I "Heart" Satire.

Fuck Yeah!

Memory Lane

Sometimes I forget about how totally awesome U2 are. So while I was reminding myself I came across this little video I had seen years ago. And then I remembered that not only are they totally awesome, they're totally hot, too.

If you will:


However, thanks to this little charade that poor girl will never be able to look at another man for the rest of her life.

Wow

I was having a rough day yesterday. Feeling a mite sorry for myself and let down in general, I spent a beautiful Saturday evening with my cats. The best place for me in one of those moods is usually by myself. I might feel a bit melancholy, spend the night alone recharging and then wake up generally feeling better. It also helps that I woke up sans hangover, unlike most of the men folk in my life, who no doubt all rose feeling remorse and nauseated. I had the privilege of smelling two of them today - rough.
Spending a Saturday night in is not something I do often, nor is it something I aspire to. Being able to enjoy one's own company, however, is something I am pleased to say I am capable of doing. So I rented a few movies, took a nice bath, read my book and had a delightful supper of nachos and cola. Ohhh yesss.
Perspective is also an amazing thing. There I was, feeling sorry for myself, a little sad and more than frustrated. So I watched this film:


It's billed as being inspirational, and in many ways it is. It is also very difficult to watch as you feel the protagonist's fear, his anger and frustration.
It also cleared up any residual shittiness I was going through. Amazing how someone else's problems seem to make your "problems" pale in comparison. I urge anyone who's ever felt sorry for themselves to watch this little number. Not only is it beautifully shot and wonderfully acted, it'll make you oh so grateful for everything you might take for granted.

Soul Soundtrack

Whenever I discover a new song that really speaks to me I'll listen to it continuously for about a week, at which point it usually loses its oooomph and I'm in search of another.
During my love affair, however brief, the song becomes a sort of soundtrack for my thoughts and feelings, perhaps even mirroring back some of the same sentiments in my heart. Maybe this is what draws me to them in the first place.
This week it's the not so hidden hidden track at the end of Coldplay's Viva La Vida.

Enjoy.

My Cup Runneth Over

It is a widely popular fact that the only way to achieve true happiness is to live in the present moment. In looking back one can become sad or regretful about past experiences, looking towards the future can lead people to anxiety or fear about the unknown. In the present, however, nothing is ever that bad, life is safe. Right now, for example, I am sitting in my lovely home, cat on my lap, coffee to my right, Ray Lamontagne serenading me. Not bad I suppose. Yet something is amiss, I feel, dare I say it, sad and a little blue. This bothers me. How can one feel icky in the presence of all this good?
In the depths of my grief I was unable to see the forest for the trees. That is to say, I was so immersed in my own fear and pain that I failed to see all the good things in my life. I then worked really hard to focus on the positive rather than dwelling on what was missing. Yes my mother had died, but she had loved me deeply and without question. The forest was becoming clearer.
It is no easy task and I am certainly simplifying it to a level which baffles me even as I live in the present moment. And I suppose I have been no good at it lately since I've been feeling rotten and can't seem to get out of the funk. Not rotten all the time, however, but enough times to make me sit up and think, "I've lost sight of the forest again." My grief counselor compared this phenomenon to a crack in the sidewalk. It starts out small but once you trip on it, it gets bigger and bigger until it finally swallows you whole. What started out as "I feel kind of lonely" has spiraled into me being a fat loser with no future and no chance at happiness.
Whoa......wait a second. Fear is a terrible thing and so damaging as it attacks our deepest vulnerabilities. My greatest ambition in life is a simple one, to find a wonderful man with whom I can start a loving family. I don't have lofty career ambitions, don't fancy climbing Everest or circumnavigating the globe. I want to be loved deeply and completely and wish to extend the same to someone truly exceptional. Any fear or self doubt that creep into my mind somehow play into the notion of this dream never being realized - that I won't get this family I so deeply need. And that is the scariest thing I can think of.
Going to these dark and scary places takes guts and courage and the strength of mind to realize that these places don't really exist - they are abstract notions. But I do think, every now and then, it's nice to drop in because it gives you an idea of what you might need to actually reach your destination. The danger, however, is getting stuck, failing to live in the present, and accepting your fears as reality.
So what's a dreamer to do?
How about a list of things that makes my heart burst:
1) I live in an amazing city, snow, cold and ice included. My mother always told me that there can't be a God if there is no Devil.
2) I walked home from the market the other day, baguette in hand, sunshine at my back, company coming for dinner.
3) Exceptional friendships, both physical and emotional.
4) A black and white cat. A grey and beige cat.
5) A job I love in a field that excites me.
6) Napping with Em, trying to trick Mateo into a nap. Succeeding.
7) Driving with the windows open.
8) Knowledge that even the deepest pain and wounding does not break the human spirit.

I've never been one for scripture and have shunned religion for a few reasons. There is, however, a passage from the bible that I've often responded to:

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."

What it means is, I have more than enough for my needs. And it's true. Yes there are certain things in my life that could use a little tweaking, some fears that can't always be placated, some wounds that run to the bone. But there is a bumper crop of beauty I couldn't have even imagined. And I am grateful for all of it.

For a Minute there, I lost myself

35,000 fans flocked to Parc Jean Drapeau the other night to witness a thing of beauty.
Radiohead on stage, the moon and the city skyline in the background, Mont Royal's famous cross poking out. As if that wasn't enough, fireworks off to the side completed this picture perfect evening. It helps having your Dud by your side as well....

For all you who missed it, here's but a small taste.

Beauty is Pain

For all you sadists out there who enjoy physical pain and verbal abuse, I have got the spot for you.
It started out innocently enough.
"Do you have any openings after 3," I innocently inquired.
"How about 3:30?"
"Perfect."
I was excited. I knew it wouldn't be a walk in the park, they never are, but I knew the end result would bring me great pleasure. I mean, have you ever had a facial?
I arrived a little early, eager to get the ball rolling, at the Worst Place On Earth, Westmount Square. Now, what makes the WPON so horrible is a combination of old lady stores, old ladies from Westmount and snobs. It's a breeding ground for jerks. I had a gift certificate I had lost and found and was anxious to take care of some less than awesome developments on my face.
Enter the Bringer of Pain (BOP). Otherwise known as Celina, the Russian esthetician who would be performing today's emotional rape.
We go into the treatment room. Our first exchange lets me in on what will soon become painfully clear - this woman has no soul or sense of humour. If you will:
(heavy Russian accent) BOP: take off clothes, jewellery, bra. get on bed.
(giggling nervously) me: my skirt too?
BOP: no. get on bed.
me: ok good. i was wondering what kind of facial this was!
(unable to process joke at hand in an effort to diffuse tension) BOP: will not know what kind of facial to give until I see skin.
Yes. Of course. How silly of me to joke at a time like this.
I am then asked when the last time was I received a facial. This line of questioning is akin to the "How many alcoholic drinks do you have in one week?" from your doctor and the "How often do you floss?" from your dentist. You will never answer correctly and as such there will be judging. I mumble something about 6 years ago and we proceed. I tell her I'm afraid I might have a touch of rosacea as I've always been a little pink. She pulls out her 5000 watt lightbulb/magnifying mirror and takes a look.
"Oh yes. You have rosacea. Big time." Heavy Russian accent.
I'm starting to feel bad about myself. Big time.
But before she can do anything, she needs to wax off half my eyebrow (searing pain) because it's "too big" and tells me I should get some electrolysis on my chin. I remind myself that I am paying this woman to make my feel bad about myself. Now I am amused.
Then with utter disgust, she says, "Your skin is dry and full of dead skin cells. And blackheads. I can't do anything until you get rid of the dead skin." Self-esteem plumetting. BOP suggests I try this "Microdermabrasion" that all the soccer moms and old battle axes are using to look nothing like their real age. BOP says it will get rid of my dead skin. Anything to get my sense of self-worth back on track. I agree. BOP has just upsold me on another $40 treatment, effectively scaring me into getting my face sanded off.
BOP then proceeds to run a sander/vacuum all over my face. I start thinking about how hilarious this whole situation really is. Great idea for blog starts flowing through head. BOP will become famous sadist, will have me to thank for all her life's success. She will then have no choice but to sand and vacuum my face for free.
BOP decides it's time to get the blackheads out. I'll spare you the details but will tell you this: Not only was it some of the most intense pain of my life, she had two alcohol soaked rags she used to perform the task. These rags were draped across my mouth and nose. A foggy image of ether soaked rags flickers through my now sluggish mind - is BOP part of some underground Russian mob that sands your face off and then knocks you out?
The whole thing took 2 hours. Some of it was nice - there was some rubbing and a nice facial mask (which didn't feel all that good as BOP left the room for something like 20 minutes and I really had to pee).
In BOPs defense, my skin actually looks pretty good now, and my self-esteem is back on track. I probably won't go back, unless my sense of self worth gets overly inflated, at which point I'll head on in for a reality check.