Wherefore art thou Mini Eggs?

I have struggled to write something all week and have accomplished nothing more than a headache and general disdain for my keyboard.
My muse appears to have moved on. Curse thee, fickle muse!

You see, Dear Reader, I am making an effort to return to regularly posting weird snippets but it is much more difficult than I remember!
Much, much, much more difficult! 

To help build back my broken habit and to combat my angry writers block I have decided that this week instead of writing original content or trying to be clever I will just share a recent email chain between me and dear old Dad.

Let me set the scene: It is last week and I have just posted my first blog entry in an eon. I decide to inform my Father as I am under the assumption that my email will somehow reach him faster than the automated message from WordPress that brings him news of my newest post. My Father, who has been nagging me for MONTHS to write again will no doubt be pleased …

—– Original Message —–
From: Sarah
Sent: Wed, 08 Mar 2017 2:17 PM
Subject: Top Secret

I posted a new blog post. It’s shit, but it’s a start.
For my reward (and birthday present) I want a jumbo bag of cadbury mini eggs given in a brown paper bag with shifty eyes and while hiding in the garage.
Much obliged.
Cindy

 

Received: Mar 8, 2017, at 9:03 PM, Dad wrote:

… Congrat’s… it’s really good!

 

From: Sarah
Sent: Wed, 08 Mar 2017 9:14:PM
Subject: Re: Congrat’s

Yes, but what about those mini eggs?

Received: Thu, Mar 9, 2017 at 7:06 PM, Dad wrote:
… the jumbo bag costs almost $20… and I cannot, in all conscience, allow you to harm yourself so thoroughly…   after all… I am a Dad!

Alas. It appears I must remain Cadbury Mini Egg-less. I see that my creative endeavours are worth far less than the $20 price tag of delicious candy coated chocolate.
My heart is broken.
Thanks, Dad.

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The Big 3-0

il_fullxfull_1188239041_pzkrI am turning 30 in exactly twenty five days.

(I’m not going to lie there is a large part of me that is kicking itself for not getting this post out five days earlier so I could have talked about my “Thirty Day Countdown to Thirty. Alas such are the perils of short sightedness and the art of missed opportunities!)

Twenty Five Days from now I will hit the big one, the big 3-0 and I honestly am feeling pretty ok about this.

Not thrilled, but also not devastated. You know, kind of ambivalent? Very meh?

Sure, I’m not “Thirty, Flirty, and Thriving” like Jennifer Garner always lead me to believe I would be and there are so many things I would change if I could, but I’m also fairly confident with my place in life. I’m better off than most and not as well off as others, and isn’t that just the perfect spot to be as a millennial?

Still, this Big Birthday does carry some significance and as such I feel the need to commemorate it with a list of some sort. Obviously. Though really it’s more of a rambly stream of thoughts than a traditional list … perhaps this is a sign of my advancing senility?

But I digress.

Without further ado I bring to you Dear Reader(s?) (Are there more than one of you left after my lengthy absence? Or is it just my Dad?) “Thoughts on Thirty”:

  1. I can finally play a teenager on TV. (Assuming I could act, which I can’t.)
  2. The above mentioned reference is clearly dated as actors in their early twenties now play teenagers and the early 90s practice of having really old people play kids a la ‘Saved By The Bell’ is a bit passé. This is yet another sign of my advanced age.
  3. Instead I can act as the love interest of Harrison Ford, Clint Eastwood, or any other aged film star past his prime. (Or at least I can for another two years; I think the cap on playing the love interest of a 60+ year old in Hollywood is 32. Better double check with Maggie Gyllenhaal.)
  4. In non-Hollywood related thoughts I can finally say a firm, all caps “NO” to going out on evenings and weekends without getting sucked into the FOMO lifestyle of twenty-something’s.
  5. In addition to point 4, I can finally make fun of FOMO out loud instead of just as part of my internal monologue.
  6. And Bae. Anyone who says Bae in my company is going to receive a disparaging glare and will earn my eternal ridicule. This really has nothing to do with turning thirty, I just hate abbreviations. Especially abbreviations that make me feel old. (My apologies to fellow bloggers who say “Bae, FOMO, totes, etc.” I still like you even if your posts make my brain bleed.)
  7. Which reminds me, is “On Point” still a thing? Like, is this Post On Point? I just have no idea anymore.
  8. But, in more positive news, turning thirty brings me one year closer to being debt-free – just another 276 years of paying the minimum payment on all of those credit cards to go and I’ll kick that sucker in no time!
  9. With the advancements of science and technology I may actually live to see those 276 years go by so I can celebrate my debt-free existence with an unnecessarily large and frivolous purchase that I cannot afford.
  10. Boxed wine is no longer acceptable. Instead spring for the $12 bottle and drink it like you understand a word the liquor store guy said about “tannins”.
  11. Can I drink this wine and toast to being unmarried? Does that make me independent and worldy?
  12. What if I cry into the glass and just tell my horrified friends that the salt in the tears brings out the tannins?
  13. Who needs marriage anyway?
  14. And how should I respond to the complete stranger telling me that my ovaries are dead? Is it considered rude to kick strangers in the genitals?
  15. What if I just carry around a bottle of baby vomit and a recording of a child crying and chase the perpetrator around with both until they sob uncontrollably and leave me alone?
  16. Can strangers tell I am bitter?
  17. Also, is thirty really the new twenty?
  18. And what does that even mean?

Full Disclosure: I originally wanted to write “Thirty Thoughts on Turning Thirty” but I really just don’t have that many thoughts about this whole thing. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

Perhaps it’s good that I am attempting to return to blogging, this gal clearly needs some practice on her introspection.

Sincerely,

S.M.R.P.

Filler for Content: A Prelude

Costa Rica

I am woefully (oh! woefully! I love that word) behind on this week’s post so I thought that instead of writing something I would just share this super awesome picture collage of our recent trip to Costa Rica.

Are you satisfied, Dear Reader?

No?

Would it help if I told you that this is actually a prelude to a few funny stories I plan to share with you in the coming weeks?

No?

Well. I got nothing.

Stay tuned!

Bad Day

Today was not off to a good start.

I missed my bus this morning because of my new “Stop and smell the roses” attitude.

That phrase should really come with a disclaimer.

I was at the stop with plenty of time, five minutes early as the website suggests, when I noticed the flower garden behind the glass bus shelter. I smiled to myself and ambled over. (Ambling is also part of my new attitude. One does not want to rush when trying to “take part in life”.) The flowers were perfect so I snapped a few photos, taking care to include some selfies of me connecting with nature, lost in the beauty of it all.

Then suddenly I heard the engine and I looked up from my hunched position, face planted smack dab in the middle of some pink flowers. The bus drove by, the driver tipping his hat to me in mocking acknowledgement as he drove past.

I don’t think he intended to mock me but I will remain bitter regardless.

When I finally arrived at work 20 minutes late I sat down at my desk only to realize I had forgotten my lunch. I frowned, remembering my frozen dinner sitting on the counter, defrosting slowly while I sit trapped in my office for the next 8 hours. There will be a puddle of water on my counter.

I do not like puddles. bad day

Throughout the day my Bad Day Curse settled around me like an ugly smell, my accompanying scowl adding to the atmosphere.

I forgot to save my inventory report. I dumped water on myself right before my boss walked into my office. I was 27 cents short for my coffee and had to pay using MasterCard. I ripped my sleeve trying to cuff it in a fashionable way.

No, today was not a good day.

Now, dear reader, normally this would be the point in a post where the writer starts spewing some optimistic rhetoric telling you about how it’s always good to look at the bright side of situations and to remember to turn that frown upside down. But not me! Nope! I am going to tell you that sometimes a bad day is a bad day!

And today was a doozy.

*Cue scowl*.

bad day

This is my favourite SnapChat face. I am about 98% sure it’s what my soul looks like.

Love Letter, pt. 17.

Dear Lena Dunham,

I almost titled this post “A Love Letter to Girls” but worried that the name would really not reflect the message I am trying to send. Also it would sound like I am coming out which, if my boyfriend actually read my blog,  might result in a rather awkward conversation.

I can’t decide if I love you or am just seriously annoyed with you all of the time. (Which kind of feels the same as love. Right? Or is that weird?)

I started watching ‘Girls’ because my friends do and also because it was critically acclaimed which instantly made me feel both smarter and better looking for watching. After all, everyone knows that it’s only the smarter and better looking people that watch critically acclaimed shows and read books that win things like the Scotiabank Giller Prize.

But to be honest I kind of hate it.

Kind of really hate it. 93cdc9c37a865abfec81fe0928859603

Sure, it’s extremely clever and well written, but the truth is I just don’t like any of the characters at all. Or the plot. Yes, I am aware that the characters are meant to be fairly repulsive but alas, I have yet to fall into the trend of watching shows about people I hate. This is why I only know the ending of ‘Breaking Bad’ and ‘Dexter’ thanks to my good friend Google.

As a vapid, self-obsessed 20-something I find your show just hits a little too close to home for my comfort and because of that I have to hate it.

But don’t worry, I still watch each episode and tell people I like it because the only thing worse than not watching critically acclaimed shows is hating them. Then people really know you aren’t cultured.

It is for that very same reason that I have your book on my Kobo (though it still remains unread). Don’t get me wrong, I love witty celebrity books. (Mindy Kahling is my hero. Even after reading Tina Fey’s and Amy Poehler’s books, I have to say Mindy owns my book-loving heart. Also, I apparently love to name drop.)

I’m sure I will read it one day, but likely only because someone notices that it still says “unread” on my ereader and questions my carefully cultivated attempt at culture.

If it makes you feel any better my hatred of your show and annoyance of your interview persona doesn’t in any way hamper my respect for you. Girl, you gots skills! (Do cultured people say things like that?) Lena, you are a brilliant writer, an excellent speaker, and a wonderful role model for the generation of girls growing up today. Your body positivity messages and the way you advocate women’s rights makes me proud.  Thank you for all that you do.

But I will still continue to hate your show while watching it and pretending that it somehow makes me a better person. You’re welcome for my contribution to your ratings, even if I do multitask and scrapbook while it plays in the background and wish I was watching something else.

With all my heart,

SMRP

PS. It was really hard to take Kylo Ren seriously when I just kept thinking of Adam Driver in ‘Girls’. Also, it was just really hard to take Kylo Ren seriously.

hbo-girls-lena-dunham

á la Michael Scott

I have recently been re-watching ‘The Office’ on Netflix as I work in a real office now and thought I could relate better. Spoiler alert: I can, but not in the way I had hoped.

Binge watching ‘The Office’ combined with the reflectiveness of my late (last stop) twenties has brought forward the most startling and frankly unflattering realization.

Back when I was a wee-un (think early to mid-20s) I was a Michael Scott.

Yup. There. I said it. (Errrr … Wrote it, actually, which feels much more official.)

Watching this show I can’t help but think back to my years working at Chapters, struggling at twenty (and twenty one, and twenty two and … well, I worked there for a while) to find meaning and purpose in my life while unknowingly turning into a repulsive and irritating person. Sure, I didn’t tell nearly as many racist jokes and I mostly just made fun of people behind their backs in an effort to belong, but I was just as awful and inept as Michael Scott on his worst days.

Let me backtrack a bit and explain a few things.

I was pathologically shy all through school. Now, I know that everyone always says they were shy (or are shy) and that this is not a unique thing, but for me any kind of social interaction frightened me to the point of nausea and sheer terror throughout my entire adolescence. I never had more than 6 friends through my years in school (total, not at a time) and I was never able to have a normal conversation with someone I didn’t know extremely well for longer than 5 minutes until I was 18.

6358139671095628571761812630_11

You and me both, Buddy!

 

(Now my record is 14 minutes!)

Then suddenly I moved to Edmonton and I was able to start fresh. It became easier (though it has never, not even once and not even now, become easy) for me to talk to people. It was as if I was a new person and people seemed to like me which was an intoxicating feeling for someone who had spent their entire life being disliked and bullied.

And then things got ugly.

I became obsessed with being liked and it became a desperate need. Everyone had to like me, even people that I myself didn’t like. If even one person out of a hundred didn’t like me I sunk into a devastating depression.

I started to become a chameleon, changing everything about myself to fit in with whoever I was talking to at the time. I started to insert myself in people’s lives and strategize for ways to be liked. I stressed and obsessed over it.

I started to gossip, meanly and desperately. Knowing people’s secrets made me feel important and being able to pass those secrets along (á la Michael Scott) made me seem like I was in the know.

It didn’t matter that this behaviour cost me more friends than it made me, I was beyond rational thought.

It was not a good time.

The truth is it took a long time before I started to become less Michael-ish and, if I am being completely honest, in the beginning it was due in large part to me moving back to Victoria and having less social relationships rather than a sudden burst of maturity and genuine self-reflection.

I still struggle with a desperate need to be liked and find it gut-wrenching when people don’t like me. I still battle with people pleasing tendencies and fight to be myself even when that’s not who I need to be in the moment to fit in. And it is hard.

But at least I am no longer a Michael Scott.

PS. This *hopefully* marks my return to blogging! I have missed you all!