Monthly Archives: April 2012

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I can be your hero baby

When I was in grade five, I was singled out as a “gifted” student.

Because of this, I was shipped off every Thursday to room 320, in order to spend the day away from my friends with the biggest losers I had ever met.

(Or at least the biggest losers in my highly-evolved eleven-year old opinion.)

And no doubt, all of those kids were looking at me in the exact same light.

The condescension hung heavy in that classroom, let me tell you. Like a really snotty cumulus cloud.

We were all there to participate in a program entitled “COW: Changing our World.”

This was horrible.

I was missing double gym to spend my day talking about environmental and political actions that, sure I cared about, but didn’t really care about.

Not more than kicking ass in frisbee death anyway.

One afternoon, after emptying our juice boxes and wiping the peanut butter from our mouths, Ms. Marvin asked us to sit in a circle and tell the group about our heroes.

I panicked.

What kind of question was that?

I can remember wracking my brain for strong female icons that I could proudly say were my heroes.  I admired Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedman, but they weren’t mine. But I admired them to such an extent that they were pratically mythological, made-up figures and they existed for me because of everything my mother had told me about them, and the few books I had found in my library.

The same for Roberta Bondar and Nancy Green and Nelly McClung.

My beauty mom and beauty sis. Two women I admire greatly.

Each name stuck in my throat like a ball of hair; I could feel my tongue trying to push words to the front of my mouth, but nothing would come but nerves and peanut butter breath.

I cannot remember whom the first three students named.

Perhaps this is because of the enormity of Justin’s (number four’s) pick.  He sat there in his green club-med sweatshirt, tapered jeans and classic bowl cut, so confident, so ready.

He was more than prepared to announce to the world his hero.

I remember he even inhaled before speaking.

“My hero is Jean Chretien.”

I want to embellish here and say that I came close to passing out upon hearing this, but it’s not true.  I might have been a drama queen, but I knew where to draw the line.

But still – Jean Chretien?

How could anyone in their right mind possibly say that he was their hero?  It certainly didn’t make things better when the girl next to him (I’ve since forgotten her name) declared that her hero was Kim Campbell.

The only thing running through my head was: WHO ARE THESE WEIRDOS?

KIM CAMPBELL AND JEAN CHRETIEN!?!?

From library and archives Canada

The usual suspects. HILARIOUS side note: when my mom was working in Ottawa in the early 90s, she was walking down the street one night and a woman yelled out "There's Kim Campbell!" This has kept me laughing for years.

ARE WE IN BIZARRO WORLD?

Now to be fair, in retrospect, I can (kind of) understand the reasoning behind an eleven-year-old girl’s decision to pick Kim Campbell.

Being the first female prime minister of Canada definitely propels you into a certain category of individuals (despite the fact that her party had already been decisively trounced in the elections).

But didn’t she listen to Double Exposure? They made fun of her all the damned time!

I do not recall the way the rest of the day panned out; I was too unsettled, too shaken up.

As I walked home, scuffing my tennis shoes and tripping over their laces, my mind raced with makeshift answers.  Justin was not the athletic type – his legs were even skinnier than mine (and I was of such a stick-like nature that I could see my heart beating every time I emerged scrubbed-pink from the bathtub), so it was acceptable that he wouldn‘t pick a sports figure.  He didn’t seem one to idolize film stars or literary giants.

And because of this, I began to question the defining qualities of this commonly used label.

“Hero.”

If someone could say that Canada’ twentieth prime minister was their hero, what did that mean for the term itself?  Could just about anyone be a hero?  What were the specific requirements and did they all have to be met?  How could Jean Chretien be so special to one little boy?  It was obviously not a choice born out of passion.

But then again maybe he was just a HUGE fan of the Constitution.

Looking back, the best that I can come up with was that this choice was one of utmost pragmatism.

On the first day of class Justin had said that he wanted to be a politician; somewhere along the line he must have realized that in order to accomplish this, it might be good to look up to someone who had already achieved this position.

And now of course, I know that there is nothing wrong with that.

In fact, if I could go back in time I would say party on Justin.

(Liberal) PARTY ON.

But that night I sat at the dining room table with my feet tucked neatly into the folds of my knees and slowly mashed my tofu around my plate.  My mother, used to my pickiness, sat across from me and told me to stop molesting my bean curd.

“It’s not the tofu,” I said.  Because in fact it wasn’t the tofu, as I really liked tofu (and still do to this day.)

Tofu!

“Well then what’s the matter?”  My mother crossed her arms and looked at me, cocking her head to one side, making the dangly parts of her earrings knock together like wind chimes.

“Some stupid idiot in my class today told everyone that Jean Chretien is his hero.”  I rolled by eyes.  My fork clanged onto the plate as I let it slip from my fingers.  “Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

I knew that my mom didn’t want to laugh.  But she was one with whom I would listen to Double Exposure on the CBC. She also read Frank Magazine (in fact she had been lampooned herself in the rag) and like her daughter, thought that this was just too much.

My mother let out a wallop of a laugh.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Her whole body shook like an oversized maraca.

So I let loose too, laughing with an intensity that felt unnatural, but I felt like if I laughed hard enough the uncomfortable pit buried deep inside of me wouldn’t sprout leaves and grow into a tree.

As long as I laughed I could think Justin as a strange anomaly and continue to think of heroes as easily definable, realistic beings.

But eventually, I stopped.

And I, on this day, April 30, 2012, would like to extend an apology to both Justin, and the unnamed Kim Campbell fan.

In an age of Jersey Shore and Kim Kardashian and Twilight – I’ll take their choices.

But I”ll probably still need that juice box.

Because although I might take it, it’s still not going to go down any easier then it did the first time around.

And for that I blame Double Exposure.

(And my mom.)

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Would you just take it easy man?

Between the ages of about twelve and twenty, whenever I spoke with my mother over the phone, she would inevitably tell me at some point in our conversation to slow down.

Seriously, all I need to do is just sit here and close my eyes, and I can actually hear her voice, pleading for respite from the verbal onslaught – my machine gun volley of words.

“HOLD IT!” She would exclaim. “Hold it! I can’t understand a single thing that you are saying!”

This is the kind of place I imagine my mother went to as I motor-mouthed through our conversation.

I would, of course, laugh to myself, or perhaps let out one of those larger than life exasperation-heavy sighs, so well-cultivated and practiced by the teenage set, before jabbering on a like a monkey in a tree.

Maybe I’d slow my speech a tad (though it is unlikely) because the news of my latest exploits, or how cute the boy I danced with was, or could she please come pick me up like right now because I am freeeeeezing – well, these were pieces of news of such importance, that if I didn’t push my words out of my mouth as fast as I possibly could, their significance might be forever lost, and my life would end, and I would have to cede the title of “most fascinating teenager EVER” to the next fastest-talking teen (aka my little sister.)

Or something in that regard.

Why, you might ask yourself, am I telling you all this?

The answer, my friends, is because there are a few areas in my life in which I am going to try to slow the heck down.

I'm going to smell the flowers.

I am going to breathe. And then breathe again.

Seriously, from this day out, my goal is to make a conscious effort to take five, (or smell the roses, or drive the scenic route, or whatever) in the following three areas of my life, because my need for speed is mucking things up and it’s starting to grind my gears.

Let’s dive right in:

1.)    Proof reading my blog posts.

So. I love this blog. Like, SO MUCH.

And I love writing. But I’ve never loved reading my writing with a critical line-edit eye. In fact, I really can’t stand the slow once over, nor do I enjoy reading my work out loud (in a proof reading sense.)

This always came back to bite me in the butt during my uni days. I would always need to option out the final edit of my essays to lovely, selfless friends (or, you know, Mr. M, who – to his credit – was responsible for overviewing approximately 97.4% of my typo-free academic work).

If I didn’t put my stuff through this last minute check, then I was doomed to the “[insert positive feedback here – but would have benefited from one last final proofread]” professorial comment.

Urg. How I hated that comment.

A huge better-late-than-never apology to all of my professors!

It’s just that after immersing myself full-tilt in the subject matter, and then spending a crap-load of time crafting a sweet, sweet argument, and then writing a sweet, sweet paper, the thought of reading over my words one more time after all of that effort, actually made me feel as though my brain was bleeding out of my ears.

Who wants to sit in front of a compy for longer than they need to?

There is really only so much critical analysis a young gal can handle.

Anywho, what I’m trying to say is that this academic habit of mine has now translated into the horrible trend of not checking over these posts before hitting the fatal “publish” button. This leaves me scrambling for quite a while afterwards (depending of course of the post), cleaning up all my nit-picky errors – most of which are a result of typing too fast.

See folks! Again, what do I find myself doing? Pushing out ideas that I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT as quickly as I possibly can, without fully acknowledging that the people who will actually be reading these posts need to actually, you know, understand what it is I am trying to communicate.

Sheesh.

Mom! You were right all along!

But I’m working on it.

2. Eating too fast when I am hungry

Especially if the food is mega-tasty.

Now, to be fair, I’m of the mind that when you’re hungry enough, anything will taste good.

(My earliest memory pertaining to this theory is from the age of six, when my mom picked me up from my piano lesson and was driving me to my next activity – highland dancing practice. I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch that day at school and she offered me a banana flavoured granola bar.)

At that time in my life I pretty much equated “banana” with horse manure, so you can imagine my reticence at scarfing that bad boy down.

But the rumble in my tummy persisted, and my resolve broke, and as I gobbled up that bar, I so clearly remember thinking “wow, this tastes AMAZING!”

Today at lunch I ate these scrumptious fish tacos:

Epic noms.

However, because the majority of my morning was comprised of working with my hair on fire, followed by a lunch hour – which actually wasn’t made up of lunch, but a brisk walk across downtown Vancouver and back with J (which was beautiful and hilarious and fab.)

Beautiful downtown Vancity.

By the time I bought my food and sat down at my desk I was so ravenous I practically inhaled my meal.

And although the tacos were insanely tasty, it really reminded me that I need to make an effort to chew, chew, chew, when I am hungry.

Because when I hoover everything like the food vacuum I can so easily become, I not only give myself stomach aches, but I practically induce myself into a taco coma.

A “TACOMA” if you will.

3. Developing crushes on famous people (mainly a British problem)

I will watch some dude in one tv show for thirty seconds and immediately I’ll get all shirty over him. This doesn’t happen very often (which is probably why I feel so funny when it does).

It’s a bit ridiculous really.

But luckily, these infatuations are all incredibly short-lived, and often fizzle out before the week is out.

Hmmm.

Actually.

I am going to renege on this point.

Because I am okay with it.

I like my silly little crushes. (And I’m pretty sure they like me too.)

So there you have it! Two areas where I am making a conscious effort to cool my jets.

And in the mean time, I am going to wear my new skirt until it is runs thread-less and bare (and I am incarcerated for indecent exposure.)

What I wore to work today.

And what about you folks? Is there anything in your lives where speed is killing you? Let me know, and we can swap tips on how to best employ the brakes.

P.S. If there are any typos in this (or any future) post, don’t tell me about them. I’ll find them eventually.