've found another stage. I love my tap shoes; black and shiny with long black ribbons. They go real nice with my princess outfit.

Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. I dance on the hood of the car parked in front of my house with full fury. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. I love the sound that my tap shoes make. I grab the antennae and lean back like the lady did on Star Search last night -- but I lean back a bit too far and accidentally snap the antennae. I look around. No one seems to notice, so I dismount and find another car.

It's the summer of 1981. The hoods of cars are long and flat. Perfect for my needs. I walk on my tiptoes to the next car and heave myself up again. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Cla---

Someone is hurting me!

"You filthy little brat!" screams the fat smelly lady from across the street. I hate her. Her hand is hurting my neck and she yanks me. I fall to the sidewalk and scrape my knee on the hubcap. It's bleeding. It hurts.

"Look what you did to my car!" she screams at me. Her breath is bad. I don't like her. She drags me back down the street. My shoes are scraping along the sidewalk. I can't stand because she is walking too fast for me. My neck really hurts. Why is she hurting me?

She yanks the broken antennae from her car and drags me towards my house. "I DIDN'T DO IT!!!" I scream. My mother storms through the front screen door and it slams behind her with a hard thunk.

"Get in the house," my mother seethes from behind her teeth. Her anger isn't directed at me. She's talking to the fat smelly lady that was hurting me. I walk down the path towards my mom, and as I pass her legs I whisper, "I didn't do it". She's wearing my favourite pair of shoes - the wooden Dr. Scholls with the white strap. I love those shoes. Sometimes I wear them when I'm playing dress up -- but they're hard to walk in because they are so big on me. I wonder if my mom is going to throw her shoe at the fat smelly lady?

I walk in the house and flop on the couch. Three's Company just started and I sing along while sucking my thumb.

Come and knock on our door...
Anybody will do....
Where the kisses are Ernie, Bert, and Pete
Three's Company too...

I'm fairly confident those are the words. My mother comes back in the house and tells me to take off my shoes. No! I flop myself on the floor and start to cry. No! I will die without my shoes! I flip over on my back and start screaming uncontrollably. The tears are real. I am not taking off my shoes. My mother starts to undo the ribbons and I scream even louder. Not my shoes!

"Karen, please" my mother sighs.

"No mummy. No. I love my shoes. Please don't take my shoes. I love my shoes". We're at a stalemate. My face is red from the tears and the screaming. After 5 minutes of struggling my mother has only managed to remove the left one. "Mummy, puh-leese".

I suppose she knew that when my father came home that would be the end of my tap career. Or perhaps she was just tired of fighting with me. I'm not sure. But she gives me back my left shoe and tells me to go downstairs until dinner is ready.

There is no where in the basement to tap. The floor is unfinished. My play area has a floor, but it doesn't make the clickity sound that I like. I put on my left shoe and walk around; testing out various areas to see if I can make the clickity sound. I go into the bathroom and dance. No sound. I step one foot into the shower -- and, voila! There is the sound. I dance again in the shower -- this time with full acapella and surround sound. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack. Clickity Clickity Clack Kee Clack.

Come and knock on our door....
Anybody will do....

"But, how will I know if he's a good man?"

Shit! Shit! Shit! I'm late for my second period English class. It's way out back in the portables near the ravine. I do my infamous combination of run/walk/shuffle down the hallways -- I don't want to get sent to the Principal's office. I mad-dash when the coast is clear; put on full brakes, and walk when class room doors are open; and shuffle on the backs of my heels when there is a chance that a teacher may turn around a corner. Run. Walk. Shuffle. Run. Walk. Shuffle. I have about thirty seconds to make it before the second bell rings and I'm toast.

I'm through the doors now, racing past the football field and towards the back lot. Run. Run. Run. Of course, today would be the day that I wear my t-shirt that changes colour according to body heat. I streak past the other portables with a yellow chest and purple back, red underarms and green shoulders. I'm a mess. My banana bag barely holds all my books.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Up the portable steps. I reach for the door --and; the bell rings. The dragon lady English Teacher inside is going to have a field day with this. I brace myself for the worst as I step inside...and see...the most miraculous of all sights. The only thing that can really bring a smile of true happiness to my other-wise sullen 15 year old persona: The Supply Teacher.

Yee haw! I slip into my seat and exchange happy smiles with the other 30 or so students in the class. A supply teacher! There really is a God!

We're in the middle of de-constructing The Chrysalids and I figure that we'll have some sort of essay to write, or something. It doesn't matter. 50 whole minutes without the Dragon Lady is good enough for me. I have her for drama as well; which means I am so outta here when that 5th period class rolls around. Mall anyone?

He hands out a multiple choice quiz. I'm done in 5 minutes. Could this day get any better? Then one by one we all are done. And we wait for what is next. Minutes roll by. He just stares at us. We stare back, slightly confused. Is there something we're missing? A boy puts up his hand and asks him what we're suppose to do.

"You can go", he says.

Did I just hear right? We can go? Huh?

"You can go, you've done your quiz. Your teacher didn't leave me anything else for you -- so unless you want to sit here and chat with me -- you can go". And they split. In an instant the portable is less 21 people. I stay because I'm not sure if this is some sort of test or not. After all, this is the Dragon Lady's class. For all I know, she could be sitting outside nabbing all of them right now. Suckers.

So we sit, the 8 or so of us, and him.

"What do you want to talk about?" he says. We're silent. Someone asks if there is another test, but he confirms there isn't. And the conversation ensues. I'm not really following what they are saying. There is mostly rambling about this or that. But then, he looks right at me and says, "You. You my dear are going to break a lot of hearts".

I look around behind me to see who he really is speaking to; but there is no one. So, I guess he's talking to me. Me? A heart breaker? So I say the first thing that comes to my mind, "Then why am I the one who is always getting her heart broken?". Ah! The melodrama at 15. I had a grand tally of 1 boyfriend up until then.

"Because" he says, "You have to make sure he is a good man".

But how will I know if he's a good man?

He proceeds to tell me, "When you enter a room, does he sit in the most comfortable chair or does he let others take it? Is he careful with his words? Does he make sure that you are ok before he is? You can learn a lot by watching a person. Trust me, with your eyes you will break a lot of hearts".

That last sentence triggers a memory. It's not the first time I've heard someone say that to me. My first trip to the dentist took four adults to hold me down. Like any budding 5 year old control freak -- I was going to make this as difficult as it possibly could be. And so, in an effort to hold me in the chair; I had my mother on one leg, my father holding down the other, the dentist on my right arm, and the hygienist on my left. And I twitched, like a convict on death row getting electrocuted. And I screamed my little heart out -- full throttle.

In all fairness to me, I wasn't really sure why I was being taken into that tiny little room with the pointy metal things and the big bright light. Maybe if someone had explained it to me I wouldn't have had a full-on panic attack. But no one did. So there was a bit of a struggle.

"Oh, my!" said the hygienist is a soft and calm voice. "Look at your eyes! Doctor, look at her eyes".

This seemed to calm me down a bit because the lady was very nice and she was smiling. "Don't cry lovely, it's going to be ok. We just want to look in your mouth and see your teeth, alright?". I stopped screaming and nodded. I was still heaving from being so upset. The reason the hygienist was in fascination with my eyes is that they go the most miraculous colour of iridescent green when I'm really upset. "With eyes like those, you're going to be quite the heart breaker" she soothed to me. I wasn't too sure what a heart breaker was, but her voice was calm, and I relaxed in the chair -- much to my parent's relief.

So, even though this Supply Teacher was getting very Hannibal Lector on me with his crazy insight and inappropriate conversation -- I took what he said as the truth. Because, it was a compliment. And, it wasn't the first time I heard someone say that to me. And as I wondered if he could make the rattlesnake noise with his teeth like Anthony Hopkins does in the movie, the bell rang. And we got up to leave.

But I never forgot those words that he told me that day in the portable. Weirdo or not, there was a bit of truth to it. It's funny, when someone speaks the truth to your soul -- it resonates with you. You may not realize it in the exact moment, but it will hit you when the time is right.

And so, 16 or 17 years later I'm waiting for a subway in New York City one hot September morning with my boyfriend. And despite the crowd, the heat, and the level of irritability I notice something about him. When the subway doors open he waits aside until everyone is off. He holds his arm back to protect me from the rampage. He lets mothers with strollers enter the subway before us. And when we get on the subway car, he lets me have the last seat -- even though I'm sure that he is just as exhausted as I am. And I know from these sequence of events that happened in the last 30 seconds or so; that this is a really good man.

And I'm scared.




NIRVANA - HEART-SHAPED BOX - www.myspace.com/nirvanal

The Worst Date

The second I opened the door and saw him standing there I knew immediately that I wanted out. This was going to be our third date; and it was already three too many. How did I get myself into this? But I knew...

There comes a time when you hit 30 (and are still single) that you start to think things like: maybe I am too picky. But these are dangerous thoughts -- because they sway you from your biological imperative. Instinctively you know on a base level who you would like to procreate with, and who you wouldn't. It's really beyond my control actually -- it's DNA.

But one too many Dr. Phils in my brain and there I am; my own common denominator -- now standing across from someone my DNA isn't very attracted to. All I could focus on were his physical imperfections. I didn't mean to. It just...well, his shoulders weren't strong -- they slouched. And his double chin hung a bit too low. And the hair sticking out the back of his t-shirt -- all thick and black and obviously coming from his shoulders -- well, it kinda made my throat burn from the acid that was refluxing to the back of it.

I looked. Dismayed. But, I had made a commitment. It was one evening. It wasn't going to kill me. And besides, I was single -- maybe a bit too picky. Maybe I could be charmed if the conditions improved and I stopped pre-judging? Three times lucky, right?

We walked in silence to the restaurant. I had nothing to say. My DNA was actively protesting and thoughts seemed to disappear from my head. He didn't seem to mind. Mr. Bland was very content with this less-than-ideal situation. As we walked I wished I had done the right thing. I wished after our less-than-ideal first date, that I thanked him for a nice time and told him 'that I didn't think of him that way' and that 'we should go our separate ways'. But I was still single. I was starting to think there was something wrong with me. So I gave him a chance. That's what all the "experts" say to do, right? Toss aside your misconceptions and see what else is out there? How many stories did I hear about so-and-so who wasn't attracted to their husband when they first met and now they are totally in love? So maybe -- acid reflux aside; maybe I was being too picky. Maybe my DNA was just a bit of a snob.

We sat in the restaurant. He ordered an expensive steak and lots of drinks. I ordered water with lemon and a tomato salad. My stomach was a bit off. We sat there having bland conversation and I was trying my best to not think of it as a date. It's just two lonely people keeping each other company over a meal, I thought. It helped a bit. I put on my best polite face while we sat there in blandness and boredom. But my mind drifted. In that moment I would have given anything to be on a double-date with Sue.

Sue was my partner in crime my first year in Japan. Vivacious, spirited and insanely fun -- she saved me from the doldrums of my mountain retreat that first year. Monday to Friday we designed English curriculums in our village towns -- but come Friday; the world (or southern Japan) was our playground. I can never thank her enough for how much she gave me that year -- I just hope on some spiritual level she knows. Many years later when I wrote my first feature film I named the character that saves the heroine from destruction, Sue. It wasn't until this very moment that I made the connection.

Sue was always my inside perspective into Japan. She had been fascinated with the culture for many years and had lived there a year prior to my getting there. She would often fill me in on all that she had learned and all that I needed to know. I remember one day while we were lying on a white sand beach two hours south-east of my village she told me about a peculiar thing that the young Japanese women were doing. Since, being assertive, was not allowed (culturally) they were starting to learn the fine art of passive aggression. And this, it seemed, had begun to spill into the dating world. Sue learned that Japanese women had devised an escape plan for bad dates. It went something like this (I will use the double date model): one woman says she is going to use the washroom and excuses herself. She leaves her cigarettes and her lighter on the table. A minute later she calls her friend that is still at the table. The friend excuses herself to take the call -- and they leave. Because they have left non-essential items at the table, the men are unaware for a good five minutes or so that they have been ditched. This gives the women enough time to race to somewhere else and actually enjoy their night.

I laughed when I heard this. Having never been on a date that bad (I was only 22!) I thought it was hilarious; and a little mean -- but more funny.

About 10 months later Sue begged me to set her up on a double date. I had been dating a man I met in another city and had been spending weekends travelling around with him. We (Sue and I) needed a weekend together. I told her I would see what I could do. I asked my boyfriend if he had any friends that would like to go on a double date with Sue. He got excited. Sue was (and still is) very beautiful.

The problem was -- between the initial set-up and a few weeks later (when the date actually happened) my relationship had soured in the worst way. My previously fun boyfriend that I met on a dance floor (and who I thought was the coolest guy in Japan) -- had morphed into a Japanese business man. He cut his hair; started wearing suits -- and basically, we didn't really have anything in common anymore. If this weekend didn't go well, it was most likely going to be the end for us. But it could be a new beginning for Sue -- so we went.

Half-way through the date it became obvious how horrible the night was going. We had started off at a club -- and Sue's date must have used wax to tame his eyebrows. Anyhow -- inside the club were black lights. While the rest of us had to contend with lint glowing on our shirts -- her date (unbeknownst to him) was glowing like a glow-in-the-dark Dracula. His eyebrows illuminated half the dance floor -- and well, it was a big deal breaker for Sue. Not to mention my boyfriend was being a real ass to me all night -- and Sue had picked up on it. She was actually more livid than I was about it. I had resigned myself to a worst-case scenario. I accepted it; because it would be a verifiable reason to end the relationship. But Sue -- Sue is a little more passionate than I am. She didn't drive 4 hours through a mountain range to have me treated like crap, and have her dance floor more-illuminated-than-needs-be by some guy's eyebrow wax.

So she was pissed. And the dinner wasn't going well. My boyfriend was grunting and being very belligerent towards me. Her date was looking at her like a piece of meat. It was a really horrible situation because we realized, at the dinner, that we were just sitting there to make them look good. Two hot, young, western girls. We were status symbols for these young Japanese businessmen. And, I guess, Sue believed that enough was enough; and they didn't deserve us. So she gave me a look and excused herself to go to the bathroom. The look she gave me was, "you better leave this table when I call you". I looked on the table: she left her cigarettes and lighter. I took a deep breath. Was she really doing what I think she was going to do? Did she actually have the balls to do it? I looked at my cell phone and thought: ok, if she calls it -- we're outta here.

And then my phone rang, I picked it up "moshi moshi", I said. I looked at the guys -- gestured that I couldn't hear amidst the noise of the restaurant and excused myself from the table. Sue was outside when I got there. We linked arms and ran squealing at the top of our lungs in pure exhilaration. Our four-inch platform shoes and mini skirts didn't slow us down.

But Sue was not at this table. It was 8 years later. I sat and watched as Mr. Bland, and his shoulder hair, ate his expensive steak. I was only there to keep him company so he wouldn't have to sit alone. He was only there because I didn't have the balls to tell him (and his shoulder hair) that I wasn't interested in sitting across from him so he didn't have to eat alone. It was a really long hour. When the bill came he picked it up -- looked at it, and stared at me. Is he serious? He just spent 80 or so dollars and he wants my 7? Well, if this was the deal breaker I needed to get out of this situation; so be it. I crossed my arms, sat up straight and stared back. "You aren't asking me for money, are you?" I said. Brazen. I didn't care. He was an idiot as far as I was concerned. Screw Dr. Phil.

He looked shocked. So me and my DNA stood up and walked out without saying goodbye. Natural selection is important. It weeds out the bad seeds -- and gives the rest of us a better chance of survival.

The Whirling Dervish

When I was a child and the world would get to be a bit too much, I would outstretch my arms and begin to spin. My feet would pirouette round and round as I created a centrifugal force with my tiny body. I would become one with the spin. The world would disappear and all would be calm. Calm the way it should be. I would spin; shoulders strong, arms outstretched, head focused straight ahead. I would spin until there was some sort of reconnection with an inner peace. And then I would spin some more; because the quiet that came from the cavern of the whirl was too intoxicating to leave.

I have very clear memories of Sesame Street playing in the background, my sister watching me from her bassinet, and me - spinning in the living room for what seemed like hours, but probably was only a few minutes. I'm not sure where I got this from. If I think real hard it might have something to do with an early fascination of Wonder Woman. Maybe one time, I spun around in order to turn into a superhero, and instead found a way to commune with God. Whatever the initial motivation, it was definitely a consistent practice.

It's funny how children can become fascinated with something they see on TV. My early obsession with Wonder Woman became, for a while, a daily indulgence. If I wasn't in my Wonder Woman nightgown racing around the house, then I was in my Wonder Woman bathing suit racing up and down the street; conquering the bad guys (otherwise known as the two bullies that lived across the street from me) and saving the world.

I even would take my hairbands and place them across my forehead to mimic Wonder Woman's headband; my skipping rope would be my whip, and my rain boots would be my magical shoes (because they were red). And I would race up the street like any good superhero; discovering distress and saving the day. Cars would come down the road and I would leap in front of them -- I was Wonder Woman! When they would get really annoyed by my not moving out of the way I would whirl; or whip my hairband at their windshield like Wonder Woman. I went through a lot of hairbands that summer, and pissed off a lot of dinner-time commuters.

As Wonder Woman I could do anything. Nothing could stop me. I was invincible.

It wasn't until many years later while at a rave in University that I saw them: The Whirling Dervish. They were projected silently on a wall amidst the chaos of the music. Their white robes swayed around them as they whirled in uniform fashion. Amidst the chaos and the noise they whirled in perfect silence. I watched them for a while -- fascinated that they existed. Exctasy-ridden bodies twitched around me; but I ignored them. The music continued to rage in its melodic schizophrenic fashion; and when the experience got to be a bit too much, I did the only thing that made sense; I stretched out my arms and began to whirl. And as the room around me began to disappear and a quiet calm rose from withing me I smiled, in camaraderie. Because in that moment as we whirled together I remembered that I was one of them not too long ago.

The Rapist - Pt. 1

"Can I come in?" she said.

"Sure," I responded. She was one of my frosh. Blonde hair. Sweet girl. She came in and I figured she just wanted a place to hang out. I had returned to residence for a second year to head up the social committee and basically, avoid growing up.

It was the second week into school. We had just started classes -- which meant we could party hard for a few more weeks as exams weren't until October.

I can't remember exactly what I was doing. Probably painting my nails or reading a magazine. I definitely wasn't studying. I had one of the single dorms that they assigned to Sophomores who returned to residence to "work" on residence council. And, it was pretty typical for the frosh to stop in and say hello; either as a way of escaping their roommate or just to get to know me a bit better.

"What's up?" I asked. She wasn't making eye contact. The body language was a bit different. I thought she might be homesick. She sat on the edge of my bed and played with her hands. She didn't look up.

"Is everything alright?" I said. I sensed that she wanted to talk -- really talk, so I turned down the music and stopped whatever I was doing.

"I need to talk to you. I don't know who to talk to, and I need to talk to someone." Her voice was now a whisper. The air had shifted.

"Close the door," I told her. She stood up, closed the door, and returned to the edge of my bed. I didn't know what she wanted to talk about -- but my gut told me it wasn't going to be good.

We had been trained on some basic level to deal with potential problems that the frosh might be experiencing; homesickness, fights with their roommates, and not doing well in school. But we weren't councilors. There were RAs and Dons on staff for that. But sometimes, the frosh felt more comfortable talking with us because we were, essentially, one of them -- just a year older.

"What is it?" I said.

She bit her lip. "I have something -- a piece of information; bad information. But I don't know who to tell because I don't know who will believe me".

I lost my breath, regained my composure and looked at her. "I'll believe you", I said. This was not going to be a good conversation.

There was silence. I continued, "You don't have to tell me anything you don't feel comfortable telling me -- but if it's something bad, if you need to get anything off your chest, I want you to be able to tell me what it is".

She looked up. There was extreme discomfort on her face.

"I don't know if there is anything you can do about it", she said. So I responded, "Maybe not, but if you just need someone to talk to, I'm here. It doesn't have to be now -- it can be anytime. Day or night, ok? You can always talk to me about anything".

That seemed to appease her. She turned to face me, crossed one leg over the other, and began to speak.

"I'm worried about a girl on our floor", she said.

OH! I thought, and breathed a sigh of relief. A cat-fight. I can handle this. I relaxed.

"Did you two have a fight?" I asked.

"No. I don't even really know her" she said. I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. She was cryptic. Non-impulsive. Slow. When she talked to me she looked past me; over my right shoulder and out the window that was behind me. I was someone to talk to -- but in her mind, it seemed, this was not really happening. She was disconnected from the moment.

I sat quietly. I waited to hear what she would say next. She continued, "I'm worried about her because the guy she is dating -- that she just started to date. I know him. He's from my home town. I know him because he raped my friend".

She continued to talk. I was having a hard time focusing on what she was saying. The room became blurry. It was if a window pane separated us, and her words began to melt, like rain on a window. She spoke, but I was overwhelmed and the words slipped past me. I'd catch the odd one; creep and didn't press charges and he's evil. But the actual verbatim contents of the conversation are lost to me. I felt sick to my stomach. She talked. And I listened, trying to catch what I could -- trying to hold back the tears and the frustration. I couldn't let her see me cry.

What this girl didn't know - what she couldn't know; was that the boy, the evil boy she was talking about was my ex-boyfriend. And, I had serious concerns that he was only dating a girl on my floor in order to keep tabs on me.

You're not a bad person. You're just an Asshole.

God, how I wish I had the chance to stand across from some of my Exes, look them square in the eye, and place my hand on their shoulder while saying (with a slight condescension), "You're not a bad person. You're just an Asshole".

I bet that would feel really good.

How many times did I excuse their bad behaviour because deep deep down, I knew they were a good person? Too many. And I'm not going to do it anymore. Sure, deep deep down there is a grain of hope in all of us -- bad apples or not. It's what God planted in us to help us trek through the muck of life; but it doesn't mean that everyone is necessarily in touch with their good side.

How many times did I tell myself, he didn't mean it, or he's just having a bad day/is stressed/has a lot on his mind/going through something/not feeling well/needs space; etc.

All these polite excuses to justify the fact that his behaviour was not cool. So yeah, are you a bad person? Probably not. An Asshole? Absolutely.

Like the guy that invited me on vacation and then told me after I got there that he didn't have any money. He left it to me to absorb the financial costs for everything. You mister are a Jerk!

Or the guy that dumped me three days before my birthday, and then threw a big house party the next day. You're a Prick and I hope you have a lifetime of sexual dysfunction.

There's the guy that was controlling; may he have horrendous herpes outbreaks during every sentimental/romantic occasion with someone he truly loves.

Or the one that chased after me for a year, befriended me, and then proceeded to cheat on me so he would look cool to his friends. May you have a suicidal bipolar wife and children that hate you!

May all their lives be a festering mess of chaos and despair!

I wonder if Jennifer Aniston has gotten to the point where she can look back and appreciate Angelina Jolie? I mean really appreciate her. Sure it completely sucked to have to hear rumours that your then-husband was having a bit too much fun on set. Sure, it was awful to have to second-guess yourself when Angie called the house incessantly and Brad insisted they were only friends. That must have been awful. Having gone through it myself, I know how that feels.

One day everything is fine, and then out-of-the-blue (well, not really -- the signs were there but you made excuses for them) a narcissistic sociopath starts calling your man incessantly. At first, because he is such a good person, you make excuses for it and even restrain from complaining because you don't want to be overbearing. But, eventually, it gets so bad and so frequent that you have no choice but to acknowledge this bad behaviour and confront it; only to be told that you're overreacting. And while you fantasize about killing him in his sleep, your relationship unravels until one day he has asked for a 'time out'; and you are left looking at the photo of him and his new lady on the cover of GQ.

Yes, Jennifer, I get it. I really get it. It sucks. But after you go through that, I wonder, did you start to appreciate her?

It took me a while to start to appreciate my own Angelina Jolies. At first, I would compare myself to them. Use them as a mirror and pick apart all my imperfections. But then, after having so many of them come into my life, I started to have a different perspective. I started to welcome the Angelina Jolies. I looked to them as a blessing -- not a curse.

Here's the thing. Sometimes we fall for the wrong person. But, because we love them, we let the bad behaviour (the behaviour that rots away the very essence of who we are) slip. And then, by some miracle, Angelina Jolie shows up. And, like the carnal creature lacking any pure substance or moral integrity -- he takes the bait every time. As they sail off into the sunset you are left no choice but to reflect (alone) on what just happened.

But here's the good news: because you were in so deep -- it would take an Angelina Jolie to remove the cancerous relationship you were in. Angelina Jolie's are like chemo: they hurt like hell and make you vomit -- but they do remove the junk.

So now I love my Angelina Jolies. Because they are a beacon for the true integrity of the guy I'm seeing. If he's really for me -- he'd tip his hat at her and wish her a good day as he passes her on the street. A guy who leaves me for an Angelina Jolie is not and never could be the guy for me. He has no dedication to our relationship. He's fickle. He lacks self-control.

The other thing that's great about an Angelina Jolie is that they really aren't particular. They have little to no standards when it comes to morals and values -- they sieve out the junk. God, I love them! Married with two kids? No problem! Can't keep out of debt if his life depended on it? Even better! It's like God created Angelina Jolies to release the hapless naive romantics (like myself) from a life of misery. Angelina Jolies create a new alternative to something better: the chance to get with a guy who really appreciates you.

So, in addition to telling off some of my exes, I wish I could go back and celebrate my Angelina Jolies. I want to hug them and tell them how much I appreciate them. Like the time I had just started dating someone seriously and had suspicions he was seeing someone else. As he explained to me that I was overreacting; something caught his eye and he looked petrified. It happened in a split second - but I noticed it. When women are being betrayed our powers of observation are astute. I turned around, and there she was: poor pathetic Angelina Jolie hiding in the bushes a few yards from us -- watching our every move. At that moment I wish I had walked over to her, brushed her off, handed her pathetic ass over to him, and rid myself of the next few months of misery. But I didn't appreciate my Angelina Jolies then like I do now.

Now I know, unequivocally, to embrace them -- encourage them. For their very presence means that something and someone better for me is yet to come.