Ode to a rim

Rolling up the rim to win,
sore fingers building callouses.
Greed and gluttony my top sins;
But I can't stop the losses.

Damn you, coffee cup!
When's my turn to win?
Three words choke me up:
"Please Play Again."

Who sets the odds to win this game?
Has Vegas reached this low?
One in nine a shameful claim
as I'm now 12 and 0.

I won! I won!...a lousy doughnut.
I think I'll take a pass.
Take this flaccid crueller, Tim's
and stick it up your ass.

A wee character study

In a mixture of boredom and lack of proper sleep, I found myself creating word doodles beside my regular old graphic doodles at last week's convention. My goal was to create a mental image that was crisp, succint and evocative. This is in no way related to anything or anyone in my life. It's more of a character study.

See, I've come to realize that one of my biggest issues with writing is the pressure I put on myself to create something complete, as though it could emerge, fully-formed from my mind (nice little classical mythology reference in there for you. You're welcome.) Of course, having fully-formed anything is a challenge, let alone a fully-formed masterpiece of writing. So I'm taking it upon myself to cobble together bits and pieces of writing as they come to me, compile them, and save them for future dates when they can be assembled to make my very own literary Frankenstein.

There is no real setting or plot development. This is a descriptive paragraph. We're just assuming in medias res and hoping for the best. oh, and one more thing before I begin: this is a first for me, this sharing of creative writing talents. I've never displayed my poetry or shared any short stories. Ever. My shared writing is strictly non-fiction and usually critiques, analyses or incorporates secondary research or another's writing. So from nothing, here is something. My brain baby--ugly, swollen and bleating its way into the world.

I won't say enjoy, as you aren't required to. In fact, if you don't enjoy it, please feel free to tell me. Your role is to witness. To read and give meaning to the words by interpolating them in your own mind. Thanks in advance.

Ew.

With one quick glance it is apparent that his douche nozzle is turned on full blast. The hose sprays a fine mist of arrogant machismo that is carried, weightless, and deposited in small droplets on unsuspecting bystanders. Covered in a film of creepy discomfort, they shiver--trying to shake off the offending particles. Cloying, sticky particles. Spicy, but not alluring or exotic. Spice that stings the nostrils and forces tongues to the roofs of mouths in an effort to plug the stench from entering their throats. Not dirty--in fact, quite the opposite. Clean, but not soapy clean. Clean and overly perfumed, as if the various concoctions on a drugstore shelf have found their way into a horrible, stagnant witch's brew. The lotions and creams have left his skin gleaming with an oily slick. Their foul odor leads passers-by to offer a wide berth, their actions completely missed by the narcissist at its centre. Missing among his myriad potions, apparently, is an astringent, for underneath his skin's superficial glow are thousands of misshapen craters, dutifully spackled in an attempt to camouflage the unhealthy texture of his cheekbones. The monochromatic finish his facepaint supplies creeps from his throat up to his receding hairline. Even the faint shadow of artful stubble on his chin betrays blunt, foundation-smeared follicles. The other hairs on his head stand at attention, resistant to gale-force winds thanks to the liberal application of a product best described as the green mucus coughed up by a particularly phlegmy consumptive. His grin is a self-satisfied sneer, as if, aware of his grotesquerie, he is daring those around him to say something about his offensiveness.

As he stands regarding the world with dumb cruelty, he sees me standing awkwardly several paces away. Shit. There's no getting out of this now. This is the last, I repeat last, time I allow myself to be fixed up by an Internet dating service. At the very least, I'm getting my money back. And if this dickbag even thinks about invading my personal space, he's getting a faceful of half-inch gel nails. I quickly curse myself for spending twenty bucks on getting my nails done for this asshole.

He approaches. A wave of nausea flips my guts, and I bite my lip to contain it.

"Hey. Drink?"

"Please."

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Bebe Squirrel Monkey

Baby squirrel monkey at the Edmonton Zoo!


So, our zoo's pretty sad and lame. There's been a lot more press recently about the state of Lucy, our much-troubled and ballyhooed elephant, than on anything good happening there. It's not a great zoo, but there are some decent exhibits available. The monkeys are particularly nice. And the squirrel monkeys are the cutest. See?

Click here to read the story at the Edmonton Journal.

It's the simple things that make life worth living

It's been a hard week, and it's only going to get harder, with our big work convention coming up on the 15th and looming overtime for the weekend. With that, it's important to make time for little things that make me smile.

Thank god(s) for College Humour. And yes, just for the record, I will be going home and attempting this on my cat. Once I go to the dollar store and purchase some balloons, of course.

Blogging 101

I'm nearing the end of my PR diploma program, and one of the last classes I need to graduate is advanced digital publishing, which includes such fun fare as PhotoShop and InDesign. My instructor is a particularly virulent form of grumpy old man mixed with a dash of hard ass, which means that despite most students in my evening class having full-time jobs on top of classes, we're expected to publish (write, edit and design) a full magazine and create our own blog. 

To that end, we've had to read an insightful book about blog publishing for businesses, which, while similar to what I do here, obviously has different goals, like building a brand and marketing products. Though I've ben doing this for a few years now there are still things the book taught me, and other things I knew already but have shrugged off. 

Among the top items is that good blogs, once begun, must be updated regularly. The minimum is 2-3 times a week, but optimum blogging (if you want to actually make a name for yourself as a blogger) is to write something interesting, pertinent and link-worthy 2-3 times a DAY. I'm all for building my little blog past the "peek into the diary of Ms. Fitz this week and see what neurosis she's adopted today", but, honestly, I just can't muster the effort. 

To get the creative juices aflowin', writers are instructed, the best things to do are 1) read and 2) write. Just do it. Like Nike, only way less athletically able or inclined. But damn, does my brain feel exhausted after a day of writing at work, only to come home and dedicate 1-2 hours (the suggested time allotted to a daily blog update) to writing blather. Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit for what I write, but I figure that the miscellaneous collection of thoughts gives me one of two options to really be a success: narrow my scope to focus on one particular field of interest or become a much better, more engaging writer than I am today. Self-indulgence is part of the genesis of blogs online, but to succeed, a blogger needs an audience. And while I like to share things that I hope people will smirk at or at least get 30 seconds of enjoyment out of, if it doesn't interest me, I'm probably not going to be motivated enough to talk about it. I wish I had a passion. Perhaps if I were passionate about anything (other than the sound of my own voice or the clickity-clacking of my fingers putting out my own words) the writing would be easier.

Or I could continue writing what I know. Unfortunately for you, dear follower, that means expounding the virtues of cereal for dinner or 46 ways to entertain your cat instead of watching TV (as you're too cheap for cable). Maybe an expose on the contents of my fridge? Though if I haven't mustered the energy to toss the fuzzy green colony that was once a block of cheddar, I probably won't muster the energy to become the next HuffPo. (One side benefit, were I to become the next HuffPo, is that I would promise to never, ever, give Jenny McCarthy her own column.)

But hey! The Oscars are on! 

Cheers.

Frenetic

(adj. wildly active, hectic)

Apt description of my daily routine's current pace. I'm aware that my more recent posts have been few and far between and filled with half-hearted jabs at coherence and apologies. Right now, I'm too tired for either of those, so I'll simply chalk it up to being busy and exhausted and leave it be.

The February long weekend passed nearly two weeks ago, and it was a glorious mini-break for my mind and body. Watched the Olympics with friends, had a Valentine's staycation with LS and spent ungodly amounts of time relaxing in a jacuzzi without a care in the world. I emerged the happiest prune in the galaxy.

Back in the real world a fortnight has passed and I've been ill (bodied and tempered), busy with homework and the frantic preparations that preceed my work's spring convention. Have spent little time with friends or family, and have become increasingly grumpy over the lack of quality time available with my sweetie.

When we're not working or in school, one or the other of us is busy with a project or getting shit sorted. I miss him, even though I've seen him twice this week, most recently when I dropped him off at home this morning after a run to Tim's. You gotta make the most of the time you have, I get it, but getting together after a 14-hour day, sitting on the couch and promptly falling asleep after a half-uttered, "how was your...zzzz..zz...." is not ideal.

I suppose I can appreciate the irony of griping over my single status for so long, only to get into a relationship and spend most of the time doing the same shit I was doing when I was single. There's no requirement for clinginess, as we are both--with nary a trace of doubt--highly independent people with a strong need for personal time and space. That said, it's difficult to finally find that level of intimacy and comfort with someone and not be able to live it for more than a five-minute goodnight phone call every evening.

I know, whine, whine. Find something good and inevitably you'll find a flaw. Well, I will. Because I'm built to see the cynical side of things. As negatives go, however, dealing with the dissatisfaction of not having enough time together is far easier than, say, dealing with someone who has the time but doesn't want to spend it with you, or that you aren't happy with when you spend time together. That cliche about love as a drug is true. And like any fix, I want it in an immediate, urgent way that leaves me feeling down if I don't get it. it's the simple things: an embrace, a smile, that firm shoulder squeeze as you lean together on a walk. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But if you finally see the object of your fondness after a long week of crap, and anticipate that moment, you aggrandize it until the moment seems insufficient to quench the thirst for time and attention you've been building up.

I think I need to reprioritize. Sit down and make some actual time, a carved-out niche, where I can devote my whole time allotted to the moment and the person, instead of spending the short hour together between work and my night class worrying about that assignment. Why be there if you're thinking of the millions of other things? Being with LS is one of the few things that makes my heart rate slow and calms my nerves when I feel like I'm going to twitch myself to pieces. Why ruin that with worry? Oh, if only I could turn that part of my brain off.

Falling for someone the first time was so much easier. We were 22. We were in university. I only worked part time and we practically lived together in his basement. I know. I'm selfish and wistful and have to be a grown up and recognize that with grown up responsibilities comes less time to indulge in camping out for days, when reading a book and drinking a cup of coffee while lazing in bed was what life was made for. Two weeks since our staycation, and already I need another. No, wait, I need an actual, full-blown vacation.

In other relationship news, I hit another milestone: I met the parents. First time since I was 19 that I've met a boy's parents. (MJ didn't have any, which is another interesting relationship conversation altogether). They were nice, lovely. I wanted them to like me. I believe they did. I wanted them to confirm that I was a positive person to have in their son's life. I believe they did that, too. And they paid for dinner, to boot.

I'm tired and I need some tea. Work to do. Pay to earn. You know, the usual.

The hamster fell off the wheel.

You ever have those days?

You know, the ones where the incessant whirring in your head abruptly stops and you're left with nought but an empty staccato echoing through your brain cavity?

I'm having one of those.

It's not that I'm unable to think, it's just that, well, the volume of good ideas or "aha!" moments has shrunk to undiscernable levels. Being a person who is generally unable to sleep properly because the thoughts in her head tend to buzz too loudly, it's off-putting to feel like a wrung-out sponge. Am I not supposed to be endlessly clever and charming and creative? If I am boring myself, what must I be doing to those around me? Sure, overthinking sucks sometimes, but underthinking makes me feel like I can't hold up my end of a conversation or that my inane neuroses will escape in garbled bursts of nonsense between moments of robotic inflection and mute head nodding.

So I have no biting sarcasm or torrential downpour of opinions upon any particular subject at the moment. All my subjects are moldering inside my mind along with the dimestore rodent who kicked it. I need a brain re-energize. An outlet for something creative or daring or brilliant, that will make me feel both a sense of accomplishment and pride in having put my internal think tank to some purpose other than keeping my forehead protrusive.

Bad Blogger.

Sorry folk(s)--[not sure if the one/handful of you who read this actually care or not, but I'll address you in the spirit of a shepherd who has neglected her flock. Or at least a border collie whose dereliction of duties has left no one to nip annoyingly at your heels as you bleat and attempt to nibble on your grass...ok...the metaphor has been stretched past silly into ludicrous. Let's move along.]--life has gotten in the way of regular blogging activities. Since last we met up with our dynamic duo beloved blogger, she's returned to school two days a week, has been working on a magazine and convention for her employer and has spent a full weekend indulging in the kind of schmoopy couplehood that would make you yak if you weren't one of the persons involved.

This consisted mostly of accompanying the LS to various activities in a show of goodwill and girlfriendy support. Admittedly, I enjoy being in the cheering section for this particular team. It brings out the good feelings that typically present themselves only in saccharine Lifetime films or an over-indulgence of hallucinogens.

I digress.

LS and I share many qualities (nerdiness, short attention spans, facial hair (jk)...) among them a very open, liberal political mindset. A number of his friends are involved in left-wing/anarchist/hippy pursuits, particularly at the organizational level. So we attended his friend's anti-tar sands speakers panel (which was quite interesting, filled with enlightened, well-spoken individuals) and an anti-Olympics preparation meeting prior to the torch relay through Edmonton (For the duration of which I held my tongue.) Not that I don't believe that First Nations or homeless advocates have a good case against the Olympics--they do. It's just that, well, the tactic of beating someone over the head with your self-righteousness when all they want to do is feel a sense of community and celebration is kind of like taking a dump on their coffee table during a party to protest their choosing the two-ply toilet paper over a more environmentally-friendly bidet. It just gets everyone down and doesn't really get the message across in the best possible way. You know?

On a better track, I got my first-ever chance to play groupie to a real-live rock band when LS and his merry band of punks played their inaugural gig at Brixx downtown. There was a fair-sized bar crowd and they brought the right combination of attitude and silliness to ensure that everyone had fun and didn't get caught up in their own self-importance.

In health update news, I've made a concerted effort to eat healthy this week, going so far as to purchase veggies and salad for work to snack on, instead of my normal Starbucks run. Still don't have a kitchen to cook in (my renovations are taking longer than expected. Bother.) but the progress is being made and soon I'll be able to create magnificent, healthy meals in my newfangled cooking space. Celebratory dinner party TBA.

It's 8:30am. My coffee's run out and the emails are stacking up in my work inbox. Until we meet again.

Ms. Fitz's Monkey of the Week: Chunky Monkey

Mmmm...ice cream. I love ice cream. And chocolate. Cakes. Warm bread. Food in general, really. I'll admit at the outset that this post is more chunky than monkey, chunk being a personal bane for the past several years.

Our lives are defined by the relationships we foster within them. Just because food doesn't love us back doesn't mean we don't have a relationship with it. It's how we nourish ourselves, excite our tastebuds, indulge in a treat or seek refuge in the memories it evokes.

I've never had a bad relationship with food. Ok, so I have a sweet tooth. A MEGA sweet tooth. As a youth, as long as tooth decay wasn't an issue, I felt free to indulge. As I get older and more sedentary (the proof is in the ass-groove I create daily at my desk) however, I have been forced to reevaluate my relationship and decide whether it's really mutually-beneficial or if someone's getting the caloric shaft.

Several months ago, I was working really diligently to get myself back into shape, participating in 8 weeks of bootcamp. Very proud. Didn't quite match it with the diet, particularly when Christmas came around and the urge to indulge grew too great. Several weeks later, I'm worried about reverting to my pre-fit state, and am trying to grow conscientous of my food intake, not only for my health, but for my pants size. It's a battle I've spent most of my time ignoring, until of course I realized that I was unhappy with how I looked and wanted to improve by losing the belly that had developed over years of over-imbibing and still eating like a university student.

My sort-of resolution this New Year's (not a true one, just more of a timely "now's as good a time as any" decision) is to wean my body off the daily doses of christmas cookies, chocolates and rum-infused eggnog and reintroduce myself to carrots and broccoli. My biggest issue is trying to make that seem appealing and interesting, because I am at pains to feel that way naturally. Keeping up my fitness is also important, as it will compliment the diet and help me not feel bad about all that effort wasted.

By the end of my bootcamp, I could do 30 burpees in a row. I started off with barely 10. I don't want to go back to that place where I'd rather die than do a pushup. But encouraging myself to make it a full lifestyle change, as opposed to a weeklong fast or 6-week workout session, will be the true challenge.

Sigh. Hand me the rice cakes.

A huge, steaming pile of doofus

So PC MLA Rob Anderson was one of two government MLAs who crossed the floor yesterday to the upstart Wildrose Alliance party. Since then, the rookie MLA has been shooting his mouth off left and right (mostly right) about his issues with Ed Stelmach's government. While this action in and of itself is telling of his inexperience, it's his bright-eyed naivety that really hits it home for me. When interviewed about what disillusioned him about the whole thing, the Calgary Herald reports:

"It's a total lack of commitment to democratic values," he insists, adding that as a rookie politician he's been disillusioned by life inside the government.

"It's totally shocking as a new MLA. A lot of these people I really looked up to. I'd see them at the annual party meetings and admire them. Then they'd stand up and say these things in caucus. You kind of want to throw up afterward."

Yeesh. I want to throw up, too. More at your statement than at the realization that Alberta is run by a surfeit of assholes. I mean, if I wanted to throw up every time I was disappointed in the lack of democratic processes and citizen-oriented policymaking in this province, I'd be walking around with a bucket and a crash helmet.

Seriously, dude? What sort of politician ARE you? You admired all the warm fuzzies they gave you while they kissed your baby and pinched your cheeks at the rah-rah lovefests? But then the wolves doffed the sheep's clothing and you could see them for what they really were? Well golly-gee-willikers, sir! What a revelation. These comments leave one wondering not so much how deep absolute power has corrupted the government, but more how you manage not to get mugged every time you leave the house. Having faith in people is a wonderful thing. And even some politicians are deserving of it. But seriously, dude? SERIOUSLY? Get your head out of the sand. I am gobsmacked at the idea of an Alberta PC MLA fleeing because the idealist shangri-la wasn't in caucus as promised. What ideals? Where have you been? What rock are you under, and is there room for me in there so I don't have to smack myself in the head everytime I read this tripe?

Ick.

What I want to be when I die

I am finishing up this great book I picked up over the Christmas holidays: "Stiff: the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers" by Mary Roach.

While I admit to a penchant for the macabre and eccentric, this was a strangely charming, and oft-hilarious, read. Ms. Roach goes through the history of death and dying and what purposes dead bodies serve after going on to their great repose. Besides the usual anatomy labs and organ donations, corpses also serve as crash-test dummies, gruesome scientific experiments, fuel and--in some cultures still--medicine (salves, edible bits of skin, etc.) The book also details the processes behind death and the ways in which humans try to prolong their bodies' existence with chemicals or mummification.

Most interesting for me are the eco-friendly ways to die that are being offered in many parts of Europe and gaining in popularity worldwide. There's composting, or dissolving bodies in lye, after which the remant goo will swirl down the drain--a sterile, pH-neutral people-syrup.

I've never been one to romanticize my death or what will become of me afterwards. I don't believe I'd feel particularly violated or disrespected to serve a useful purpose as an organ donor or research tool. Besides, even if I became a bit of mellified man, it's not like I'd get too upset: I wouldn't be there to feel pain or indignity, now would I?

Death can be scary: the unknown always is. But without a cultural or religious background to dictate what I'll do with my own, I'd be quite happy to shuffle off this mortal coil allowing others to make the most use out of me before chopping me up and using my bits to grow flowers. I don't need a sealed casket, headstone or urn sitting on someone's fireplace. I find that kind of creepy. My time here is brief, and so I must make the most of it before I return to what I once was: just some random motes assembled into a person.

Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2009:

The year started off with a job hunt that brought back nothing for the first few weeks. Several interviews and no jobs later, I was getting frustrated. Bettsy called me with an opportunity to interview with her workplace--a not-for-profit rural organization out in Nisku--around the same time that I got a callback from the Art Gallery of Alberta. Both interviews went well and were for very similar positions in communications. Both were a step in the right direction for my career, and an opportunity to take the reins in creating and promoting the communications department for either organization. While the AGA appealed to my pretentious creative side and was closer to home, it just couldn't offer the growth and salary potential of the other position, which I took and began in mid-March.

Around that time, I also started reconnecting with online personals, after a year-and-a-bit hiatus from men. A couple of dates here, a few there, then met BV, whom I dated for the next six months. He was unlike anyone I'd ever dated before, and was a personal challenge to myself, to test my judgements, needs and relationship quibbles. He had a...how do I put this...alternative lifestyle, to say the least. Though I did enjoy the tattoos, the rest was hard to reconcile. Fortunately, I only semi-invested in him, and so waited it out until it became less than enjoyable for me.

In the meantime, I immersed myself in my new role, creating newsletters, working on websites, creating communications plans and even publishing several magazines (!) Within three months, I'd become a permanent employee AND received a hefty bump in pay. I treated myself to a new car (a wee Yaris--more economical and fuel-efficient for getting to and from work daily) and a trip to NYC, where I spent 10 days getting cultured, drunk and clothed in finery.

My job agreed to help me pay for school, which helped immensely as I entered my second-to-last semester of the PR program.

I began blogging again, after a long absence, finally recovering a small bit of my voice.

In October, I went on a fantastic date with a new and intriguing young man with interesting facial hair: LS. Two months later, I am smitten in a way I have not been in years, with a person who meshes with me far better than my previous, long-term relationship even did. I am thrilled to spend tonight, New Year's eve at the close of the decade, with someone who holds such promise for me. I am in a good place in many respects, and all through my own ingenuity and of my own volition. While I still need to ensure that I don't start holding myself back with my own neuroses and insecurities, the rest of life doesn't seem to be stopping me. I am grateful and glad. LS: I can't wait to ring in the New Year with a kiss from you tonight.

To all the rest: much love and smooches under your special fireworks tonight.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2008:

Work closed as soon as an election was called in the early new year. Dusted off the old C.V. and papered the town with it. After many frustrating weeks of prospects going nowhere or calls going unreturned, I finally got an interview with a west-end car company that was looking for a copywriter for its marketing department. Though I had limited marketing experience (ok, none) I had good writing experience, which managed to secure the job for me. While it wasn't my ideal, it was a new opportunity to expand my skills and, more importantly, a chance to get the hell away from the Legislature job that had turned south.

Got a pay raise and an opportunity to get out of dodge, but otherwise, the job became fairly monotonous fairly quickly, and wasn't the challenge I'd hoped for. Still, it gave me an opportunity to improve my marketing skills and teach myself (with the help from our graphic designer) how to do internet and basic design, both skills I've developed further and used with greater success in current endeavours.

Around May, I started getting the idea in my head that I'd really like to get my own place, now that I was working full-time and was a relatively successful, upwardly-mobile type. Plus, with rental rates skyrocketing, I figured if I could somehow find a mortgage that would allow me to pay similar monthly amounts to what I was paying to my landlord, then I could both have property to call my own and still be able to afford the rest of my life. What started as an investigative session quickly evolved into a mission to find the perfect place. Amazingly, I managed to find a bank that would give me a mortgage, and started looking to make an offer. It was a modest amount, and I only had limited funds for a deposit, but I manged to find a recently renovated, large and most-importantly inexpensive one-bedroom in a terrific neighbourhood. I remember shaking as I signed the papers with the lawyer (I had a lawyer?...wow...) at taking such a big step in my life. I don't think I'd ever felt so grown up, or so much like a lost child conning her way into making the adults think she was more precocious and clever than she really was. Either way, it was mine. I moved in at the beginning of August, painted the walls bright colours and proudly surveyed my own, 750 sq. ft. realm.

I didn't do any travelling in 2008, as it was THE YEAR OF THE WEDDING in Ms. Fitz's world. Brother got hitched on May 2nd, in a modest, beautiful, super-fun wedding. Jenna and Sean were a month later, on June 14, and Lindsay and Rick had their lucky half-Chinese 8-8-8 wedding in August. As maid of honour, I expected a lot more responsibility than I was ultimately given. Having a mom and a wedding planner helped Lindsay take the pressure off and ensured that our biggest responsibilities were getting ready and having fun.

The rest of the summer involved fun marketing gigs with work, such as hanging out with local celebrity types (i.e. Oilers) at golf tournaments and at a super-sweet suite at the Indy. The job had pretty much run its course by the end of the year, however, and I started to look for opportunities to expand my horizons.

In October, I finally added a much-wanted member to my family by adopting (and later renaming) a stray named Marshmallow from the Humane Society. She became my Olivia (Ollie) Oliver Oxenfree, and has spent the past year both annoying and charming me--often simultaneously.

Rocked out on New Year's with a GOB concert and a close group of buds. Dancing, sweating and drinking in a mosh pit was a great send off to a solid year.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2007:

With the encouragement of dear Bettsy, I decided to hop back onto the relationship pony and signed up for several online dating sites. While a little self-loathing and embarrassment was inevitable, the chance to "get back out there" in the cliched sense was good. Had some good, bad and plain old awful dates, none of which went anywhere until about May/June, when I had a 2-week relationship that ended in kaleidoscopic flames. *shudder*

In the summer I went back to Quebec to visit my family for the first time since 2003. It was different being all growed up, without a grandmother (who'd passed months earlier) or grandfather to welcome me to the cottage. The place had changed: old trees that had previously towered over the cottage had fallen down in a storm or been torn down out of fear of them crushing the tiny house below. The tree fort my cousins and I had played in as children was taken down, having fallen into disuse and rotted. I guess I really couldn't go home again. It wasn't all bad, however. I still managed to appreciate the beauty of the place and the memories it evoked around every corner, on every smooth stone and bright wildflower.

Returned to work and started my new job within the caucus: my second promotion within a year, this time to an event coordinator under a new boss. New boss was grossly unlike the old boss. By the end of the fall session, several staff members had quit, the place was in shambles and the remaining staff held together by sheer force of will and a shared sense of disillusionment. By November, I was looking for new work. It would take several months before I'd find it, however.

During this dim period, a bright light was my return to school, in the form of an after-degree diploma program in Public Relations at MacEwan college (now university). My previous education, current work and classes all benefitted each other, helping me firm up my career path.

New Year's with my friends was laid-back: time with Bettsy and her then-new beau, Brett, their friends and Mr. and Mrs. P. Fireworks, drinks and board games. Definitely a more adult approach to the celebrations.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2006:

I was brought pretty low by my relationship issues, which were made worse by my lack of career direction or even a steady source of income. Was living back at home with mum, curled up in the foetal position for much of the first few months.

In March, my temp agency got me an interview with the Liberal caucus at the Legislature, working as an admin assistant. Though I was way over-qualified, I had no job experience to speak of, and it sounded like a good place to move up, should I be given the opportunity to get hired on permanently. Interviewed with my soon-to-be favourite boss ever, darling Leigh, who would not only inspire and encourage me at work, but restore my confidence and become a dear friend. (she called me "smuggles" since I am, well, quite proud of my wit betimes. OK, at all times.)

The weekend before I was to start my new job, MJ and I had a talk about the "break" we were on and decided that a break-up was a better choice. That evening, I went out for drinks to welcome Ms. Coco D. back from two years teaching in Japan. Travel, relationships and work all converged on the 6th of March that year. It was a turning point for the good, however.

I loved my new job. While it was easy and used few of my more marketable skills, I was earning a regular paycheque, surrounded by young, well-educated, involved people helping the opposition politicians when they were in session at the Legislature. It was great to work with a close-knit group, going out for beers every Thursday at the now-razed Globe pub.

I saved my pennies and packed my bags in anticipation of getting my own place, which I did on Canada Day. Great first apartment: a large, clean, inexpensive one-bedroom basement suite on 99th street and 90th Ave. I was within walking distance of Whyte Avenue, hip little cafes and the beautiful river valley--through which I could walk to work in the morning.

Enjoyed a rather debauched summer and relearned how to flirt with boys as my heart mended itself. In the fall, determined to travel again, this time on a three-week jaunt to London, Paris and Munich (for Oktoberfest...or so we thought) with my brother and his then-girlfriend.

Had a terrific time in Europe, making some fantastic new friends (love you, Mr. PM) and indulging in the sort of international romping I was unable to do as a taken woman in Ireland.

When I returned to Canada, I received a promotion at work: a new position was created just for me as a correspondence writer for caucus.

I celebrated my first Christmas in my own home, with my own little tree, and rang in the new year with friends.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2005:

Started the year off by getting my work visa and plane ticket together, picking a date to leave for Ireland (March 15, how historically significant.) I was very excited. Well...mostly excited. Also stressed at leaving my boyfriend at home for six months, which led to fights, tears and a heart-stopping breakup. No, really. I think my heart literally stopped for the first time. Like Ralph Wiggum in slo-mo. Awful. Painful. And definitely not the ideal way to embark on the travel experience of a lifetime.

The last month I was a ball of nerves, not wanting to leave MJ behind, not wanting to breakup, but most of all not wanting to give up my lifelong dream of independent travel for anything or anyone. So I left home, hugged MJ and my mom in the airport, hopped on the plane and had a total emotional breakdown. Once I got over my jet-laggedness and initial overload, I set out to prove to myself that I could make it on my own from scratch and find enjoyment, travel and experience to boot.

I moved in with two girls, an American and a fellow Canuck, and got a job at a hotel. On days off, I'd make day trips, or try to get a few days off in a row so I could see the coast or various touristy destinations across Ireland. I travelled to Belgium, Scotland and England. Journaled daily about my experiences. Noticed that the misery and loneliness of my bouts of homesickness and MJ sickness actually benefitted me more than the good times. In growth as a person, at least.

I returned home at the end of August, a few weeks shy of my 6-month term. Changed my ticket and surprised my friends by arriving home early. Nearly gave my mom a heart attack when I showed up at her work. Made my sister a puddle of tears in Tim Horton's. Ok, so that one was meaner than I'd intended.

Getting used to being home again was dizzying, particularly as I was without job, career prospects or a sure footing as to which particular direction my life was going. I worked as a temp and made awkward attempts to mend my relationship with MJ, which crumbled away just in time for our second anniversary. Decided to take a break while he sorted out his shit, and spent the last weeks of 2005 alone.

I remember going to Lindsay's for New Year's and being so devastated that I couldn't feign happiness or joy at the thought of a party. Instead, my darling Kelly brought me over to her place for movies, snuggles and talk. Finishing up the year with a shoulder to cry on. Sad as I was, it was good to know I had one.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2004:

First few months were honeymoon period with MJ, acting nauseatingly cute and in love as only 21-/22-year-0lds can. Until, of course, I started feeling unwell in March and started stressing about my last term of school.

Last few classes of university were all English. I was reading up to 1,000 pages a week, on average, and getting great marks to go along with my hard work. I stopped writing for the Gateway, which was a difficult decision, but again, I put school as the priority. Particularly during the last semester, when I would write my honours thesis--a crucial part of my program.

I am never one to balk at a challenge. In fact, I tend to seek the challenge then, upon not finding it challenging enough, I add another level of difficulty to make it extra stress-inducing. I think it's the adrenaline rush. Or the misery. Perhaps they fuel my creativity in combination. Who knows? Anyway: my thesis was on literary theory. Particularly, the theory behind a two-page story by Franz Kafka, a strange, difficult writer par excellence. By why not go big in your final semester? Well, no big deal, I guess. Unless, of course, you come down with Mono.

Yep. Mononucleosis. My last month of school, with final papers, final exams and a thesis due, I came down with a debilitating illness that left me out of school for the remainder of the term, asleep 22 hours a day, and with rising piles of homework and stress to complete during my two lucid hours each day. Somehow, I slogged through. Ended up finishing my thesis in May and graduating in November. No big deal, in retrospect, but it crushed me at the time. All my big plans to make my BA my bitch, out the window. Did get an A on the thesis, though...

The next 6 months were a huge transition period. Mono has a long recovery time, and the stress I put myself under created terrible tummy pains that made me vomit regularly and drink pepto bismol by the gallon. I figured I'd created an ulcer, but after months of testing, finally determined it was acid reflux. Doesn't sound as bad, though it felt just as painful as an ulcer. Add to this my post-graduate feelings of both completion and anticipation made me anxious to know: "What's next?!"

I worked several jobs, each as forgettable and awful as the last. Decided to save my money and take time off to travel, as I had always hoped to do upon graduation. So every penny earned went towards getting a work visa, a plane ticket and some money to Europe. Decided to move to Ireland, and got excited for my trip.

MJ and I did our own things on New Year's after a Christmas together exchanging awesome gifts and celebrating our first anniversary together. Partied at Lindsay's parents' place like a foolio and rang in the good ol' aught-five.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2003:

Great year for exploration, travel, fun, friends and amour. Decided on my path in school after realizing that every second class I took was an English class. So I entered honours English and spent hours with my essays, novels and literary theory texts. Loved it. Kept writing for the Gateway, including features and reviews, but mostly stuck to my favourite: opinion pieces.

In the winter, Bettsy and I decided to get a leg up on the competition for summer jobs by applying really, really early for good positions. As we looked through books of summer internships and tree planting opportunities, I came across a three-month student work exchange program to Quebec, where I could work for the government, practice my French and have a grand old time. So, of course, I applied. Didn't think I would get an interview. Well, not only did I get an interview: I was chosen for the exchange.

Moved to Montreal in May and stayed with ma belle cousine, Emma, until August. Best summer of my life, and more fun crammed into three short months than I had in the previous three years combined. I came home with no money, tons of clothes and 10 lbs. of weight put on by excessive drinking and eating out in expensive restaurants. But damn: that was good. Had a tight-knit group of friends that to this day I keep in touch with. Buds for life, one of whom I caught up with this summer, and another I drove down to Calgary to visit just this Christmas.

Came home in time to help my friend Scotty celebrate his marriage to (my future hetero-soulmate) Alex. First marriage amongst my friends. They did it in style, whisking away to Hawaii and throwing an after-party for the well-wishers. Which is where I met MJ, my first great love and longest relationship to-date. Totally not the type I thought I'd go for: big jock with a shaved head. However, the travel tales and lost puppyness won me over in the end. By December it was official, and it was the young love you always know young love to be. Of course, older, wiser and more embittered know better, but 21, footloose and fancy-free: that's a special moment in time. Can't take it back, nor would I want to, as I learned so much, not just about love, but about myself in relationships, my quibbles, hangups, dealbreakers and absolute necessities.

Spent New Year's in style with my Montreal crew, partying it up in Banff and calling MJ at midnight to wish him a happy New Year. Never did spend a New Year's together, despite dating for two years. Nothing telling. Just...is.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2002:

The year began with a funeral. The first funeral for many of my friends. The only funeral I've ever had for a friend. The most difficult funeral to attend. I would dream a lot of Steph P. in the following weeks and months. Hell, to this day, I still dream of her. In my dreams, she forgave me my sins against her and I was able to stop blaming myself somehow for her death. Some days it worked. Some days? Not so much.

After a year from hell, I started seeing a therapist at the university, who helped me try to sort out the psychological beating I'd taken. Talking helped. Meds helped. Being in school, finding a routine and partying as hard as I could also helped.

Started hanging out with a group of fratboys my then-friend Zach belonged to. Started dating one--a freshman named James. It's funny now to look back at your relationship choices and ask yourself what you were thinking. I'll delve no further into that. Suffice that it was a brief, rather...ridiculous situation.

Luckily, 2002 was a crazy year for getting involved and getting over myself and the problems in my head. I wrote constantly for the Gateway and hung out with the crowd there. They were a complete opposite group from the fratboys, and I loved the dichotomy between the social circles I ran in.

I didn't do as well in school this year, but I was having too much fun to care. Two friends, Bettsy and Jane, came back from trips abroad in 2001-02, and I was stoked to have my friends back with me and having fun. Jane and I stopped being friends in that same year, but it was good to have her back for that while it lasted.

In the summer, I quit my longest-term job ever at the library (3 years, baby!) and started my favourite-ever job working at Jax Bean Stop, a coffee shop in Sherwood Park. It paid shit and was exhausting, but I loved every minute of it. My Kelly and her boyfriend, Gord, would come visit and pick me up after work, after which we'd go hang out, do summer stuff, the usual.

In the fall I traveled to Vancouver with the Gateway and had an opportunity to apply for a position that opened up. I made the choice to focus on school rather than apply to work for the student paper. This would become a turning point for me, making a deliberate choice to pursue my academic writing over journalism. Even now, I vacillate and wonder if perhaps I should have pursued newspaper writing further. And maybe I will. But my life wouldn't be what it is had I made that choice. And I like the way things went for me. Without those choices, I would never have had the 2003 I had--perhaps my favourite year of the decade.

'Why I Aught-a': a decade in review

2001:

Met my first serious boyfriend. Clarkie. Well, Mike, actually. He was two years older and lived in residence with Heather. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Geology student. After nine months together, discovered I liked his family way more than him. First serious breakup ensued.

2001 was a rough year, full of personal turmoil and tragedy. What started wonderfully ended fitfully, particularly when my best friend--Steph P.--and Mike determined they didn't care for each other and I became a battlefield for their petty competitions and jealousies. Didn't want to lose my best friend or my boyfriend, so I didn't choose. Steph and I stopped speaking in the summertime, which I can now admit was a more heartrending breakup than the one that came later with Mike. It was silly and juvenile and was something we would have gotten over. Had we had time. Sadly, that was all the time we'd have.

2001 for me was the onset of the Great Depression. Not a sparse desertification of my self, but rather a descent into the depths of misery. It was a combination of many compounding factors that have left a legacy I still feel to this day. I had several near-rock bottoms, but not until September did I truly hit it.

In June I awoke one day to excruciating pain in my back and abdomen. After several days of hospital visits and agony, I was diagnosed with gallstones and had my second organ (after my appendix) removed. The recovery time was long and painful, and I spent the summer indoors, watching movies and wishing I could be out with my friends. My boyfriend came to visit, but there was resentment after losing my friend and sadness at missing the socializing I was used to.

It came to a head just before school started again. I woke up one day and couldn't get out of bed. My stomach was in knots and I wanted to sink into a hole and never get out. Mike and I broke up. Both my grandfathers died within several months. Then Steph went into the hospital in November. I visited her once, where we had an awkward conversation, skirting around the obviously stupid feud and trying to open the doors of communication, if briefly.

She died at the end of December.

Guilt, depression and stress made for dark times, but there were moments of levity and promise. I started writing for the Gateway, the campus newspaper, with encouragement from my dear friend Leah. This opened up an outlet for expression and an opportunity to meet new people and gain new experiences I never otherwise would have had.

New Year's Eve ended with a big shebang at Bettsy's. Mandy and I shared a bottle of Absinthe and we toasted to Steph's memory. It was a hell of a party. A hell of a year.