Mind The Sap

Sentimentality

2007-05-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

Last night I heard a priest's whistle echo through an archway of one of the buildings at St. Mike's. I was walking Dexter at the time, and the whole quad smelled of cut grass and lilacs. For various (and ludicrous) reasons, I wished, with all the same vigour of the faith of that man, that God would somehow return me to 1999.

And now, some Edna St. Vincent Millay:

THREE SONGS OF SHATTERING

I
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw,--it must have been
Very pretty.

II
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;--
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And the blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;--
But not in the old way!

III
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going--ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,--
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

Grill Woes

2007-03-10T10:46:00.000-08:00

So its been two weeks since the accident, two weeks since I bashed up my grill by falling face-first onto a concrete stair on my friend's porch, sucessfully cracking out the bottom halves of three front teeth. Miraculously, my face emerged from the wjole thing without a scratch. However, my dental nerves are still inflamed and my back teeth hurt from overuse. Maybe this doesn't sound like a big deal, and maybe it isn't, but the psychological trauma that this incident has wrecked has recently had me on edge in a way only charming in the likes of 'Rain Man' or 'The Other Sister'. What happened two Saturday nights ago has made me paranoid, actutely aware of the fragility of my own (fairly young) body-- afriad to walk around without a helmet, and worse-- afraid to look in the mirror and expect to see the memory of my reflection as it was before February 24th staring back at me. All this, and I *swear* its not just because my shrink is on vacation for two weeks.

The armchair psychologist in me (or was this Matthew?) reminds me that, of course, these reactions have been provoked because teeth are a tangible metaphor for mortality. Moreover, that teeth are a primal part of ourselves and how we interact with the world. I guess thousands of years ago, an accident like this may have compromised my ability to stay fed and survive. About one hundred years ago, due to a lack of cosmetic dentists and space-age dental compounds, this accident likely would have compromised my ability to (as a single woman) meet and secure a husband. But now, in 2007, with all the repairs made available to me within 72 hours, and for about the cost of a weekend in Vegas, I am as good as new: sort-of.

While to strangers and friends alike nothing has changed about my grill, when I look into the mirror (which, as it happens, is about 30 times more than average these days), I see a part of myself missing, the fragmented bottom of my real tooth practically glowing a neon sign that reads, "I am broken and damaged and will never be whole again."

So why the sob story? Thing is, I am trying to etch out an upside to all of this, like, "O.K. Dre, maybe this is a reminder that the trajectory of your life can turn on a dime, and often without your say--are you prepared to deal with yourself and yourself alone if (God forbid) some actual trauma were to befall you?" or is it less profound and more seethy, a la, "Dre, you are entirely too vain. What can you count on or like about yourself if part of your physical identity were to be mangled permanently?" (I don't want to mention how long or hard I cried until this mouth-mess was fixed, although I will tell you that at the time I wasn't reaching deeper to ask why--I was hysterical because I was unequivocally, obejectively, for all intents and purposes, ugly). I also covered my mouth to speak to the two strangers who processed the two necessary transactions I made during this time, actually feeling bad for them for very obviously averting their eyes from my mouth.

Either way, its got me a' thinkin, even if it is in a lose-lose way, and even at the risk of having gone overboard with existential inquiry due to toothy catalysts. Between this and the mediocre movie I saw recently, I am wondering what I would do if it was me and just me forever, or if resources and time and vanity and my host of regrets weren't obstacles? If I followed my inner self a little more, and didn't succumb so easily to my shallow, exterior, craven wants and desires? What should I be doing and thinking about, essentially, instead of wasting all this time worrying about what I did, what has happened, what is in the dead past? If I thought more about what could happen instead of what already has?

And I *swear* its not just because my shrink is on vacation for two weeks.

Instead, we have puppies!

2006-10-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

Being a "mom," as I am learning, means mondo changes to any responsible person's life. Ever since D. came into the picture, my leisure time is increasingly spent with puppy: time spent taking puppy on walks or to the dog park, deciding which food and toys are right for puppy, and, of course, taking many pictures of puppy. Do I want to go to a movie? Hell ya, but how long is it? Can I leave D. long enough to have dinner *and* a movie? I wonder who's going to watch D. while I'm away? These questions and others pervade.

Yes, my life has become somewhat one-dimensional these past three months, but it's just a faze--like puppyhood itself. Enjoy the pics & I'll emerge soon, a few pairs of shoes the less, but all the prouder that D. is becoming a little man--er--dog.

Job, Maybe.

2006-08-11T20:56:00.000-07:00

Good news for me! I am in posession of a good lead that will likely lead to a good *real* part-time job at an *unknown location* that has the potential of becoming a full-time job with benefits! (I knew all that praying to Tom Cruise would pay off eventually). Please join me in my vigil to good T.C. while I meditate on something better than retail drudgery; hopefully ushering in an era of f'real career-building!

I don't have yer fu%#-ing blue book with purple on the cover, suckers!

I say!

2006-07-15T18:48:00.000-07:00

Decorum--

Just because you know what it means doesn't mean you exhibit any sense of it.

Thank-You, All.

2006-07-12T11:13:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday June 14, 2006 I graduated from the University of Toronto after having been through seven years of study and three changes of program there. You know, a lot of people go to University for seven years. They're called doctors. (Thank-you David Spade) Well, I'm not a doctor, not yet anyhow, but I am just a little but proud of myself. And thankful, too. Not only to the University, who charged me the equivalent of a good down-payment on a house for my fancy piece of paper, and certainly not to the school's representative, who at the graduation ceremony urged me "not to forget" the school after graduation (read: not cheap-out when making alumni contributions). I am thankful, rather, to all those who actually and very practically made the completion of school possible.

Many of you whom attended this fine institution are holders of a liberal arts like mine. I'd wager that a great proportion of you are familiar then, as I am, with the massive impersonal structure of the University and its inadequate attempts to create and foster community among its students, who number in the tens of thousands. It was overwhelmingly depressing at times to attend classes without knowing a single soul; to be students of professors who could not remember your name, despite an unblemished attendance record. Moreover, it was downright discouraging at times to be constantly reminded by some instructors of the better, more important things that they could and should be spending their time on rather than lecturing a bunch of half-wit undergrads. Sadly, such behaviour was too widespread in many of the courses I was enrolled in. The noteworthy exception to this seemingly pathetic norm was found in the "Christianity and Culture" department of Saint Michael's college: the program from which I recieved one of my two majors. So to all of those instructors who made my scholastic experience an academically challenging (and at times) spiritually enlightening one, my hat goes off to you.

Nonetheless, the bulk of my gratitude of having reached this milestone in my life goes to my real support system: not to the college into which I was shepherded (Innis), not to the Hart House pool, where I spent many an afternoon decompressing after lectures, and not to Pauper's Pub, where I spent many an evening fretting about upcoming essays while guzzling massive quantities of beer, although this was a) exceedingly fun and perhaps b) did not contribute to, say, to degree completion within five years.

A big THANK YOU, then:

To my parents, my brother and my sister: who would often happily read copies of essays at my encouragement, even if they were long and boring and esoteric at times, and who were always in amazement at my perserverence through such a long academic career.

To my aunt and uncle, who financed much of my education and were always sweet and encouraging.

To Kate, my first "University" friend, a person to whom I am grateful for having developed a friendship that has lasted beyond our initial swimming dates at the pool.

To Dear Matthew, who coached me through many an anxiety attack and helped keep me on track when life got in the way of school or vice versa.

To my Dears Nicole, Mary, Susannah, Andrew, Heath, Helen and Sam: for being such supportive friends, whether over pints, out dancing, or getting down to brass tacks about what school should mean to me in general.

To D., my love: for running to the corner store for cans of Red Bull at 2am while I finished an essay, for wiping away tears of anxiety as I struggled to put an essay "to bed", for tirelessly insisting that I was intelligent, that I could 'do it,' for being proud of me no matter what, for listening to my boring presentations 4 hours before I made them, for the countless cups of tea, making sure I ate, for stern insistance that I "do work" that night, for being interested (or at least feigning) in Irenaeus, Chidester and Linenthal and Canon Law, and for helping me come up with the best title for an essay ever: "Desdemona and The Duchess: The Imperative of Self-Preservation among Whores from Outer Space." I owe much of my success over the past year and a half to you-- my motivator, my rock, my kissable manatee.

Again, thanks to all.

p.s. if there are any spelling or grammatical errors in the body of this post, suck it English Department!

Everybody Salsa!

2006-07-05T11:55:00.001-07:00

I made my own salsa this week for a barbeque, using only intuition and fresh ingredients as my guides. And despite my reputation for lovin' the spice, this dre-made recipe is decidedly moderate. It does, however, come with this warning: high levels of fabulousness!

Salsa de Dre

Ingredients:
3 ripe Italian plum tomatoes, chopped finely
1/3 medium-sized yellow bell pepper, chopped finely
1/4 medium-sized red onion, chopped finely
1 jalepeno pepper, chopped finely, seeds and all
1 orange Hot wax pepper, chopped finely
3-4 pickled red jalepeno peppers, chopped finely
bunch of fresh cilantro, chopped
juice of 1/2 fresh lime
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

Instructions:
Throw it together in a bowl, yo!

I served it with Tostitos brand "Hint of Lime" chips, and it also worked as an excellent side/topper to barbequed chicken. Enjoy, my friends!

Confession

2006-06-28T11:26:00.000-07:00

I am too dumb for C.S.I. Miami. The plot moves too quickly and I can't keep up with all the technical information. Some episodes I am "better at" then others, but mostly I find myself two steps behind the action. If only there were more commercial breaks in between all of those flashbacks and lab scenes, then maybe I'd be able to process the information faster and enjoy the show.

I've noticed that the people on that show know a lot about things I've never given much thought to-- like guns, bullets and blood spatter patterns. I am not convinced that ythis is an adequate excuse for not understanding, since they usually explain this stuff pretty well. They do it too quickly, though!
Jeez. Some people are addicted to this show. These people are SMART! Or at least smarter than me.

I have to practice watching this show because as it is, I am too dumb for C.S.I. Miami. Law and Order is more my pace.

What's The Skinny?

2006-06-22T23:36:00.000-07:00

Births/deaths, Weddings/funerals...

Same psycho-intuitive emotions attached/conventions conveniently compartmentalised by Modern Western Civilisation, or distinctive passages marked by similar attire? Discuss.

How Not to Order at Starbucks

2006-06-12T22:04:00.000-07:00

I've recently been catapulted from Carefree, Summer Dre into full-on Crisis Dre. I have spent the past thirty-six hours or so on autopilot: stoic, scattered, and scared. My mind is racing a mile a minute-- a fact evinced by my ineptitude at quotidian transactions requiring the least possible amount of actual thought. Decision making was difficult today.

This morning in Starbucks, as I was sandwiched in a big line:

Barista: Hi, can I help you?
Me: Uh...
(Barista raises eyebrow)
Me: May I have a... (five second pause)...big...
Barista: Yes?
Me: ...coffee?
Barista (nonplussed): Breakfast Blend or Bold?
Me: Caffinated.
Barista, pointing to a size: This one?
Me: No smaller than that, but bigger than the small one. With room!

I must have looked like an idiot, or one of those customers who purposefully avoid using Starbucks jargon in order to either irk the Baristas or throw them off their game. I intended neither. Nonetheless, in the interest of keeping things simple while the going is rough, perhaps I will drink from the Second Cup's carafe tomorrow.

Gnawing pain means poverty, I guess.

2006-06-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

It's not like I wasn’t poor before, but I never really thought of it that way, since I had attributed my lack of funds to the fact that I was still a student, and as such, did not expect to earn any appreciable income.

The fact has come into stark relief this past week, however. I am one month out-of–school, working a part-time job with no benefits and… and… I just got a toothache. A wisdom-toothache. My latest consultation has yielded an estimate of the work required at just under two-thousand dollars after taxes.

I have in my possession two bottles of Tylenol 3’s from previous injuries: never used, but wisely kept. Either this codeine goes, or my teeth do.

*Sigh*
I may never see the ocean again.

Concussion!

2006-05-31T09:02:00.000-07:00

One of my favourite things about the arrival of decent weather is sports. I'm no professional athlete or anything, but I do love to give 'er when I am participating, whether it be hitting some baseballs in a cage, slammin' it on the tennis court or playing volleyball. I guess you could say that I am hardcore, and it is not unusual on any given June day to witness me taking my sports persona to the max. Case in point: I totally got a concussion playing recreational volleyball last week. Yeah, I'm on a team in a beach volleyball league. I know what you're thinking: that's hot, and it totally is, too. But before your mind wanders to visions of rock-hard bodies spiking balls at rocket speed while sweat glistens on their half-clad asses, I should (in all fairness) note that our team is so not there yet--perhaps we will be in 2009. Our division of the league, the "recreational" division is not overly competitive. Last week however, I got too complacent with the "rec" designation of our team, and started to get sloppy: I let my guard down, guy! I chatted when I should have had my eyes on the ball, I made designs in the sand with my feet between plays instead of launching into the stuff, head-first, in an effort to make a save!

Long story short: I got hit in the head and was later diagnosed with a concussion. I've never had one before, and as a fully-fledged hypochondriac, I was at once gripped with the fear of developing life-threatening (or at the very least), life-altering complications as a result of my nonchalance on the court. Oh woe, how I questioned! Would I feel blood ooze out of my ear? Could I die? Would I remember how to make spicy penne? And what the heck did I do with my star sapphire ring? I wanted to wear it last weekend. (As you can imagine, my anxiety only mounted...)

I was thankfully somewhat assuaged after an appointment with my trusty (and every so patient) G.P. She assured me that the bruises in my brain would eventually subside if I let rest and the healing hands of time do its thing.

In the meantime, this totally freakin' wierd list of stuff my body/mind does when concussed:

1) Me So Sleepy: Eleven-hour evening sleeps, peppered with two-hour daytime naps
2) Me So Moody a la: “I love you, I hate you! Can you buy me a latte?”
3) Unmitigated Anger/Personality “blips”: bitching about/at everyone/anyone
4) Apathy, when not moody or angry, to the nth degree.
5) Nausea! Dizziness! Hot Flashes?

So, like, what lessons have I taken away from my sports injury? First off, one must be A-lert when playing sports: especially those that involve balls flying at your face. Also, don't think about dinner or the fact that your tonenails are unpainted. Second: I think a small, fitted helmet is in order if I want to continue being so hardcore. Third: totally never, ever put the star sapphire in any place but the right one. To every gem, its home—that’s what I always say.

Expectations: I'm Sick of 'Em!

2006-05-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

How do we really get to know anyone else? Is it the time we spend with a person, the pointed questions we ask, how we’ve seen them in times of joy or revelry? What about stress and/or grief? Think you know someone? Think you know yourself?

The ubiquitous “they” of the psychology world tell us that personality is basically set in our early twenties, making allowances for behavioral changes that may be a result of maturation and/or life experience thereafter. So does this mean if you knew someone when he or she was 23 and then meet them again once they turn 32, you can expect them to react in similar ways to like situations? Can you ever expect to be surprised, and if you are, what does the surprise say about you? Of course, this is a vague psychological/philosophical quandary that has led me down that dangerous path of thinking recently. Not only have I been pondering the expectations I have regarding certain folks I think I know, it has had me wondering about what certain folks expect of me. Who knows whom?

Expectations, man. I’m sick of ‘em—of having them and being bound to them. As a quasi-religious person, I’m more apt to embrace hope, wonder and surprise if it comes fruitfully, authentically, sincerely. Who doesn’t appreciate sincerity?

And so until further notice, I shall not be the following, despite your expectations:

‘Characteristically’ enthusiastic
Ditto: interested in what you are saying, unless I am genuinely so
Malleable: it just buries anger, prolongs stress, denies the self

I do promise however, to be:

Sincere
Productive
Pensive
Kind and
Aggressively authentic

Bad, Blogger!

2006-05-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I don’t post enough, but trust me—its not for lack of things to say. Ask any one of my boyfriends: they will tell you I talk almost non-stop. And I have no facility for use of the segue. As a rambler, I can be discussing sock-darning (uselessness of) and three-legged dogs within two sentences of each other. But I digress. Apparently I’m not blogging enough. (Evinced by the fact that I have been dropped from the list several friends’ links). I blame it on starting a blog before I was officially done school. But none of that matters now.

To correct my wrongs, friends, I have decided to post the mother of all recap posts, in which I give teasers about all the things I meant to write about in the past, but never got the chance. As fabulously put in one of the best feel-good movies of all time, these are “the things [I thought] but did not say…”

1) When whining’s a crime: OCAP protesters march through Rosedale in Toronto
2) Squalor, racism and mediocre food I experienced during a recent trip to Montreal
3) How to tell if you’re shrink’s just in it for the money
4) Match Point: matching Scarlett Johansson with Jonathan Rhys Myers equals one point for Woody Allen
5) Tiramisu or “truth serum?” The dessert that brought the party to its knees
6) Under Pressure: (Wherein I go stalking’… after midnight…)

I am happy to let y’all wonder about the gems that may have been unearthed in any of the aforementioned posts, but I will also happily expand on any that my dear readers are interested in…right after I finish my last paper.

My Word

2006-04-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

"Anticipisorrow"

WHAT?
The sinking feeling that you aren’t quite worthy of the level of happiness you are experiencing, sometimes resulting in self-sabotage in order to partake in more familiar, comfortable emotions like: anxiety, grief and (gasp) despair.

WHO?WHY?
Mostly low-self esteem types, those with chronically low levels of serotonin, histories of depression, histories of periods of great joy (usually at a young age) followed by unanticipated loss.

WHEN?
Of all times, when one’s outlook on life is actually positive, serotonin levels are up, and one is maintaining stable relationships, participating in healthy activities, and exhibiting adjusted behavior. Stunningly, can occur just after great joy, accomplishment or period of mental quietude.

EFFECTS:
Inability to take pleasure in the moment due to constant worry about bittersweet-ness of said moment once it becomes only memory, vicious circle of emotional/personal dissatisfaction.

REMEDIES? Beyond SSRIs and MAOIs? Friends who understand, puppies, a little wine, poetry, God.

Galway Kinnell writes it up good...

“…and if you commit then, as we did, the error
of thinking,
one day all this will only be memory,

learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come—to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth that tells you, here,
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

The still undanced cadence of vanishing.”

Reality TV, the dre-way

2006-04-20T14:04:00.000-07:00

I am still toiling away at my next-to-last overdue essay, but that doesn't mean I don't have time for over-the-top daytime television. Well actually it does, but a girl's gotta procrastinate, right?

For some reason, I cannot bring myself to watch any of those glittery high-energy, cliffhanger-type reality shows such as Great American Race or American Next Top Singer or Sex Object or whatever (I chalk it up to fear of commitment--its true). I am, however, able to sit through hours of compellingly-narrated programs such as "American Justice" or pretty much anything on either TLC or A&E, save for the makeover shows.

I am amused, mostly, by these shows' ability to showcase (for no one but myself) the relative ease with which I am persuaded. (I could never sit on a jury). "American Justice", for example, seems to follow the following formula when presenting a case:

a) in which shocking murder is outlined
b) in which police begin to investigate he or she who made initial call to authorities
c) in which it is almost certain that the mother/fiancee/husband did it
d) in which new evidence emerges to show that we may have been too hasty in our desperate need to assign blame to someone
e) in which, naw, they were just trying to stretch what little content they actually had to create an entire hour of programming.

So, I've seen a handful of these episodes (now apparently consciously aware that I know "whodunnit" before the first advertisment), and yet I can't pry myself away from the television after said advertisement. This is not simply because I am sent on the same rollercoaster of oscillating loyalty (Is the prosecution neglecting key evidence? Was that video a fair representation of the accused's state of mind?) each episode, but because of a more disturbing realisation...

After no less than two of these shows have made my eyes well up with tears, I realised that I didn't want to believe, at all that the accused had commited such heinous crimes. They were pretty. They were well-educated. They had nice homes and good jobs. They looked like anyone I might meet in the future. They looked and talked like some people I already know. (Da da daaauun).

So, like, I am totally caring now about television now. Its just that I'm more apt to think about the Texas mother on death row and whether or not she was served justice, when really I should be thinking about my undergraduate thesis, or at the very least, America's Next First Racing Apprentice. Or whatever. My brain is fried from essay'in.

2006-03-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

I rented another video...

2006-03-22T20:36:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t so bad.

Holla! Unabashed B-grade horror movie lover in the house! I was feeling under the weather, and had just exhausted myself by pulling two all-nighters in a row for school, so I thought: what better way to unwind than to make a big pot of spaghetti and watch "The Skeleton Key?" Alright, The spaghetti was Dave’s idea, but the movie was a joint decision.

I would like to take this opportunity to answer some of the FAQs that have been pouring in ever since I gave this piece of cinematic pewter its go-round in the ol’ DVD player…

Q: Is it true that “The Skeleton Key” features a star-studded cast?
A: You bet! Hate Hudson, Peter Saarsgard, Gena Rowlands and William Hurt feature!

Q: Is it scary?
A: I give it two H.A. on a standard scale of five H.A. (note: H.A. = heart attacks)

Q. Is it informative?
A. Yes, I learned about “hoodoo.” (Not to be confused with “voodoo”)

Q. Does stuff blow up?
A. No

Q. Does Kate Hudson get naked?
A. No.

So much for the exhaustive synopsis, but I think at the very least I answered the most pressing questions about this movie without spoiling the ending. Or the beginning or the middle. Stay tuned next week when I actually review a movie…

My Word

2006-03-01T20:07:00.000-08:00

"Prelimidump" (aka the pre-emptive dump)

What? Dumping him or her before they get the sweet chance, whether or not you actually wanted to end the relationship.
Where? All over the world, although activity itself is best suited to a crowded pub, after no less than one (but no more than three) alcoholic drinks.
Why? Many reasons. Usually occurs after one party “gets wind” of the other’s imminent plan to do some dumpage. Also commonly executed after one party’s shameful act (often involving infidelity/strippers/drugs or some combination therein), thus activating either the guilt or the “holycrapimgonnagetcaught” centre of the brain.
When? Can occur in relationships of all ages, at all stages.
Who? You, me, her, that guy over there. I’d say almost everyone who’s ever been in a relationship has been on either the giving or the receiving end of a prelimidump.

I Rented A Video...

2006-02-23T20:12:00.000-08:00

So that you don’t have to.

Ever-keen on watching a horror with a high cheese factor combined with a high number of jolts-per-minute (Think Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Dawn of the Dead and the Scream troika) I rented Saw 2—a vile little flick about a suicidal man-cum-sociopath who survives a car crash of his own design, only to emerge with new vigor for life.

Eager to “help” others who have fallen prey to depression, addiction and/or social deviance, our villain subjects his victims to ridiculously overblown “challenges” which, if completed successfully, are supposed to excise their demons and help them foster a new appreciation for life.

The co-mingling of morality, thrills, chills, blood and guts in this film makes it obvious that it aspired to its infinitely more successful and complex daddy, Seven, but it falls way short. This film is base, yo. The audience doesn’t have time to sympathize with any one character because there are too darn many of them. The audience doesn’t have time to laugh at any of the hyperbolic violence, ‘cos its so darn… nasty. (Although I must say, I did experience an all new feeling of shock and awe when that chick was thrown into a vat full of syringes)

Saw 2 never made it to theatres. The original had a brief run. But at my local Blockbuster, there were, like, 20 copies of it on the new release wall, which means a lot of folks out there are renting this. Who are you freaks?

2006-02-22T12:30:00.000-08:00

My very first post. Neither interesting nor profound. Fun to come, kids.