You're Not Going To Like This

Some of you may or may not know, I penned a fabulous story sort of novella thing for Pankhearst’s first publication Cars & Girls. I say fabulous because I am actually incredibly proud of what I’ve put on virtual paper. It’s raw and harsh, kick you in the gut, with a tormented leading lady and a shit ton of cuss words. The interesting part, as much as I like it, I tend to think you're not going to enjoy it at all.

Yeah, you, the one reading this. Okay, fine, maybe I should give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you love edgy, in your face stories about revenge with dirty sexy stuff and bloody gorrific twists too.

Still, here are the five reasons why you won’t like my story. OR, more so, five reasons why I think you're not going to like my story. Because, let's be honest, this is all in my head ... but we all have reservations about our work. Perhaps it's kind of brave of me to be able to put mine out there for you to read. Or perhaps not.

1 - The shit ton of cuss words. Alright, fine, you say you don’t mind a bitch here and an ass there. You think, if it benefits the story, then it will work for you. Then cool, I say, this might actually be a match made in heaven. work for you. And with labels such as tart noir, fem noir and pulp being tossed around like candy at Halloween, I only hope grandmothers aren't popping their false teeth in and lining up with their walkers to snatch this up as soon as it hits shelves. Then again, there are some rather edgy grandmothers in this world and, despite the stereotype, it’s not g-mas who are the uptight ones. If you’re a stuck up twenty-something year old who thinks masturbation is dirty or, dare I say, one of the PC Brigade of Yummy Mummys who fell in love with the virginal sparkly vampire who refused to drink human blood, well, this probably isn't going to end well. But I have a feeling you will be head-over-heels for 500. It’s really a very romantic story. (Cough-cough)

2 - There isn't a happy ending. And no, I'm not giving anything away, but there really, truly isn't a happy ending. If you’re reading this and thinking, she’s just saying that. I’m not. Personally, I think of it as a realistic ending and, if I am being honest, it leaves me with a comforting sort of feeling. Here’s the deal, this is the first thing I've ever put on virtual paper that doesn't end with sunshine coated strawberries and unicorns helping kittens across busy highways. Seriously. I am a fan of happy endings. Maybe that’s why I love Road Runner so much, because it’s different. For me. There are other people, like Nicholas Sparks who wouldn't be able to write a happy ending if someone held a gun to his head. No seriously. What the hell is wrong with that guy?

3 - On principle. It’s indie, which means, to some people, it’s unworthy. But I am a firm believer there are literary works of genius swimming around in the Indie pool. Little nuggets and gems waiting for someone to scoop them up and treasure them forever. I’m not saying this reflects my own work, no, my ego certainly isn't that big. Still, there are some people who will dislike it simply because there isn't a little Penguin stamped on the side. That said, the penguin is the cutest of all the publishing house logos.

4 - You were looking for an escape from the every day horribleness. There’s dirty stuff and angry stuff, harsh reality stuff and ‘ugh, gross’ stuff in Road Runner and you might want your stories sugar coated and tied up with pretty ribbon. A delightful package for you to undo at your leisure and enjoy every step of the way, riddled with brilliant insights and dazzling turns of events so sweet and lovely you have to cock your head to the side and say awwwww. Well, you might as well move along. In defence of Road Runner, it truly is woven together with lush sentences, so juicy and ripe they burst on your tongue with amazingness. Still, it won’t give you the hot chocolate and homemade cookies feeling you may be craving.

5 - Because you don’t like me. It happens. I get it. Maybe you don’t like my face. Or voice. Or hair. It’s up to you.

With all that being said, I sincerely hope I’m wrong and everyone loves it.

Do you ever have reservations about the things you create? Or is it just me? 

Dear Mom:

Today, I miss you.

It's Mother's Day and all over the world there's brunches and poorly made cards being handed out. I don't have a card for you. Or flowers. And I won't get to see you. Not in person. Though, I do hope you pop up on Skype later.

I already talked to Dad. He said you were sleeping. That's one thing I will always remember about you. How you loved to sleep in. Some moms wake up at the crack of dawn and make breakfast. I remember being quite in the mornings to let you sleep. It's a nice memory. Besides, we were old enough to fix our own damn breakfasts.

There are a lot of things I think about when I sit down with you on my mind. Like right this minute, I am remembering how you used to lie on the floor and stretch your legs above you. I used to try to do it too. But, I couldn't. I remember those moments.

I know we have fought. What daughter hasn't battled it out with their own mother? It's almost a prerequisite for growing up, I guess. And I know, even now, I get short with you and temperamental. But that doesn't mean, not even in my most bitchy moments, that I don't love you. And appreciate you.

And miss you.

It's weird being over here. Sometimes I feel so supremely detached, but I am thankful I have you and this computer. The times we have talked in the last couple of months, how interested you are in this latest novel of mine, your encouragement. It means so much. You have no idea.

I love that I can swear when I talk to you.

That I don't have to pretend to be someone I am not.

There are mother/daughter relationships that are surface relationships. Not ours, though. I honestly think of you as one of my friends. One of the longest friendships I have ever had. You are someone I can tell anything to, even if it is something that is highly inappropriate, or a piece of information you really didn't need to know. But you don't judge me. You let me be me. And it's okay that I'm weird and like pirates and zombies.

Thank you for accepting me. I mean, I don't know if this is who you wanted me to become. It's probably unlikely that you looked down at the baby version of myself and said, "I want this girl to love horror movies and be an obsessive music nerd." Still, I hope I haven't disappointed you. I want you to be happy with me. Proud, even.

Last night, I couldn't really sleep, and I started thinking about you. Remembering these random little things from way back in the day. Like your macaroni and cheese, how you put Cheese Whiz in it. How you put ketchup in your spaghetti sauce. The Spearmint gum you used to chew, that smell still reminds me of you. Watching you put your make up on. The scent of your makeup bag. And that song you used to sing, the French one, this one:


So today, I miss you. And I wish you were a little closer to me so I could hug you and tell you I'm glad you're my mom.

I love you.

Deadly Sin

Today I am experiencing one of the deadly sins.

Well, technically, I've experienced a few. I made these really amazing buns for dinner and I wanted to stuff them all in my mouth. I didn't. By some miracle I managed to have a bit of restraint. Still, gluttony was present.

And lust is pretty much a given on any day of the week.

Let's all just hope my wrath never gets released. But those aren't the sins I am talking about. Nope. I'm talking about good old fashioned pride.

I am so incredibly proud of my Sidekick today.

One week ago, he quit smoking. This is a milestone. It is a stepping stone on the way to a happier and healthier life. Really, this is a huge thing. For him. For us. For me alone because I loathe smoking, the smell, the look, the everything.

But it isn't about me. It's about him. And it's something he's been trying to do for a long, long time. Cutting back. E-ciggies. Stressing about it. Then, bam, cold turkey.

And it's been a week. And that's amazing.

I myself haven't had an addiction before. I've never even smoked a cigarette in my life. True story. Not even a puff. So, when it comes to giving things up, I'm probably not the most understanding. I have this whole 'just do it' attitude, which is probably extremely annoying. Though, in my defence, I try to be supportive and understanding.

All this said, I'm so very proud and pleased for him. I mean, this has been one of those things needling me from behind. The truth is, I've dated a smoker before, and I swore I would never do it again. So, how did I end up here?

Well, this here Sidekick is freakin' adorable. Like beyond. And he makes me laugh.

Anyway, just saying, I'm proud. I want to sing it from the mountain tops and crap like that. I'll resort to simply posting about it. Now that I think about it, is pride a deadly sin if it's for someone else? I think not. Oh well. I'm not changing the title now.

I'm Tired

Today, I am tired. I woke up tired. Not sleepy. Just tired.

Tired of feeling cautious. Uncertain of my surroundings. Not sure of what to say or do. Or why I want to say and do what I want to say and do. It's complex, I suppose. Or maybe not. Maybe we all know exactly what I mean when I say I am tired of feeling cautious.

The tiredness goes beyond the uneasy feeling. I am tired of feeling heavy. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Exhausted over money. Not having any. Like none. Being poor. Unable to buy groceries. Or a dress. A badly needed pair of shoes for work. Travelling is out, because gas is so expensive. Ferry rides are out. So my friends, those real life unvirtual ones, seem so far away. I did this to myself. No need to remind me. The bills are piling up. I'm getting frustrated with myself. And the worry, well, I'm so tired of worrying over money. Of having it be the soul thing I'm fretting over and having the lack of it mess up the good things, and taint the happiness I was feeling.

I'm tired of wanting a hug. And not wanting to ask for one at the same time.

More so, I'm tired of feeling fat, even though I know society's idea of what women should weigh is far under what is healthy. And though I know that. I still stress about my weight. Cellulite. Stretch marks. The jiggle in this wiggle. Even things I once loved aren't looking the same. Not while I'm wearing these tired glasses of mine. They make everything look so much more unattractive than it is.

Ugly. Tired of it as well. It's a beast. And it takes over.

The lack of undisturbed slumber is making me tired. In the true sense, though, not in the metaphorical or symbolic way. In the I-am-actually-tired sort of way.

I'm tired of having these random days where nothing seems to go right. Waking up angry, burning the toast, messing up breakfast, banging my head on a cupboard, staining my clothes, tearing my nylons, not being comfortable in my own skin, seeing the flaws and wondering where the fabulous is, biting my lips and making it bleed and wanting someone to say yes to something but they just keep saying no.

It's draining to feel as though life is simply slipping through my fingers as I worry and fret and lose sleep. It's scary to think I'm getting older and the bullshit keeping me awake is the same. It's crazy that one day I simply won't exist anymore and none of this will matter. It's strange that it really doesn't even matter now.

It's funny because it's all in my head.

She Let's Her Hair Down

Guys don't hit on me.

A bold statement if I've ever made one.

Well, it's true.

My ex, we will call him Jay, once told me that I am severely unapproachable. When someone speaks to me out in the wild, I instantly have a 'get away from me' and 'don't touch me unless you want to lose a hand' vibe going on. This may have been the case seven years ago when I was living in the city and cultivated a harder exterior after one too many run-ins with yahoos and wack-a-doos on the street.

These days, I like to think I'm softer. Not only because I've let my workout regime fall to the wayside, but because I've grown up a lot. I've matured. And I stopped shaving my armpits and have embraced a nice frolic through the dewy morning grass. One of those last things isn't true. I'll let you decide on your own because I feel all readers should be involved in what they are reading to some extent.

For example, I'm not going to tell you my surroundings or what I am wearing as I type this because I firmly believe you have enough of an imagination to come up with that information on your own. In actuality, you really shouldn't be thinking about what I am wearing or where I am while I write this. It has nothing to do with the content of the article, nor does it make reading it any more enjoyable.

Back to the subject at hand. I like to think I'm not so unapproachable.

Still, guys don't hit on me. Probably because I don't play the damsel in distress very well. I have the whole, I can do it by myself thing going on. And apparently, self-sufficiant women, do not great lovers make. Or so people mistakenly think. Because I am a fantastic...let's not go there.

The truth is, men don't ask to pump my gas, carry my groceries, or query over whether or not I want to partake in a sampling of food or beverages with them. Probably because I am so happy in my current relationship status they already know I'm not available to them. Still, it's because of guys not hitting on me that I am aware of when I am being noticed more than usual. When something doesn't happen, like never ever, and then it starts to happen, you see it. Like, for example, if you never hear birds outside your window and then, one day out of the blue, you hear a sparrow singing his little singsong. You'd take note.

Well, today, I got all sorts of attention from fellas. Ones driving by me. Workers at the grocery store. Random teenagers I let cross in front of my car instead of running over and making pavement paint out of them. Smiles. Nods. Waves. Hellos. Weird starts to conversations like, "There are so many cereals out there, hey?"

Here's the thing: I'm only doing two things differently in life these days.

1. Wearing more dresses
2. Letting my hair down

With the nice weather comes the dresses. In fact, I have waited a very long time for Spring to roll its lazy ass around so I can indulge myself in wearing clothes that I frankly shouldn't be wearing. I mean, I can't bend over in these outfits. And if I do, I better be wearing cute underwear. While this could totally be the reason I've been drawing the attention of Harry, Larry and Bob, I like to think guys don't really notice clothing. I mean, you could seriously ask my Sidekick what I wore on any given day and I doubt he'd actually be able to tell you. Likewise for any dudes I've ever had the pleasure of running into. They'd be able to tell you if my boobs looked good in a shirt, but wouldn't have a clue what was actually on the shirt.

So, dresses to the side, I also got this amazing new shampoo and conditioner from this salon and it seriously rocks my locks. I have been letting loose and leaving the elastic band at home. This crap smells so good, I want to eat it. I catch myself sniffing my hair at awkward moments. No, really. I'm one of those weird hair sniffer people.

Thus, in conclusion, men like it when women wear their hair down. I can only surmise that my lack of attention was due to the fact that I always, like every single freakin' day, wore my hair up in a messy sort of bun. Now the curly tendrils are tickling my back and the air has shifted. Perhaps it makes me more approachable, or maybe guys just like the looks of long flowing hair, either way, I think I've just cracked the attraction code.

Or perhaps I am mistaken and spring has simply sprung.