Daddy's Girl

I'm getting my picture taken on Tuesday, and I don't know what to wear.  I've been told I should wear something of a dark colour, with no print.  Blue jeans, but not with a white tee because that's cliche.  I should make sure that I complement the other outfits in the picture without being too matchy.  And I should probably wear heels.  My legs look damn good in heels.

The picture is being taken because my dad is dying.  He was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and my group of friends bought our family a photo session so we could be sure to have a nice picture with him, for posterity.  (Have I mentioned how wonderful my friends are?  I really do pick wonderful friends).

It's a strange feeling, realizing that someone you love is going to die.  I mean, we're all going to die.  And we generally don't get that much of a warning.  It's strange to feel that the warning is a blessing.

Since we were warned, a lot has happened.  I've been showered with kindness upon kindness, many of which I will never be able to repay.  I've realized the importance of building a community of people you love and trust, and then sticking with that community.  I've realized how important family is to me.  I've realized how much I respect my dad.

This man, my father, has a laugh that fills every room and hallway in a home.  He's deliberate in speech and even more deliberate in love.  He values truth and honesty, and his one request is for people not to sugar coat how they're feeling.  In the hospital, just out of exploratory surgery, after just receiving the news that he "had an expiration date" (as he so eloquently put it), his first thought was for the people that he loved.  He said that he wanted whatever time he had left to be filled with love and that he wanted to help us come to terms with this situation in any way he could.

How blessed am I to have a father who has taught me Love...  How happy am I to have time to be deliberate in loving him back...

I'm finding that one of the great challenges in all this is the Bereavement Voice.  You know, the slight touch to the shoulder, the squinty look and the soft and pronounced, "How are you doing?"  It's horrible to realize this, because I'm sure I've used the Bereavement Voice with every person I've ever cared about who has lost someone close to them.  It's the best way to show them you care, right?  Well I'm realizing that maybe it's not.

Our family has a long way to go in this journey.  Some days, granted, are terrible.  But other days are rather beautiful and I'm joyful and thankful and maybe not even thinking about the tragedy that is soon to befall us.  As soon as I'm hit with the Bereavement Voice, it's like a slap in the face.  HEY!  BE SAD! TALK ABOUT YOUR PAIN AND HOW MUCH PAIN YOU'RE IN!  REMEMBER YOUR PAIN?  TALK ABOUT IT!!!!!!  And if you're not feeling pain at that moment, you'd better conjure some up, otherwise you'll seem pretty callous.

I know that's not their intention.  It's unfair of me to feel this way, but I do.  I guess, really, I don't have an appropriate response for "How's your dad doing?"  He's still alive.  Right now he's alive.  Everything else, I'll confide in you if I feel moved.

I was talking to someone recently whose dad is also dying.  It was the most refreshing conversation, because it was completely candid.  There was laughter in the conversation along with the sadness.  Our society is funny in that we just don't know how to deal with death.  No matter how often it happens, we still can't figure out how to approach it in a way that makes everyone feel alright.  We're as clumsy as Canadian drivers during the first major snowfall of the year.

So the way I'm dealing with it is to carry on.  And to laugh often, and to love much.  And to take pictures, because I know I'm going to want them later.  So I'll probably wear a green shirt, and maybe a scarf, and my hot black boots.  And the best part is that no matter what I choose to wear, my dad will see me on Tuesday and tell me I look beautiful.

I may be perpetually single, I may seem to be completely clueless when it comes to intimacy with another human being, but you can't argue with the fact that I have a man in my life who loves me even more than he loves himself.

And, really, what more could a girl ask for?...

Where the Heart Is...

I'm home.  Or, at least, I think I am...

My last couple weekends have been spent in the home of my childhood.  An amazing woman passed away and another amazing woman is expecting twins and I was brought back to celebrate life in all respects.

It got me thinking about family.  I never really realized how far the word "family" extends for me.  Two weekends ago I had a birthday meal at the family home of two of my ex-boyfriends.  They're brothers.  And it sounds weird and it breaks all the rules, and believe me, it sounds even weirder if you know all the other connections and rules that have been broken and blurred, but what it really boils down to is that some people come into your life and that's that.  You're in their life and they're in yours, and life is better that way.  That family is family to me.  I adore them all so much.  And when those twins are born (the ones inside the belly of my best friend in the world, the friend who is married to one of the abovementioned exes) I will be as excited as if they shared my blood.  All of those people in that family share my heart.

And at the funeral, at the celebration of life, I saw more family.  Women and men who saw me grow up, and still pray for me on a regular basis.  These are people with whom it's okay to just pick up where we left off.  It reminded me of how rich my life is.  Oh, how easy it is to forget, in the drudgery of the day to day, how many beautiful people I know and love... Let me not forget again soon...

Next weekend is Easter.  I have no real Easter plans to speak of, and I'm thinking of going back home.  It's strange, because that city stopped being "home" for me about four years ago; and all of a sudden, my heart is right back in the middle of it.

Don't get me wrong: this is home too.  This is who I am right now, and I am so happy here.  But it's strange to once again feel ties to another place.  I feel connected in a very tangible way to a life from which I thought I had somewhat separated myself.

I think, maybe, that once a place is home, once a person is family, a part of you is claimed forever... in the nicest of ways...

Colombia, Te Quiero

I wrote this on the plane on the way home from my most recent adventure.  I went to Colombia.  It was amazing...

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I want to write about the beauty that exists in the people of this world.  I want to tell you about the adventure I just took and about the love I experienced.  I want to describe the blue scarf hanging around my neck, the earrings dangling from my ears, and the bracelet hugging my wrist, all given to me by people who have very little of their own...

I want to write this all down, document it, so I can remember the overwhelming love, gratitude, joy... and humility... but when I try to put it into words, it just seems stale.

We've heard it all before.  A young traveler goes away, sees some mountains and banana trees, discovers a new culture, and realizes that the world isn't really that big after all.

I won't tell you that story, because it's only really  new when you've just lived it.  I will say, though, that I had one hell of a week.  I drove through Colombian mountains in the back of a rickety old van.  I stood under a waterfall.  I hugged an old friend and made some new ones.

I learned to communicate with more than just words.  I learned how to make ajiaco and empanadas.  I learned that a Colombian airport luggage search is much smoother when you are smiling through the tears that are streaming down your face.

Most importantly, I learned (or was once again reminded) that people are good; that friends are everywhere; that life is beautiful.

I wish I could write my adventure in blog form so it could be understood, through eloquent metaphors and brief moments of wit.  The thing about this kind of adventure, though, is that it needs to be experienced to be understood.  So I guess all I can say is that maybe you should make the trip yourself.  Go to Colombia.  Ask for a guy named Jake.  Tell him I sent you.

Up, Up and Away

I have the heart of a traveler.

I just love going to new places and exploring and basking in the beauty of things I've never seen before.  I love the familiarity of walking through a place I've read about in books.  I love feeling so alone and yet so connected to the whole world at exactly the same time.  I love traveling.

It's strange, then, that the last time I really travelled (with the exception of a weekend trip here and there) was five years ago.  Five.  That's about one sixth of my life.  It's been one sixth of a lifetime since I explored the world.  But don't worry -- that story will soon change.

I'm going away.  Soon.  I will visit a good friend in a hot place and see his life.  I can't even tell you how excited I am about this.  I've packed my belongings into a small carry-on suitcase.  I've bought travel insurance.  I've painted my toenails.  My stuff is sitting at the door all ready to go, and I'm certain there's no way I'll be able to sleep tonight.

It's worth it.  The plane ride may be expensive, it may rain the whole time I'm there, but to sit here right now, having this feeling that I'm having...  Oh yes, it's worth it.

Old Friends and Snail Mail

I had forgotten what your handwriting looks like. Seeing it today made me remember all the notes we used to write each other, back when you were Nathoo (with a silent h) and I was Mushmellon (because we thought it was cute). It's the handwriting that made me miss you the most.

I came home today tired, knowing that I couldn't stay. I had essays to mark, and I had to get to a coffee shop immediately so I could focus. Just enough time to pick up my hat and my iPod and a snack. I walked into my building and there, leaning against the door, was a package. It was the size of a cereal box, wrapped in white paper. Addressed to me. I knew what it was at once.

It was sunshine and baked goods and Toblerone bars and a book and a CD and a dinosaur and a hand-written letter. And it made my day beautiful. No matter what may have happened at work, no matter what might happen later as I pour over these essays, February 22nd is officially a beautiful day.

It's beautiful because you remembered, because you did what you said you would. It's beautiful because of the picture you drew on the second page of the letter, and because of the fact that you heard me say I love Toblerones. It's beautiful because I don't understand the plastic dinosaur, but I'm pretty sure that was the point. And I'm smiling. And that's a beautiful thing at the end of a long day.

I'm going to leave one of the Toblerones in my mail box, along with another handwritten letter. This package could have been sent back to the post office were it not for my heroic mail carrier and his willingness to enter my building.

The world is full of good people and beauty and small plastic dinosaurs that make me smile. Thank you, Nathoo, for reminding me of that. I will call soon.

Not Yet, Emily Dickinson...

Well, I didn't get flowers and I wasn't anyone's valentine (unless my sister counts -- she and I had a lovely evening filled with angel food cake, strawberries, whipped cream, and The Bachelor). My probablydate (which was totally a date) ended up being on the Tuesday. Dinner and a movie at my place.

He's kind of great. He did the dishes after dinner, he brought wine (as promised) and dessert (as a surprise, from his "favourite Italian place"). He was polite and courteous and sweet.

I saw him again today. He picked me up and brought me to his place, where we played a board game with his roommate (Lord of the Rings Risk -- totally lame, but sort of fun; and I won, which made it a whole lot better). He made me dinner. He said I smelled nice and he kept finding excuses to touch me. He was so attentive, and he looked at me in a way that made me feel special.

And... yeah, you guessed it... I'm just not that into him.

Like I said, he's great, but it's just not there. I don't feel like we have anything to talk about. I feel like we're just not really connecting. I enjoy his company, and I could easily go on a fifth date with him and probably even a sixth, but I'm starting to feel like there's no point. This isn't it. This isn't Him.

I wonder if He even exists...

I saw a 30 Rock episode recently in which Liz Lemon, frustrated by yet another failed relationship, gives up. She dons a fanny pack and buys a cat named Emily Dickinson and ties her hair up with a chip clip. She resigns herself to the life of an old maid. I'm not there yet, but the whole premise certainly did resonate with me. I'm not getting any younger.

That being said, I haven't lost hope. There are still many men out there. There are three, in fact, that I've recently met who could easily be potential Hims. Only time will tell. And as much as I often think otherwise, I really do have lots of time...

Shmalentimes

I mentioned a while ago that I recently reconnected with an old friend from university. When I asked him what he'd been up to lately, his response was, "Well, I've been going on a lot of first dates." I laughed, because there's truth there. As a single in the dating world, first dates abound. Second and third dates, however, are extremely rare. In all my months on The Site, I never once went on a third date; a second, only thrice.

So I went on a second date last week which was more of a probablydate than a maybedate. Now we're arranging date number three. For Monday or Tuesday. And herein lies the problem. When he asked when I was free next, I said Friday, Monday or Tuesday. He eliminated Friday, and then sent it back to me to make the final decision. But I don't want to, and here's why:

Monday is Valentine's Day.

I hate this day for a myriad of reasons. There's the typical excuse, the commercialism that has turned a beautiful idea into a day where people are forced to spend dollars upon dollars on flowers and chocolates and cards with naked angel babies on them. There's the fact that for some reason men are laden with the onus of responsibility, so Valentine's basically becomes a day where men let women down and then get in trouble for it. And of course, there's the alienation and loneliness felt by anyone who finds themselves uncoupled on this day of days. That's a horrible thing to feel.

Considering the youth of our probablationship, my natural choice would be Tuesday for our probablydate - Valentine's Day would just be far too much pressure. Right??? I know, but I still kind of want to do Monday instead. Why, you ask? Well, there are two reasons, the first of which being absolutely legitimate. I'm heading out on Wednesday for a three-day work trip. I'm going to need to be packed and rested up, so it would be nice to keep my Tuesday night open.

The second reason, though, I'm rather ashamed to admit. I kind of want to do Valentine's Day this year. My relationships over the years have been wonderful, but they've been a little lacking romantically. And yes, I hate Valentine's Day, but I don't hate romance. I miss it. I want it. I want to feel special and beautiful and desired. I want to be wooed.

So I really wouldn't mind some flowers - even if the only reason he buys them for me is that it happens to be the 14th of February. I'll never admit this out loud, but I secretly wouldn't mind being someone's valentine...