I started this blog a year ago, in an effort to get past my fear of commitment. I thought up a snappy name. I picked wallpapers and super font packages. I committed to blogging three times a week. Twice at least. Maybe once a week if I was really slammed at work. Then, for some reason, my wallpaper didn't save and the fonts reverted back to Times New Roman. And I lost the password. Then, I couldn't get back onto the page where you write the things to post, and I started to wonder why people read blogs anyway. It's fine to be a narcissist on your own time, but don't clog the internet. 

I understand blogs for a business. Like my friend, Cath. She has a blog, and that's smart. You should look at it now. http://www.documentographer.com/blog/ 

Sorry. I don't know how to make that into a proper link. Because I'm analog. If I were a technical wizard, I'd at least make this blog look pretty, to take your mind off the writing. But I don't think I can do that. Or, rather, I can, theoretically, I just don't know how to save it. 

But you can't live your life in fear, and recently, I've discovered that maybe my fear of commitment is just discernment. Maybe mine's not a fail rate of 100%, but a success rate of 100%, when it comes to not committing to the wrong things... or people.

'Tis the season. Blog Resurrected.


This is a short post.

Just to keep you interested. See? I can do short.

Like Martin, short.

Like midget, short.

Like cake, short.                             

Like espresso, short.

Like -ening, short.                           

Like boyfriend in an argument, short.

Like French, courte.                          

Like short, shorts.

Which I will wear today.

This is me. Doing shorts.


Over. Talk. (& I will learn the magic of editing, but not today...)

It wasn't the death of Michael that prompted this suddenly palpable sense of mortality. It absolutely wasn't that. Nor was it Farrah. Not Farrah at all.

It might've been the drinks. The drinks on Monday with a friend who, when I mentioned I've had my period for over a month, shouted, "Doyle! Cancer."

It could’ve been that.

Or, of course, the dinner I had on Tuesday, with two women who casually mentioned over appetizers that they'd both been attacked and raped. Not recently, but recent enough.

It might have been the run-in on Wednesday, when I bumped into my boyfriend -- recently ex-ed – who works one floor beneath me, and who would have been a model father to the children we might have had. He’d have supported me, brought stability to my life. He made me laugh and sent story ideas by text every morning. He called me “bug” and gave me a card that played an anthem and spelled out some motivational hockey quote from Wayne Gretzky about going big or going home, and in the second month we were dating, he taped “a key to his hearth” inside of said card. It might’ve been that run-in, with this tender soul who’d put an end to this whole charade, who in his own way meant meaning, perfect in every way but for one intangible something, that inexplicable missing piece, that void, that something, that something, that something.

It may be a fear of being alone.

Or maybe it's just that time of year.

Or, for God's sake, perhaps it’s the fact that I am running into people from my past who are colliding in all the wrong circles of my life. Take tonight. Thursday. A black day. Or, I suppose, vitilago. Farrah and MJ in one final head-to-head match for publicity. And, I am running into a high school friend after a public reading by somebody else from my high school, who has, very obviously -- VERY OBVIOUSLY – written my book. I don’t know how she’s done it, exactly. She has found my files, hacked into them somehow. She has found a draft. And now, she has written my book. And she has written books before, so people will believe mine is hers. Not mine. No one will believe that hers is my book, the book I’ve been working on for ten years, because I have trouble, occasionally, with execution.

And this high school friend says to me – the one I’ve bumped into at the reading, not, not, NOT the one who has WRITTEN MY BOOK – that we should meet up for scotch sometime with the most interesting people we know and talk ideas and shoot the shit, and I think about jumping him right there in the middle of the sidewalk-- but I stop myself, because he has terrible teeth -- because I have spent my whole life wanting to drink scotch with the most interesting people I know. I have dreamt for two decades of meeting in dusty back rooms at brown walnut bars, to exchange ideas and make things happen, to delegate and watch progress, to finally start, for the love of God, to get smarter. And, think about it as I might, I have never made it happen. And, I worry that I’ve made this a pattern in my life. So now I just expect it. I let myself off the hook.

I don’t do.

And life passes by. Me by. And people pass away. Away, away. Like Michael and Farrah, sure, but also the ones who matter. And, suddenly, lives are short, when they used to feel so long. And lives get cheated -- like everything's riding along smoothly, and you might just be onto something, like a "meaning of life" something, and, whoop, game over. Done. End. G'bye. Unexpected. Out of the blue. No chance to really consider this beautiful gift that we all take for granted, because, I guess, you took it for granted. And there it goes, and suddenly you get it. Of course! It's so easy. Now, no time to collect your things, to say goodbye, to have sex again, to ask him out, to write the poetic final words that sum up your life in the way you wish you’d led it, that will stand in perpetuity as the way that others think you did. No chance to appeal.


And so, there we are, in the middle of the sidewalk, ready to finally make it happen, this salon, and we invite the guy my high school friend is with, because he’s expressed interest in an idea of mine, and nobody’s expressed interest like that since my mum was around, and we decide that we’ll meet next Thursday, at a place still undetermined, and the friend of my friend (who is my friend by association, I suppose, since we appeared briefly together in a play in Grade 12) says that he is occasionally a part of this particular salon group, which will go unmentioned in these pages, because it is simply too painful.

Too painful. This particular salon group.

“Oh,” I say, “the particular salon, the very same one, that my ex-boyfriend began with two friends and barred me from joining, even though it was my idea and he still allowed his ex-wife to attend? That salon?” I ask. “That? Salon?”

And, let me point out here that we are now talking about my ex-ex boyfriend, not my ex-boyfriend, who swept in to help me over the menacing fellow we can simply refer to as, ex-squared.

And my real high school friend – the original one – says with glee, “yeah, that one? Huh? That one?” And then he says, “Oh. Shit. that one. The one she was in.” And there is this silence – wistful—while my real high school friend remembers her in full, a blonde Norwegian beauty, as it turns out, who sends a flood of memories I’ve suppressed through months of failed therapy and years of near-constant self-loathing, springing forth like the beagles at Eton.


Because, as a matter of course, the gorgeous blonde is the ex-wife of the ex-squared, and the gorgeous blonde did, naturally, date my high school friend, who swept in to help said blonde get over her then imminent ex-husband. And isn’t this supposed to be a big city? And wasn’t I supposed to do more with my life than just meet the people who further integrate me into a networked labyrinth that appears to offer little room for personal development, or anonymity, or, frankly, the hope of ever finding a new boyfriend in this climate of amiable incest.

Because, it’s occurred to me I can’t point to one thing in my daily routine right now that makes me truly happy. Not a thing. I realized this in the bathroom five minutes ago, because it occurred to me that jogging to NPR in the mornings makes me incredibly happy, but suddenly NPR’s not working on my IPhone, and consequently I can’t even make it a block without breaking stride and falling into walk.

And I was in the bathroom because my wide eyes, which are a beautiful metaphor, are full of stuff these days, which is natural I suppose, precisely because they’re wide, but in pollen season it means they prove a bit of a hazard and prompt a significant amount of time spent in front of the mirror picking at them with Q-tips and fingertips – which strikes me as vaguely Oedipal. And I’m very aware of the fact that if you’d ever told me in high school that I might have a difficult time finding happiness in life, I’d have laughed at you, because happiness is everywhere, and I spent years in its merry grip, and to not find it now sounds lazy, or weak, and I figure that if I took the time I spend picking my eyes in front of the mirror and bundled it up and really devoted that time to something useful and meaningful, like writing or volunteering or doing, just doing, there would likely be many things each day to fulfill me, to make me happy, to get me thinking about now, instead of about soon, which is precisely how life has felt of late.


Eat Nude.

This is big news. Historic news.

Legacy news.

On my lunch trot yesterday, I wandered into Sweet Lulu's, having never thought to stop in before. It scares me a little. Their sidewalk sandwich board makes the place look like a restaurant that specializes in Japanimation or kiddie porn, and I'm looking for neither in a lunch. That said, yogis tell you to do something that scares you everyday, so yesterday, I chose to get over myself. Besides, I've run out of options along the strip, and as a non-chef with bare cupboards and something growing in her slow cooker, lunch these days makes me angry, and I've got to turn that into a positive.

So, Sweet Lulu's. They serve stir fries. Fine.

Friendly people, lots of selection, kind of healthy, and take out in a New York Chinese food box. They had me at chopsticks.

I should mention here that on the day in question, I am wearing a spectacular dress and so the three guys who work the till and the kitchen (separately) are probably chatting with me more than they would have if I'd sauntered in on a Saturday in my gym clothes (which is how I usually spend my Saturdays, though rarely, rarely do I make it to the gym...). They've been sharing a conundrum. Two of the guys are talking soup.

"I know you don't like it, but it fits on the button."

"Yeah, it's just... who's gonna order that? 'Clear soup?'"

"I don't know. I'd order it. Is noodle soup better?"

"It's just... it's just kinda boring."

When I was a little kid, my family lived down the street from the guy who came up with the 80s slogan, "Coke Is It!". I think early exposure to that kind of marketing genius must've rubbed off.

"It's Naked Soup, guys. Or Nude Soup. The ladies'll love it, and it'll catch on with the men on Bay St."

Nude Soup. Now available at Sweet Lulu's at Queen and Niagara and at their location on Bay.

This is my first menu item. I will not get a name credit, but I've been promised a free bowl of the soup once the menus go to print.




While sucking on a lemonade, reading over a work in progress at The White Squirrel, I'm quietly judging the hipster who's stumbled in off of Queen St. and is now approaching the counter. Lately, I'm conscious of how quickly I render judgments, so I'm trying to be better, more sensitive, more open minded.

Occasionally, this is impossible.

HIPSTER: Hey dude.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Hey. How's it going?

HIPSTER: Good, man. Good. Hey, can you change a fifty? I'll buy a piece of the Mandelbread or something.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: That's okay. I can change the fifty -- you don't have to buy anything.

HIPSTER: No, dude. I want the Mandelbread. I love that shit.     I'll take two. No, forget it. One.    One.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Were you working today?

HIPSTER: No, dude. I went up north for the day.

MAN BEHIND COUNTER/DUDE: Wow. That was fast.

HIPSTER: Yeah. I have a brother who lives up at Yonge and Eglinton.