Dear First Draft

Lately, I've been avoiding you. I know that's hard to hear, and is only confirming what you already know. And I want to apologize for my immature behaviour, but it doesn't change the fact that I've been sneaking around the house, refusing to make eye-contact with you. Acting like a complete child. Ignoring your file. Refusing to acknowledge your presence. 

I do see you.  

And I think of you often. More than you'll ever know. All the time, really. You're on my mind when I wake up in the morning, on my guilty concious each night when I rest my head on the pillow, and throughout the day you pop into my head at the oddest moments. It isn't that I don't want to see or talk to you. I do. I really do. But other things get in the way. Life things. 

I suppose that just sounds like an excuse to you. You'd be right. 

The truth is, it's not just me. I could take responsibility for the deterioration of our relationship. Say it is all my fault. But you are to blame as well. All those typos. Those poorly constructed sentences. The plot holes. And let's not even talk about the pacing. You're a mess, and I'm supposed to fix you? Clean you up and make you presentable? Most days I don't even think it's possible. And it isn't that I don't have faith in you, I do, but the work involved is daunting. Not to mention tedious.  

I told you from the beginning, I'm no editor. I am a writer. A creator. I craft and think up ideas, write them down. It's your job to be perfect and clean and lovely. I can't do it all on my own. I need help. You're supposed to be my support, make all my efforts worthwhile. And here you are, showing me dangling modifiers and adverbs and comma splices. Even after I comb through one of your chapters, I find more mistakes, ones I swore I just fixed! It's like you want me to be someone I'm not! I don't even own a red pen. 

You're sitting there demanding all this attention and time and it's time and attention I'd be happier directing elsewhere. 

I didn't want you to find out like this, but I've started another novel. Don't get all upset. We both saw this coming. We've been growing apart for awhile. And I'd hang my head in shame and avert my gaze, but she's so fresh and pretty. Flawless, really. She's so full of possibilities and excitement. I get out of bed for her. It's true, I don't know where we will end up, but we are weaving a plot, developing characters and prettifying sentences by using the perfect words.

It's not that you've been replaced. No, you could never be replaced. You have a special place in my heart. And I promise to return to you. I will finish your edits. Just not right now. Not when my new manuscript's cursor is blinking, begging me to type just a couple words, a few sentences, a paragraph. 

I guess all I wanted to say was, I'm sorry. It's just editing isn't my strong suit. My brain won't shut down long enough for me to reread your sentences and clean them up, make them sing. The sad part is that I know you have such potential. But right now, I have this new idea. One I need to write down. I know you'll understand because we were here once too. You remember the beginning of our romance. How thrilling it was to sit down together and work as a team. I know you won't begrudge me this. 

I do love you. Never forget that. 

xoxox

Tyson

A Different Sort Of Girl

Yesterday someone told me I'm not girly. My first instinct was to laugh in his face. Probably not the most respectful of responses, but it's what I considered. Before I could start the manic laughter, I actually paused to think about what he said. As I mulled, I realized I was slightly put off by his flippant comment. But why?

Was it because it seemed pointless for him to point out? Or because he was a friend? Did I cherish his opinion? Did I hold stock in it? Was it the implication that I'm boyish? That I didn't have a girly side? Or was it something more?

Usually, I couldn't give a damn what people think of me, friends or foes. That's not saying I don't value what *some* people think, but please note the emphasis on 'some'. You see, in my older age I've come to terms with the fact that people have their own thoughts and opinions and that those thoughts and opinions sometimes extend to me. It's all out of my control. And I'm okay with that. The people who matter will understand me, and excuse my inappropriate behaviours.

The thing is, I do think I'm girly. I just don't flaunt it. Tomboys rarely ever do.

Wait, hold up. Am I saying I'm a tomboy?

Yes, yes I am.

As a young girl, I spent a copious amount of time with boys. (Well, that didn't come out right.) I mean, I had a lot of guy friends, and three brothers, and kind of was my dad's sidekick for my early years. Which meant, I kind of cultivated a boyish outlook on life. And I didn't have anyone to teach me how to be a girl. Both my sisters moved out when I was fairly young and my mom worked full-time and had my brothers to contend with. So, I was left to piece it together on my own.

I guess I did a pretty crappy job. Even though I wear dresses and paint my nails - sure the paint ends up everywhere and my dress gets dirty.

So, maybe a tomboy can't be girly?

Instead of crossing my arms and pouting, and looking unbelievably cute while doing so, I decided to ask some people what they considered girly - just in case I had it wrong and I'm actually a man. Well, you might be surprised at how many scrunched up noses and eye-rolls I got. Apparently, girly-girls don't go over well. Little did I know, girly is actually another word for high-maintenance. Surprise!

Here is a brief run-down of what the people I consulted considered to be 'girly-girl' traits:
giggly, waxed, tanned, bleached, dyed hair, dramatic, huffy, says 'I'm fine' when they aren't, reads Cosmopolitan, likes romance movies, unrealistic expectations, wants to be taken care of, pink is her favourite colour, takes a long time to get ready, cries easily, fashionista, divas, calorie counters, buys designer clothes, wears high heels they can't walk in, short skirts, push-up bras, make-up, made up, fake nails, yoga pant wearing, weak, hates bugs.


On second thought, I might not be girly. I rather like bugs.

Not saying I don't possess some of these characteristics. I like romance movies, even though I roll my eyes and mock them mercilessly, and I'll have you know my glasses are actually Armani! That's a designer brand! Also, I've been known to shave on occasion, not wax though, that shite hurts. Truth be told, I don't need a push-up bra, and cleavage up to my chin doesn't really sound appealing. Furthermore, I'm 5'9, high heels would be pointless as I'm already taller than most people and don't enjoy looking like an Amazon woman when I venture forth from my lair.

And, even though it's painful to even type out, I want to be taken care of. Just in a way that isn't controlling and makes me feel like I still have all my freedoms. I'm a Sagittarius, for crying out loud, we get panicked at any sign of restraints. Unless they are handcuffs, but this blog isn't about dirty things and I refuse to ramble on and deviate away from the point, which is...

I like pretty dresses. And painting my nails. I like clothes and bath products, candles and cute pictures of puppies. Shoppers Drug Mart is my favourite place to shop. I enjoy bubble baths, tea and cookies, and having my hair brushed out of my eyes by a dude. I cross my legs when I'm wearing a skirt. I have at least fifty pairs of underwear, and they're all cute. There's a lady garden between my legs and breasts upon my chest. And I like boys! Actually, I love boys!

So what if I say whatever's on my mind and have a mouth that'd make a sailor blush. It doesn't matter that I think shaving above my knee is a waste of time and who really cares if I'd rather be outside getting dirty than at the mall buying something cute and pink. Yes, I cut my own hair. No, I don't brush my hair, it's curly, there isn't a point. Yes, I pair my Converse shoes with everything, even dresses at weddings. No, I don't like sparkles, rhinestones or glittery things. Yes, I invest more time in my music collection than I do on making myself look presentable. No, I don't cry when I feel fat or if someone says something mean to me. Yes, I like ATVs and dirt-bikes and boats. No, I don't give a flying feck what's 'in vogue'. Yes, I will say anything to get a laugh. And no, I'm not overly-emotional, dramatic, or need to be doted on. But these things don't change the fact that I'm a girl, a woman, a lady. They don't make me a boy. They just make me a different sort of girl. And I suspect there's more than a few of us out there.

In the end, I might not be girly, at least not what the stereotype is, but I am feminine. There's a soft side here. A gentle side. A side that wants to feel protected, look pretty, smell sweet, get swept up in a whirlwind romance, and be seen as tender and nurturing. But I guess I do a fantastic job of hiding her away. And maybe that's my fault. But I'm pretty sure I can blame my childhood and parents or chalk this up to my fear of being vulnerable and exposed. (Just kidding) ((or am I?))

Either way, non-girly-girls should unite. And prove that just because we have grass stains on our knees doesn't mean we don't giggle from time-to-time.

The Pretty Percentage

In a world where we are so fixated on physical attractiveness, it interests me that two of the most pant-worthy qualities someone can possess to me are a sense of humour and compassion. Of course, physical stuff comes into play. I do like to find my crushes attractive on a more...well, primal level. But the older I get the more I realize one's sex appeal is directly proportionate to their ability to tease and be witty with me.

Someone can be a lusty lump of sinewy muscles with flawless features but remain in the 'meh' category until they show a bit of a spark. I'm not one to gawk at pretty boys. The truth, just between us, I actually hide the sexy photos of models people post on Facebook. Because that's not what I find attractive. Give me a music nerd talking about their favourite bands or a brainy lad explaining the wonders of the universe over a stereotypical hunk any day of the week. Maybe I'm just wired differently, but I want to see some personality. Quirk, if you will.

I've never taken compliments on my outside stuff well. I touched on this before, but they make me uncomfortable. Not because I don't like my face, I do. Now. But I struggled growing up with it. Mostly because I didn't understand beauty. And I thought I was ugly. Awkward. Unlovable. It took a long time to shrug out from under the whole low self-esteem phase and emerge this vivacious creature you see before you. (ahem) In truth, I much prefer compliments on inside stuff, like how long my large intestine is.

Which is why when someone told me I was 'at least 47% pretty' this weekend I didn't get my back up. Obviously, the comment was said in jest - I mean, look at me. I'm totally over fifty percent pretty. But the thing is, humans have this innate ability to get upset over things they know aren't true. I mean, I can't tell you how many 'no, I was just kidding you're not a fat, ugly beast' conversations I've had in my life. Suffice to say, there have been more than a handful. The thing is, even when people know they are easy on the eyes, they get their back up when their outward bits and bobbles are questioned.

And I get it. We're all Sensitive Sallys. Most of us were teased in school and have residual self confidence issues because of it, and almost all of us have suffered a barbed comment from someone who wasn't just (to use a phrase I hate) taking the piss. In the end, we all want to be pretty, cute, beautiful, devilishly handsome or whatever your ideal compliment may be.

Except, I just don't give a damn.

Before you get all sassy and hands on hippy with me, let me explain.

I'm never going to be someone's trophy wife. First, I'm too old for that nonsense. It's a fact that trophy wives are usually under twenty-five. Second, I don't have the time and energy to invest in being one of those girls. Or money. Do you know how expensive it is to tan, dye, bleach, wax and perfect the human body? A lot. And third, I am not the typical hotness one would expect of arm candy, and I never will be. Mostly because I can't afford Photoshop in real life, meaning plastic surgery. Not that it would be an option anyway. Flaws are beautiful, aren't they? I've always been under the impression that it is our imperfections that make us perfect. Or at least they make use who we are. Otherwise we'd all be given the same face and body at birth. How boring that would be?

So, 47% is a pretty low pretty score, but, even if he was serious, I wasn't insulted. Why should I be? We all have opinions. I can't control what someone else thinks of me. I am who I am. That said, if he had of told me I was only 47% funny I would have raged. Because I am hilarity in human form. A walking talking jokefest. I might not be wolf-whistle hot, but I'll make you laugh. If it's the last thing I do. Mark my words. Okay, this is just getting menacing. Let's get back on point...

In truth, the pretty percentage is subjective. Even if I was 47% to one bloke, I might actually be a 78% to another. This is because we all don't find the same things attractive. Crazy, right? I know, it's shocking that our likes and dislikes, even in people, differ. (sarcasm abound) What's even more fascinating is how we all notice different details in people. For example, not too long ago, a friend told me she went on a date with a fairly attractive man only to notice his hands were really small. As the date wore on, she found him less and less appealing, until she was completely turned off by him. I know, who even notices hands? Just another thing to worry about and it's why I walk around my hands hidden in my sleeves.

Not only is the pretty percentage subjective but it also fluctuates. It's a sliding scale, so to speak. When I first meet someone, I might start out at 47% but my wit and charm and general awesomeness might help to slide me up past 60%. Or down. I might also get less purdy as time passes because, let's be honest, I have a few heathenish qualities that might work against my hotness percentage.

We've all met people we've found attractive only to cringe in disgust when they open their mouths or do something appalling, like kick a kitten or put a baby in a plastic bag. Then there are those people who you might not write home about based off looks alone, but they are so animated and different that your motor gets going. There are no rules. Attractiveness is far more than the size of your waist or the symmetry to your face. It extends beyond how you look in short skirts or whether you can play spoons on your washboard abs.

Attractiveness is so many things, like style, flare and quirk. Personality. It's the passion you harbour for your art, hobbies and goals, it's your drive, determination, and empathy. I don't care if you rolled out of bed or spent an hour getting ready. I'm more concerned with the way you smirk. How easily you laugh. Your musical nerdiness. The gentleness you only let certain people see. Your weaknesses and strengths. I don't care if your skinny or plump. I care what makes you tick. What gets you out of bed. Who you want to be. Where you came from and how you got here. And your stance on cake. Of course.

You see, looks are just looks. I'm not naive enough to say they don't matter. They do.

They just aren't quintessential. They just aren't everything.

And how we see someone changes the more we get to know them.

For My Friend Mrs. Renner

This morning a friend is on my mind. It's because I'm wearing this awesome belt. It's purely for aesthetic purposes, because it doesn't matter how tight I cinch it, my pants still fall down. And then there's butt-crack. A heck of a lot of butt-crack.

But this post isn't about my arse, its cracks or cheeks. I mean, I'd seriously have to be hard up for material to blog about my rump. And who would read it? Someone seriously hard up for reading materials. 

No. This is about my friend. Who just so happens to have given me the out-of-this-world belt I'm wearing. For this wee blog, I'm going to call her Mrs. Renner. Sure, none of you will understand why that's funny, but she will. Don't you hate inside jokes that leave you out of the loop? Yeah. Me too. But in this case, I'm so far in the loop it isn't funny. And I don't care that you're outside of it.

Well, Mrs. Renner has a bit of a problem. She doesn't know how awesome she is. How sad!

As I was driving to work and my massive belt buckle was digging into my crotch because I was sitting at an odd angle, I got to thinking about her. You see, I'm ever-so thankful to have her in my life. Not only is she almost as sick and twisted as me, but she gets it. Life. And how it's not always fairy-tales and roses and sunshine and sweetness. Like me, she also attended the school of hard-knocks and came out on the other side alive and relatively well-adjusted, albeit a bit disenchanted with mankind, but laughing none-the-less. She's a fighter. Unfortunately, she's a worrier as well. And sometimes life's not so awesomeness can get her down, have her questioning who she is and what she's doing.

It makes me sad that she doesn't understand how fantastic she is. Because she truly is one of my most favourite people. She's not just a friend - she's family. In so many ways, she's like the female version of me. Oh, wait. That came out wrong. She's like a clone of me. Her wildly inappropriate sense of humour parallels mine and, shockingly enough, sometimes surpasses mine. Hard to believe, I know.

She's the type of girl who will cut off her arm for her dog, get excited about silly things like Marky Mark movies and Mexican food, and text you four times when you're on a road-trip to make sure you haven't been trafficked. Or, if you have been sold into the sex trade, that the guy got a good price for you. She's that girl. The one everyone loves because she's simply delightful to be around. The girl with amazing hair, perfect eyebrows, gorgeous eyes and the cutest bum in the world. No, seriously. It's so grabbable it isn't even funny.

And she's clueless to her perfection.

I get it. In reality, we are all a lot like my friend Mrs. Renner. Most of us don't see ourselves the way others do. We are our own worst enemies, battling our reflections and flaws and idiosyncrasies. Except it's such a colossal waste of time to fight ourselves like this, because our perceptions are skewed. This reminds me of that weird Baz Lurhmann song Everybody's Free To Wear Sunscreen. Not sure why. Probably because it says, "You're not as fat as you think you are." And I don't know a woman alive who can't relate to that.

Anyway, back to Mrs. Renner and her fantasticness...

Sometimes people do things you will never forget. When I was down and out, she put her arm around me and accepted me as her sister-wife. (Another inside joke) For that, I will always be in her debt. No matter what happens over time. No matter if our paths split apart (so not going to happen). No matter if we get into a huge fight and call each other names on Jerry Springer. I will owe her for simply being my friend. For showing me love when I didn't think anyone could ever possibly love me.

And for making me laugh. Every day. Without fail. You can't put a price on that. Never.

She is awesome, amazing, and astounding. All I want is for her to know that. To accept it. And to walk this earth knowing if I was a lesbian I'd be all up in her grill. Sadly, I don't do taco. Still, I think we'd make the perfect couple.

Oh, and because you probably don't believe me on how awesome my belt is. Here's proof:

Road Trippery And Who I Am

There's nothing better than getting out of dodge. When I leave the city, a weight is lifted off my shoulders. It's like I'm returning to where I'm supposed to be. Like I'm dipping my toes into the waters of my future. Not long ago, I wrote a post about not being the one. It was featured on my friend Jane's blog and located here. The premise is how we struggle to find ourselves, but how people often end up loving us for someone we aren't, instead of the amazing creatures we are. I won't be recapping the blog here...because you have eyes and are perfectly capable of clicking the link and travelling over to take a look yourself.

Anyway, this last weekend, I took a day trip up into the mountains. It was random because of the circumstances and involved stranger danger, an adorable dog, a few awkward moments, bouncy boobs and pie. No, not any cake. I know! I feel like a traitor, but a chubby girl's gotta do what a chubby girl's gotta do. And pie was available. This does in no way diminish my love for the cake, though.

So, as we fled the city in a low riding car that was about an inch off the ground, all the more perfect for combat rolling out if need be, I got to thinking about what I wrote for Jane. The truth is, a lot of people don't know who they are. It's a life long goal to figure ourselves out. And, just when we think we know our ins and outs and ups and downs, just when we think we understand the fabric of our being, we change. Morph. Transition. And sometimes become entirely different people.

Here's the funny thing. The last ten years have been hugely pivotal for me, but essentially I've reverted back to my nineteen year old self. It's almost like I've come full circle. Except, I'm a better kisser now. And my sense of humour is far more mature. (I almost typed that with a straight face). Oh, and I pluck my eyebrows. Don't laugh. That's huge! People underestimate the difference a little plucking can make. It can turn two dead caterpillars into beautiful arches perfect for raising when you need to challenge someone, or mock a bit.

Before I deviate too far away from the point, let me steer us back on course. Unlike a lot of other people, I know who I am. I'm the girl who'll drive to someone's house to give them a hug. I'm the girl who'll come pick you up at two in the morning if you're drunk and stranded, or simply talk to you and not be angry about the late night phone call. I'm the girl who kisses dogs mouths, who stands stock still in the forest and digs her feet into the dirt in an effort to root herself to the earth. The overly candid, no strings on me, let's just love one another girl. And yet, the misanthropic, humans suck, let's run away into the mountains and live with the birds, bees and trees girl too.

Thankfully, I know who I am. It took awhile to get here. You see, I started searching at a very young age. It doesn't mean I don't get lost and it doesn't mean I'm not growing, changing, evolving into a new version of me. But I still know who I am. My core values are the same. The things that make me tick, that wind my clock, that keep me moving along remain set in stone. My moral compass may be a bit broken, but it still manages to guide me. And every so often, I get a flicker of the girl I'm going to be, when the healing is done, when I've grown up. (No, I'm not grown up yet.)

She exists in the future, but lives inside me and from time-to-time, I get to see her. And it's oddly invigorating. Her peace and gentleness is mind boggling. Her compassion dwarfs my frustration and hurt. I see her when I take off my shoes. When I skip through a meadow. When the dew from the grass kisses my legs and mud paints my feet. She appears when someone needs help, out of nowhere, like a vengeance, wielding understanding and empathy like razor-bladed swords. And I see her when I stroke a dog's ears or listen to the birds' morning chorus. She's here, inside me, but isn't fit to handle the day-to-day nonsense like jobs and bills and people pulling her in a million directions. So, she can't come out to play all the time.

But she's there and she's doing all those sexy things, like frolicking and singing and dancing. Don't get me wrong, it's not a physically sexy thing. Not at all. My frolicking is nearly as bad as my robot, but slightly better than my Christopher Walken impression. None of which can get anyone's motor going. But being out in the wild, smelling the trees and feeling the wind tousle my hair...that's sexy. It makes me feel all one with nature and Earth, like I'm going to sprout wings and soar through the limitless blue sky.

And on Sunday, the sky was blue. Much to my delight. And it reminded me of the path I've taken to get here and the girl I am at the centre of my being. The one sitting on the front porch, sipping tea, listening to the birds banter, and watching the sun set. She's my future. And she only waits for me.

It's hard not to let the daily grind wear us down. But if we keep our grasp on what is true and honest, if we remember what motivates us, what makes us beat, breathe, move and laugh, then we will find our way. Sure, we may not be the person we want to be today, but as long as we are working towards it, then it's okay. And it will always be okay.

Until then, random road trips into the mountains with cute boys will have to tide me over.