“What is REAL?” asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you, and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse, “It’s a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “Or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse, “You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.”

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints, and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand … once you are Real, you can’t become unreal again.  It lasts for always.”
― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Wise words which resonate with me.

There are people who don’t like, appreciate, or understand (nor care to) my honesty, realism, or truths. Some people think that I’m ugly — both esthetically and personally. I don’t fit a cookie-cutter mould of “beautiful”, and when provoked, I am known to sock it to people, right where it hurts: honestly, knocking away their protective facades.

I don’t care if everyone does/doesn’t like me. Life is not a popularity contest, a Photoshopped magazine spread, or otherwise.

My life is happier for being real, thanks, and those who do love me (warts & all!) love me for the right reasons. Including my realism and honesty.

Ironically, my former fiancé’s nickname for me was … “Rabbit”.

I, for one, will NOT be giving Lucas anymore of my money.  I do not need to see Jar-Jar Binks in 3-D.  And neither do you, people.

Neither.  Do.  You.

Double H-O-T: Firth AND Ferguson!

Boys, you could take LESSONS from Firth on how to be MEN.

It’s been many years since we were acquainted, yet in the blink of an eye, you have landed in my shoes: those of a woman in her late 30’s.  In less than three years, you shall stand in the shoes of someone in her FORTIES.  (Yes, FORTY!)

Given the shoes which you boldly strut in at present — shoulders back, with long strides, hips swaying, and that fixed, intense gaze looking dead centre — it’s safe to say that you’re looking forward, with confidence, and aren’t inclined to become matronly or a fuddy-duddy as you mature.  It takes a special kind of woman to wear shoes such as yours, and you carry them off well.  They suit you.  You’ve earned that strut, and regardless of ever-changing numbers on a scale or clothing sizes, you’ve got the hip/waist ratio to put a bit more sway into that strut.  (Work the junk in your trunk!)

I know, I know: you’re shaking your head, and have decided that I am talking out of my “fat” ass.  You don’t believe me.  You’ve got all the answers.  You know what you want, and refuse to listen to anyone who may have words of experience or wisdom to share.  You’re caught-up with … life as you know it, yet are too young to really know much of anything.  Naïve.  You hear what well-intentioned people are saying to you, but you’re not listening.   There is a difference between the two.

Hearing someone speak requires little consideration; one may filter out content, smile and nod, yet fail to completely comprehend the conversation or absorb what’s been said.  Selective hearing.  Listening forces one to pause, absorb, process, or possibly learn from others.  It takes time, effort, concentration, patience, and … sometimes even an INTERPRETER DROID to listen to what others are saying.  You of all people should understand the difference between auditory transmissions and comprehension.  From the time you were a little girl, you never felt heard or understood (probably because you talked so much!); people didn’t understand you, appear to care, couldn’t hear through the static you’d create (or see past the smoke and mirrors presented) … not everyone’s wired for communicating like you, Kate, nor has the patience to decipher what you’re saying (it’s difficult to filter through so much chatter!).  Unfortunately, not everyone cares to listen.

The problem with you, Kate: you’re too busy thinking about STUPIDITY, concerned with the SUPERFICIAL, TALKING YOURSELF IN CIRCLES, and STUBBORN to apply your listening skills.  I understand: it’s difficult to listen to others when you’ve become the CENTRE OF YOUR OWN UNIVERSE.  Such is the nature of most young adults.  Given the emotional and psychological harm inflicted upon you during your childhood and teens, it’s of no wonder that you’re so resistant to well-intentioned words of advice; you interpret it as criticism.  However, your own worst critic is (and will always be) yourself, Kate.

In your youth and inexperience, you’re inclined to view women such as I as “jealous”, “bitter”, and having “missed the boat”.  You have no idea what you’re talking about, and despite the mountains of painful, esteem crushing shit which has influenced your character … there’s more shit on the horizon.  More lessons in life.  In comparison to what you’ve endured at this point, you’re going to be hit with a tsunami of pain.  Be prepared: you will nearly drown in that ocean of grief — the Sea of Sadness.

But you’ll come up for air, becoming wiser, stronger, and evolved in the process.  You will become … me.  And I wouldn’t wish to be YOU again for all of the tea in China!

I wish I could change your past — somehow or another swoop in, intervene, and act as a loving voice of reason who understands you (more than you’re capable of understanding yourself!).  Perhaps as a disembodied voice of a wise conscience.  To you I’d say:

• Stop harming yourself, listening to the SHIT fed to you by people WHO DON’T MATTER!  The media, boys who DON’T give a shit about YOU, the opinions of fair weather friends, acquaintances and/or critics who don’t know or care to understand you, and … the little voice in your head that constantly tells you that you’re unworthy, unsuitable, horrendously flawed, and unwanted.  (That little voice is very, very W-R-O-N-G!)
• Stop trying to prove yourself to those who are UNWORTHY of you!  It’s not about being “popular” or how many people like you.  Quality versus quantity.  It’s true: people will come and go from your life for reasons.  Not everyone will like you (sorry!), and there’s little that you may do to prevent such.  Just be yourself— try to be comfortable with YOU, first.  The rest will come, I assure you.
• Stay away from members of the opposite sex who see you as only an object or sexual playmate.  Most of those guys base their worth of you on your appearance, the conquest of you, how others view them (men are insecure, too!), and like getting their dicks wet.  They especially like getting their dicks wet with you, because you’re exceptional in certain areas, and have a voracious appetite for such.   You are giving away pieces of yourself to men who aren’t deserving of them!  You will never be able to get those pieces back, and lemme tell `ya, honey: those missing pieces lead to a LOT of holes in one’s heart and self-esteem.  (Your heart: tender and fragile enough already.  Your self-esteem: has taken extreme shit-kickings since your early teens.)  Take the advice of a well-meaning, wise, experienced, romantically struggling, 30-something aunt when she tells you, “For Christ’s sake, Kate, get a vibrator!”  You’ll be a lot happier, emotionally healthier, and — really, Kate — with the exception of but a few of those guys, most guys are not on-par with your prowess, nor worthy of playing at the level you naturally excel at.  (Like comparing some douche bag, small town, minor hockey league, bantam level hockey player to the calibre of … Wayne Gretzky.  The douche bag thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips on the ice, but is merely a dick who will sit with his ass hanging over a barstool, reminiscing about his “game winning goal” scored at the age of 16.  And he probably comes in his pants, reminiscing about that peaking moment, too!)
• Listen to your heart and intuition.  Do NOT ignore either!  If something doesn’t feel right or comfortable about a person or scenario, it isn’t and won’t ever feel right or comfortable.  Particularly with members of the opposite sex.  I’m not saying that you should judge every book by its cover, but if you sense from the get-go that he’s not what you want … he’s NEVER going to be what you want.  You can’t change people, Kate.  It is unfair to you and otherwise to pretend that you’re happy with an ill fit.  (Would you walk around wearing a bra that’s too small or a pair of underpants that are riding up your crotch?  Trying to tuck big boobs into something intended for mosquito bites, expecting spaghetti straps to support an ample handful of cleavage?  Walk around in a pair of itchy, cheap, small panties, having to pull them out of your camel-toed crotch every few steps as you walked along?  NO!)  You can’t force something to feel comfortable or good, when it never shall fit your lifestyle, standards, or meet your needs.  You deserve something … couture.  You’re better off without some people, than to try to accommodate them into your life.  If you allow people to treat you like a doormat, they’re going wipe their shitty shoes on you, because YOU’VE ALLOWED THEM TO DO SO.
• If you authentically recognize someone as special, and there’s something about them that makes lingering impression, chances are there’s a good, positive reason.  And by “special”, I do NOT mean merely great sex, the drama of an unhealthy relationship, a womanizer who makes “special” impressions on all kinds of women, a person you wish to save, or otherwise.  Honour your heart, gut, and intuition.
• You need to realize that it is just as unhealthy to exhaust, stress, and starve yourself to achieve and maintain an “amazing” body, as it was to be obese with poor respiratory health. It is NOT normal for someone to be so fixated on their food intake, calorie burning, or exercising to the point of exhaustion!  It is not normal for a woman’s periods to stop, because she’s putting her body through so much physical stress.  Just because you look great on the outside, doesn’t mean that things are alright otherwise.
• You are not your body, a clothing size, or number on a scale.  Such does not define you.  And guess what?  No matter how thin you get, how much fat is burned-off, nor how much weight bearing, toning exercises you do … your upper arms are NEVER going to be small.  One can lose fat, but not tissue.  You may very well sculpt your arms to be firm and cut, but honey, they’re never going to be your best physical feature.  (Sorry, but them’s the genetic breaks!)  On that note: that bountiful rack that you so loathe, and which places your proportions into “Barbie doll” status?  That’s another example of “one can lose fat, but not tissue”.  You’re now thin (too thin at times!), and though your rack shrunk with weight loss, you’re always going to have a fantastic rack (even though you will finally decide to go under the knife, and have 5 lbs of tissue surgically removed from your rack at 30).  You will always be a Boobzilla.  You will never have itty, bitty bubbelahs, Kate.  Remember: millions of women around the world PAY to have racks like yours, and a lot of them end-up looking like they have grapefruits implanted into their chests, with wall-eyed nipples, resembling headlights on a Buick.
• Don’t drink sweet, fruity cider.  Growers or Okanagan Extra … any of those flavoured drinks.  There is a reason why your face becomes flushed, hot, your throat itchy, and you’re an embarrassing, eejit drunk for consuming them: you’re ALLERGIC to the sulfites in cider.  A-L-L-E-R-G-I-C = acting like a complete, out-of-character asshole, throwing-up, dry-heaving, blacking-out, and … all kinds of “uh-oh’s” happen.  And those “uh-oh’s” affect your self-worth, the opinions of others, and leave you with more than a lingering hang-over.
• Ask for a referral to a psychotherapist.  You’re carrying all kinds of painful shit around with you — stuff that’s making you sick, and factors into the mistakes you’re making as a young woman.  Don’t be embarrassed to ask for the help; there’s a lot of stuff bouncing around in that head of yours, and you’re letting it fester into something even more debilitating (on more than a few levels).  It’s going to get worse for keeping it bottled-up, or acting out your pain with other behaviours (read: an eating disorder, strife in relationships, unhealthy choices, alcohol abuse).  People who are emotionally connected to you cannot help you sieve through such pain.  You need to speak to someone professionally qualified and objective.  (Everyone should have an objective professional to speak with.)  You cannot carry such a heavy load yourself, and not expect for it to inevitably squash you under its weight.  Put it this way: if your asthma were to be out of control, and you were struggling to breathe, you wouldn’t sit there, hypoxic, struggling to breathe, or allow yourself to go untreated, having a severe asthma attack (people die from those!), would you?  No.  If you’d been injured in an accident, you wouldn’t ignore the injuries.  If someone beat the shit out of, sexually assaulted, or harmed your person in any other way, you wouldn’t “suck it up”, walking around as though you were okay, though your face & body hadn’t been beaten to shit, or the assailant hadn’t violently raped and/or sodomized you.  You’d seek treatment and care from those professionally qualified to help.  What you’ve been through, what you’re experiencing, and what shall come: no less harmful, painful, debilitating, or life-threatening.  Silence kills people, Kate.  You’re doing yourself NO FAVOURS in ignoring the symptoms, the pain you experience, or trying to battle through this yourself.  You’ll be better equipped to deal with what’s to come.  Trust me: that which is heading your way is awful and life-altering.  If you think you’re in pain now, just you wait until your 30’s …
• Cut yourself some slack.  Stop being so hard on yourself.  Being President of the “I Hate Kate Club” isn’t cool, nor are people inclined to respect someone who thinks it’s funny to continually make self-debasing, horrible comments about themselves.  It doesn’t matter if you’re “kidding”, because deep-down inside, you know you’re in agony, and believe all of the awful, cruel words which have been slung your way over the years.  Just because you’ve decided to now “beat them to the punch” doesn’t make it any less painful or wrong.  In fact, it’s bloody-well AWFUL to hear and see you doing this to YOURSELF.  (Years from now, a random guy from your hotter youth will call you out on your unacceptable, shameless self-crucifixions.  Albeit, lacking the tactful, kind diplomacy and consideration that your fragile heart requires when on the cusp of shattering, and executed in a fashion unbecoming of him, he will be right when he states, “You should shut-up now, because you sound stupid.”  Forgive him for his erroneous approach; he was wrong in his approach, but isn’t able to see what shall lead you to such an awful place, painfully nailed to a cross, for everyone to see, precariously dangling, in AGONY.  Pain is not funny, and neither is self-harming, masochistic stupidity!)

You will not understand any of this “bullshit”, nor be able to comprehend my words until you’ve become me, at 37.  It will take a LOT of work on your part to get to this point.  Continual work, a continual process, and … you’ll see.

I can’t promise you that your life will be everything that you want for it to be.  I don’t have a crystal ball, and can’t see into the future.  I’d be lying if I said that my life is now absolutely perfect, and that I am 100% happy with the way things are panning-out.  There are pieces of the past which linger and influence my present — including some of the past, where YOU reside.  Because I foolishly allow it to do so.  Still.

Regardless of your tight, youthful package, I don’t envy you, Miss. Kate.  Weight fluctuations or not, know that you will get BETTER with age, others will be envious of who you become, and more than a few people will personally thank you for your honest evolution (because your honesty helps them to acknowledge their own struggles, pain, and start to move forward, too).

Consider yourself hugged, forgiven for who you were, and … bequeathed pairs of killer stilettos to strut boldly into the future with (whilst crushing a few from your past, beneath the soles).

Best wishes for a happy future,

Ms. Kate

P.S.  You don’t need an onslaught of male admirers, and numerous men to date (or play “Musical Beds” with!).  You just need one in particular.  The Right One.  At 37, you’ll be wise enough to hold-out for Him, declining the advances of unsuitable men.  Even though you don’t know who He is.  Yet.  Still.

Right now, in your youth, naïveté, inexperience, and tomfoolery, you’re learning lessons.  Somewhere, out in this great, big world — perhaps having adventures as a pirate, sailing the seven seas — He’s out there, experiencing his own trials, tribulations, and getting laid by playthings (just like you, Miss. Kate!).  Eventually, he too shall grow-up, have learned enough lessons in life, and want of something better for himself than superficial stupidity, shallow silliness, mermaids, and sexual exploits with those playing in the minor leagues.  He will want of someone better, who has bettered herself.

I don’t know when this will happen in your/my life, but just like everything in life, things happen for a reason, and there is no such thing as coincidence.  Believe it.

XO

I haven’t slept since nearly 9:00 yesterday morning.  My eyes are dog tired, I am due in at work for 10:45, and though my alarm clock was set to wake me at 8:00 … forget it.  Blame the gut bomb and pint of beer consumed at nearly 11:00 last night.  Blame the elevated level of estrogen coursing through my body this week (with no suitable, worthy man to provide relief).

Blame the guilt that I feel for having the luxury of a warm bed, in a warm apartment, in one of the city’s most expensive neighbourhoods, a job which I love, a consistent & financially rewarding income with benefits (both which MANY inconsistently employed, struggling make-up artists in this city would give their right arm to have), dining-out (often), socializing with friends (often), and yet I… have the nerve to complain about “not being able to sleep”!

I’m sure that more than a few homeless people on Vancouver’s streets haven’t been able to sleep a wink tonight, either.  Because they’re out in the cold, trying to stay warm during one of Vancouver’s rare, winter cold snaps.  We’ve had a fine dusting of snow, but it’s the dampness and wind which even I — a woman who grew-up in northern BC, fourteen hours north of balmy, temperate Vancouver — feels COLD in!  (I know what 40-below feels like, so believe me when I say that I was COLD whilst on-route home at midnight!).

There are homeless shelters across the city and throughout the GVRD, but they fill quickly, and not everyone on the streets wishes to or may be capable of finding shelter.  Some worry that their belongings will be stolen.  Others have animal companions who are not welcome at shelters.  There are also a LOT of mentally ill, chemically addicted people who are out on the streets — too ill to help themselves, strung-out, wasted, drunk, or more concerned about where their next hit will come from, they stay on the streets instead of seeking shelter.  Shooting-up, turning tricks, buying drugs, sitting on sidewalks, or lurking in filthy, dark alleys which smell like urine, garbage, excrement, and death.  (Death has a smell to forecast its imminent arrival, according to my dad.)

This is not a Charles Dickens novel.  I do not live in a third world country.  I live in a country with an enviable socialized medical system and an abundance of social programs to help those in need.  Yet there are people out there, suffering in the cold, and some will probably die from exposure during this cold snap.

Yet I am complaining about not being able to sleep.  With a roof over my head, in a nice neighbourhood, a warm bed to sleep in, food in the brand-new fridge delivered by my kind landlord in October, a brand-new dishwasher (purchased by me last week; I’ve had to “suffer” through hand-washing dishes for over nine years) to wash the dishes which I’ve eaten nourishing food from, stylish clothing to wear (but bitching about not having in-suite laundry to wash it with!?), endless hot water to bathe in as often as I wish, a brand-new Sonicare toothbrush (purchased by me two weeks ago) to get my healthy teeth & gums sparkly clean & maintain my oral health, a cabinet filled with vitamins & medication to keep me healthy & comfortable …

“Life’s rough!”  Get out your little violin, and play a sad, sombre tune for me.

I have laid awake, worried about two men who asked me for money whilst on route home nearly seven hours ago.  Though I worked late last night, it was my friend Pam’s birthday, and joined she, mutual friends, and others at The Warehouse to casually celebrate.  Beyond the scrambled eggs, toast, and baked beans I’d eaten for breakfast, and a protein shake late in the afternoon, I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and was ravenous.  All of the food on the menu of The Warehouse is about $5.95, regardless of what one orders.  I had a really GOOD burger, fries, a pint of beer, and bought Pam a drink.  My bill was about $22 (tip included), and I thought nothing of spending such an amount, barely glancing as I signed for my Master Card.  I stayed for but an hour, knowing that I would be rising at 8:00 for work.  I was happy to see my friends, meet a few new people, had thoroughly enjoyed my DELICIOUS burger (they’ve revamped the menu; my $5.95 deluxe burger was every bit as good as the deluxe burger I’d paid $14.99 for at Rogue, whilst out with another friend on Sunday night!), and was looking forward to getting home, taking out my contact lenses, and hitting the hay.

As I exited The Warehouse, I stopped at one of their (empty) patio tables, so that I could rummage through both my big-assed Kelly bag AND tote bag (lap top computer, brush belt filled with make-up brushes, etc.), looking for my tiny, iPod Shuffle, which is about an inch/4 cm long, and about 2 cm wide.  Tiny!  The iPod Shuffle which I received free with Air Miles over a year ago would have cost about $75 retail, and for which I bought … $130 Klipsch headphones for three days ago.  (Ridiculous, I know, but iPod/iPhone headphones are AWFUL, the new Shuffle is operated by a remote built into the headphones, I’ve gone through three new sets of crappy Apple headphones AND three separate attachable remotes to use with regular, cheapola headphones!)

The point is: I was digging through my bags, which were filled with all kinds of expensive stuff (i.e. some of my lipsticks are worth over $30; there are about SEVEN tubes of prestige and professional brand lipstick in my purse.  You do the math.).  I was looking for a frivolous item amongst my insignificant, superficial clutter — an item which I’d just purchased $130 headphones for.  Between the cost of those lipsticks, headphones, and value of the iPod … that kind of money would provide food and shelter from the cold for more than a few disadvantaged people.

Found: iPod with new, fancy headphones, so that I could chill-out to Shirley Bassey whilst on-route home (via transit; I’ve paid about $40 for cabs in less than a week already!).  Home to my upper middle class, tony neighbourhood of Kitsilano, to sleep in my warm bed, housed securely in my comfortable, clean apartment (with a brand-new dishwasher!).

Not in either bag, my wallet, or coat pocket: cash or loose change.  I very rarely carry cash, preferring to use my bank card or Master Card.  When people approach me for money, I may honestly say, “Sorry, but I don’t have any with me.”  (On the rare occasion that I do have cash on my person, I give it to people who I’m familiar with.  People such as a guy named “Spoons” — an older fellow, who plays … the spoons and chats-up people near Granville/Nelson.  He knows who I am, and understands that I authentically don’t carry cash.  However, with a bit of cash on my person two weeks ago, I saw him, called him over by his nickname, and gave him the $20 note I had tucked in brush belt from work.  I apologized to him for never having cash in the past, hugged him, and wished him a Happy New Year.)

An unfortunate man, down on his luck, wandering Granville Street saw me rummaging through my bag.   I suppose because I bear a polished, sophisticated look, by the “jackpot” look he had in his eyes, he may have concluded that I had more than a few dollars to spare, and hoped that I’d give him money.  His approach startled me (I know: not too bright to rummage through one’s bags, out in public, at night, along a street where a lot of pan handling occurs and street kids lurk!), and I was momentarily taken aback when he said, “You wouldn’t mind sparing me a few bucks for tonight, would you?  All of the shelters are full, and I’m SO cold!”

He made this request in front of others whom appeared to be in the same unfortunate situation.  His breath smelled of alcohol.

As a woman, I felt awkward, put on the spot, and somewhat intimidated.  As the daughter and granddaughter of alcoholics, and whom has received an incredibly painful education about the destructive nature of alcoholism (also: past, personal problematic alcohol abuse!) … I couldn’t help but feel my stomach lurch.  A psychosomatic reaction reflective of trauma and personal pain, I suppose.

I apologized with sincerity and honesty: I didn’t have any cash on my person.  Not even spare change in my pocket.  Nothing.  In retrospect, I probably could have gone back into The Warehouse or next-door to the convenience store to withdraw cash from either ATM, but … if I were to do so for that stranger, observed by others in need, how could I choose one over the others?  Though I don’t doubt that he authentically needed a few bucks, I didn’t know or recognize the man, and I never like to give money directly to people I’m not familiar with.  (Someone like “Spoons” who I’ve developed a rapport with: different.)

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any cash or change with me.  I just paid for my dinner with a credit card.”  I said.  None of his business, of course, but I’m not inclined to be rude to or dismissive of anyone.  (Such are the manners drilled into me by my parents, Nanny, and Grandad, as well as reflective of my small town upbringing.)

“Could you please go in, and buy me something hot to drink and warm to eat with your credit card?” he asked, hoping to work another angle.  Again: he did so in front of others who also would have appreciated something warm to fill their tummies.  I apologized profusely, and declined to meet his request.  I’m guessing that his request of others had been met with the same reaction, and in his eyes, I was possibly one of those people looking down her nose at him as though he were a peon … a piece of street trash, thrown away by family, friends, and society.  (My personal perspective: very different, understanding, and much more compassionate than others who don’t understand addiction and/or mental illness.)

Rejected, he wasn’t as polite to me as I had been to him.  He called me a bitch, raising his voice, so that others nearby could hear him add, “All I asked for was something to eat, you BITCH!”

Indeed, all he asked for was something to eat.  I know he was cold.  I know he was hungry.  I also know that somewhere — based on the strong, boozy smell resonating from him, within a few hours, he HAD likely had a bit of money to have helped himself, but his alcohol abuse or chemical dependency demanded that he drink instead.  Who knows what he drank, or where he got it?  Maybe he had so little money, that he resorted to drinking … alcohol from the bottom of a punctured can of Lysol, cooking wine, or … Aqua Velva.

Upsetting.  Embarrassing.  Guilted.  Infuriating.

As I stood waiting for transit on Granville/Nelson, I swallowed hard, hoping that the huge lump in my throat would go away.  I felt guilty for having declined his request … like a gluttonous pig for having just enjoyed an inexpensive burger, a beer, and the company of friends.  I felt guilty in the knowledge that I was going home to a cozy, warm apartment, while he and others were hungry, out in the cold.

Then I reasoned with myself, and my feelings of guilt turned to ANGER.  Anger for having been reminded of pain, berated by an angry & ill person (another one.  That’s TWO different people within less than four weeks!), and once again the target for someone’s anger.

I have a great job.  I have an amazing benefit package.  I get paid salary when I’ve had to stay home, ill.  I work with amazing people who love, respect, and admire me — both professionally AND personally — for my talent, drive, boldness, and honesty.  I make good money doing something that I love and was born to do.   I work in one of the absolute wealthiest areas of Canada, amongst professionals, the socially and financially elite and some unmentionable, familiar faces.  I am blessed with good health, psychologically and physically.  I inspire, motivate, teach, and encourage others.  I am not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but I am certainly able to afford purchases such as a dishwasher, nice headphones, socializing, and what may you.  I have nice hair, nice clothes, nice make-up, smell good, and regardless of the fact that I’m needing to get back to the gym (size 11 pants: snug, due to Christmas excess, Cadbury from Birmingham, not going to the gym, and Prednisone treatments twice last year.  Easily correctable.) … no complaints!  I have the luxury of living in a nice neighbourhood, and amenities that I need.  I am a LUCKY, fortunate woman, but I am most certainly NOT a negligent, dismissive, stuck-up, ignorant “bitch”.

What that unfortunate soul doesn’t know about this “bitch”…

I settled for less than I was worth for far too long.  I earned a pauper’s wage for six years, employed by a business which bled my talents dry (and expected MORE from me!), humiliated and berated me on more than one occasion, failed to provide any sort of benefits, and upon finally quitting in 2008, flitted from job to job, unhappy, depressed, emotionally & physically ill, in PAIN, hating myself, abusing alcohol, taking all kinds of prescription drugs trying to relieve the excruciating grief and trauma that I was “medicating” with alcohol abuse, was fired for the first time in my life (happily), received Employment Insurance (a few months on a medical basis, then several months of regular E.I. benefits), survived on more than a few years of backdated income tax (and GST) returns which I hadn’t filed, had to hit the food bank twice, and … even had to receive TWO MONTHS worth of income assistance (a.k.a. welfare, folks!) while I worked on myself, honoured my health and well-being.

If my landlord hadn’t been so kind to me, I hadn’t had a financial safety net, and received socially funded help when I asked for it … I would have likely been on the streets, just like the angry, hungry, cold man I encountered six hours ago.

I am not ignorant of that man’s struggle, suffering, loss, or pain.  I am, however, grateful that was he, not I, who had to endure the cold.  (Upon arriving back to Kits, there was a man, bundled in a sleeping bag, sitting on the cold sidewalk outside of Shoppers Drug Mart.  His eyes were sad when I told him that I didn’t have money to give him … this time.)

It could have easily have been me.  I didn’t allow such to happen.

Instead, I lay awake in a warm, safe bed, with merely a racing mind, with few complaints other than … exhaustion.

Something tells me that it’s going to be a very, very long day.  I shudder to think what the long, cold nights on Vancouver streets feels like, and am once again reminded of how very blessed and good my life now is.

Thank you to those who stood by and loved me enough to help me get to this point.

If you’re trolling for “fish” in such scummy bodies of water, you’re bound to get … bottom feeders — literally and otherwise.  I can (and will!) do better than such.

Wanting of a particular type of sailor, who knows how to weather a storm, is the captain of his own ship, floats my boat, and loves the ocean as much as I do.  (NOT Plenty of Fish, with women whose `ginas are of the drive-thru quality of Filet o’ Fish!)

BTW: I am not a prude.  At all.  A through and through Scorpio woman.  I am SELECTIVE.  I have STANDARDS.  SLEAZY, CREEPY men do not meet them, and I’m not inclined to waste my time or energy on unworthy scumbags.

The cat in the fisherman’s knit cap KILLS me.  (And there’s a white cat like my girl Casper!)

Weird.

My dad LOVED Stan Rogers.  So much so that Rogers’ music was played at Dad’s service as well as when his ashes were scattered into the water.

I’ve also had “Eternal Father” bouncing around in my noggin’ for the past couple of days.  (Believe it: I’m the geek who actually has the hymn on my iPod!  Sometimes I listen to it in bed when I can’t sleep.)

Back to doing laundry.  No wayward sailor to make himself useful whilst doing so.  Nothing much to say today.  Just like clean underpants, being quiet is good.  (But sometimes I like to go commando!)

A belated Happy New Year to both of you (Chester & Casper, too)!  It’s unlikely that such an occasion is marked there on The Other Side, but if evolved souls wish to celebrate something from their lives here, I’m sure that The Big Beer Parlour in the Sky is exceptionally busier than usual!  I’d like to think that evolved souls ring-in the New Year with … Taittinger’s.  (Perhaps in the company of Lucifer, others … shotgun Pabst Blue Ribbon or Baby Duck to celebrate.  With a bowl of Cheetos and plates of deep-fried `possum, squirrel, and rabbit, dipped in ketchup as nibbles!)

I laid-low.  In fact, I wasn’t even planning on celebrating the occasion.  However, I joined friends from Verdun, MB and others at a hotel near Yaletown.  (Of no irony: some of my favourite people are from “friendly” Manitoba: Carrie, Alyssa, Jen, Heath, Paul …)

I’ve always felt that New Year’s Eve is over-done and overrated.  Another excuse for people to make drunken spectacles of themselves.  Case-in-point: whilst on my way to quietly celebrate in a hotel suite with friends, I couldn’t help but notice more than a few young women underdressed and overly impaired … at 10:20 pm.  (Just like Halloween: another excuse to dress and behave as cheap hookers, I suppose!)

Upon returning home near 3:00 in the morning: a young woman vulgarly straddling a man on a bench outside of the Vancouver Public Library, and three different, impaired young men engaged in various displays of macho, testosterone, alcohol-fuelled displays of stupidity: tempers flaring, jackets being thrown-down, and one near fight.  (“You wanna go?  Yeah?  You wanna GO?!?!?”)

Even to my compromised eyes (a bottle of red wine had been savoured and enjoyed!), I couldn’t help but shake my head.  The same head: still compromised, fluffy, and suffering the effects of that red wine for THREE DAYS afterward.  Because my body’s not used to drinking such all that often anymore.  Perspective and yet another reminder of where I am now, and where I was this time, two years ago.  Quite the contrast!

Newfound happiness, a sense of self-worth, standards, relationships, and growth: all good!  2010 was a year of positive change.  2011 was a year of amazing developments and accomplishments.  I intend to make 2012 even BETTER — and will not allow ANYONE, their influence, or personal issues hold me back, or compromise that which I have worked so hard for.

My past has been riddled with pain, struggle, trauma, illness, grief, loss, and … lessons in life.  All factored into where I was two years ago — the final one being the much needed catalyst for change.   Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t be alive in this world now, to write this post to my blog.

My past doesn’t determine my future, but most-certainly has influenced what I want in my present and hope for my future.  My trials, tribulations, experiences, lessons, and perspective have also brought more than a few instances of guidance (to others) my way in the past year.  People whom have thanked me for being there for them in moments of pain or personal struggle.  The ability to positively influence others’ lives, and to help them see beyond their own pain or alleged “flaws”.  It gives me great pleasure and personal satisfaction to know that I have made people feel better about themselves — restored confidence, self-worth, and otherwise.  As someone wrote of me (to a person in authority), “I have someone who I know I can trust, and who I now consider as a friend.”  Last week, a mother made a point of personally thanking me for what I did for her young, eleven year-old daughter — restoring her confidence, whilst honouring the fact that she is still a little girl on the cusp of becoming a young woman.

It is for such reasons that I L-O-V-E my job.  Beyond the flair, fashion, stability, income, benefits, rapport, and artistry of my job, it is the POSITIVE INFLUENCE that I have in others’ lives which adds such joy to my profession.  Consulting.  Educating.  Counselling.  Empowering.  Encouraging.

Others have noticed.

Last week, a new client landed in my chair: an Ivy League educated (Stanford and … Yale, I believe) school principal, who has recently relocated from Hanover, NH (Dartmouth College).  She’s the head of a local … Hebrew school.  This is ironic, since I allegedly “look Jewish” and was branded a “Jew bitch” by an ignorant Polish immigrant last summer!  (And, yes, I did share that story with my new client … who laughed at the ignorance and stupidity!)

My client and I spoke of much that impacts young women: the media, the warped concept of “normal”, peer pressure, the Internet, bullying …

I told her of what I had endured during my teens.  She was appalled by what I’d endured, and what hadn’t been done to correct the gross situation.  She was also surprised to learn that — by my own admittance — I had failed my way through high school, and didn’t complete my high school education.  (People always assume that I have a university degree or some sort, yet I didn’t even complete credits to graduate from high school!  I’m the “extremely smart”, but “stupid” woman who lacks a formal education, yet can bulldoze over a lot of people who have post-secondary educations!  Or as the elder sister of a friend commented to me the other day, “If anyone could have been a Rhodes Scholar, it was you.”)

Dad, I really wish that you and Mum would have sent me off to boarding school in 1987 (St. Michael’s University prep in Victoria, BC).  You had mentioned considering so at the time, but it was a HUGE expense, and my respiratory health was so compromised that … it wasn’t possible.  Perhaps I WOULD have done well in such a focused environment, instead of CONSTANTLY distracted by peer nonsense, ill, depressed, and left with brutal shit-kickings to my self-esteem.  Maybe I WOULD have excelled in an International Baccalaureate program, and … who knows what I’d have become for utilizing my God-given intelligence and capacity for learning?

This is neither here nor there, now.  I know that you felt guilty for what happened to me, Dad.  I remember you driving me to work during Christmas, 2004.  As we passed by tony West Point Grey Academy, I mentioned to you that Justin Trudeau was a teacher there.  You replied, “If I could have afforded it, I would have sent all of you kids to private schools.  Darwinism at its finest!”  You had also told me (on more than one occasion) that I happen to be “brilliant” — smarter than either of my brothers (you said).

The latter is a moot statement, of course.  I know I’m intelligent.  However, it’s only been over the past couple of years that I’ve believed in myself, and have seen just how I am able to harness my gifts to positively affect others who may be struggling.

I still suck at math and physics.

I don’t and won’t allow insignificant people, their issues (usually with themselves; jealousy and low-self worth), or otherwise to negatively influence my life or its direction now.  To do so would be extremely stupid.  I will admit, however: I DO derive pleasure in allowing people to illustrate their own stupidity.  The fun part: they do so by their own hand, and simply add to their own shortcomings when others read of their blatant stupidity.

Does this make me a sadist?

(Thanks again for sending Aren my way, Dad and Grandad.  Likewise, the Vancouver Police.  The VPD have me on record as a very reliable source of accurate information.  My “history” with the VPD includes accurate, on-going reports of the former scrote who lived in my building, and … a subsequent HUGE bust in 2007, when he was found with a clandestine meth lab.  Such was mentioned by the VPD when I spoke with them the other day, as were other accurate reports of criminally indicting behaviour by others — fraud, theft, and narcotics trafficking … I notice a lot, and am usually proven right.)

The principal of the school asked for me to give serious consideration to visiting her school, to speak to her young, female students about bullying.  The bullying I had endured, its effects on me, the cycle of bullying, what can happen to victims AND those committing the acts of bullying …

I am terrified of public speaking, being onstage, or even speaking in front of a small group of people.  Such stems from my own experiences in the past.  I am giving great consideration to using this opportunity as a catalyst for my future, however — to further move beyond that which has held me back, and which is reflective of where I am, now, in the present.

Furthermore, if time permits, I wish to include a return to volunteering/mentoring in 2012 — that which shall positively influence the life of a preteen or teenage girl, one-on-one.  I already have experience working with minors and in a counselling role: nearly three years as a counsellor with OPT (PPBC).  My profession includes counselling, consulting, and teaching on an almost daily basis, too.

I had always wished to fill the role of big sister to a younger woman.  (Though my youngest brother told me that I failed to be a “big sister” to him.  I wasn’t capable of doing-so, because I was too busy being a scapegoat.)

We’ll see.

Regardless, my focus for 2012 is continuing to move-forward.  Learning positive lessons.  Growing.  I’ve decided not to wait around for Mister Right One anymore, as I’ve decided that He’s not deserving of my time, concern, or I … until He too grows-up, evolves, and learns to see beyond the superficial, shallow stupidity projected by the media as “the norm”.  The very same media and standards which likely keep Him trapped in a cycle of … spinning His tires, silly girls, and clinging to his glory days of yore … where NO ONE  is at their best, or capable of being in an authentic relationship, based on mutual love and want of the best for themselves.  (I suspect that what one wants frightens some people to death, and is why they cannot comprehend themselves.  Being superficial and living lies is often easier than having to face truths or taking a risk, becoming emotionally vulnerable, after all.)

I’ve decided not to wait around for Him anymore, because He’s not a real person.  He doesn’t exist.  He doesn’t have a heart, soul, pulse, or otherwise.  He’s just a pipedream and reflection of my evolved standards.

Thank you for a brilliant 2011.  Thank you for looking out for me.  Thank you for giving me strength to move-forward, and empowering me with the courage to be honest and authentic.  Thank you for letting me learn that it doesn’t matter what others think of me, but that what I think of myself which will make a difference … in so many ways, including for others whose lives I may positively affect.

January is a sad month for me: Casper left four years ago (January 9^th) and Grandad left two years ago (January 28^th).  I’ve decided to put a positive slant on their departures now: both are on The Other Side to keep pushing me in the right direction …

Love,
Kate

P.S. I don’t know if you’re able to watch TV, films, or documentaries there (I can’t imagine your Heaven without “Corry”, Grandad!), but if you are able to watch content from here, please watch the brilliant documentary Miss. Representation.  Conflicting schedule(s) didn’t permit me to catch a screening during VIFF, but I was finally (nearly a year after Sundance!) able to watch it last week.  Brilliant!  Absolutely brilliant!  And you can bet that I recommended it as a must-see to my Ivy League educated advocate for her pupils.

I still have most of my Duran Duran cassettes; they’ve been upgraded to digital format, of course.

LOVING the new issue of HARPER’S BAZAAR magazine, and the group’s new “Girl Panic” video!

Is it just me, or does it sound like and remind you of “Girls on Film”?

Two of my favourite (though lesser known) old-school Duran Duran songs/videos …

Nightboat

I reckon that fans of The Walking Dead or Romero flicks might appreciate this jem from the group’s self-titled, Tritec Albums début release!  (I still have that album.  After nearly 30 years ownership, it’s … a wee bit warped!)

Careless Memories

Same album.  (I have a pretty, pretty, pretty good memory.  For a LOT of details!  Remember that.)