——-

I’ve heard, as many of us have, that the male is a simple beast and through his simplicities he often fails to understand women.  At least, that’s what I’ve heard.  The only thing I’ve ever been confused about is that statement alone.  Men and women are both simple creatures and what we have done is over complicated a situation so as to justify our actions, fears and desires to name only a few.

Leave it to Amanda to lure me into enemy territory here to make some sort of case for men.  I offer no argument, only explanation and through what will hopefully turn out to be a new way of looking at this idea that men are cold hearted, emotionless and simple beasts.

In the beginning God created man or some bullshit but regardless of how you think “man” arrived on this planet there is no escaping that we are not only a social species but a tribal one at that, from before the hominid to the most current version of our species.  Thousands and thousands of years have shaped our biological derivatives and cultural imperatives.  This lack of understanding between gender roles and innate sexual roles has caused quite a few discussions to head south in a hurry.  As with all species, the need to reproduce and the need to protect the offspring runs so deep in our genetics that there is virtually nothing one can do to overcome this biological imperative.  The problem that humans are facing today is a battle between our observed logical view of the world and what runs in our DNA.

It’s quite silly to think that I need to be the strongest man in the tribe in our current culture.  With relative care and what have you the child will be in little to no danger where the man has to use his strength to protect the offspring and furthermore the offspring does not need to come from the strongest genes to increase its chances of survival.  This we know, this we can rationalize.  It is through our observations and interactions with the world that we create our perceived reality.  So the reality the average man today has conjured up is how little of importance this is and we see this from a good portion of young males displaying confusion such as “I treat her so well but she goes for the jackass, I just don’t get it.”  That reality both males and females perceive contradicts the world our bodies are expecting to be subjected to.  Unless you’re planning on doing some serious meditation or brain washing you can plan on biology to win every single time.

The sad truth is that, with the exception of some very rare individuals, women are most fertile when they’re young and will put on their best show to attract the male with the highest status.  If that male doesn’t go for her then she’ll go to the next one down the line and so on and so forth and this curve across the graph will abruptly come to an end right when her hormones start screaming at her to reproduce.   She will have then found the best male that will mate with her within her window of fertility.  Because a males genes transcend all age and a female has a much smaller time of attracting a man you will see much older men with women who are twenty years younger and rarely do you see a woman with a man who is twenty years younger.  That’s why the nice guy does finish last because a woman can put him way down on her list knowing that he will always be there if all her other options fail.

So how does this play into why a man should still be an alpha male?  Well the blame can’t be placed on any single sex.  As a man(and most don’t consciously recognize this) the best way for them to have as many options as possible to mate is to compete with other males to assert dominance and invariably amass a level of security and consistency in whatever community he lives in.  Men are, on a biological level only interested in a woman’s genes, her looks.  For a female it’s not only strong genes that she seeks but that dominance and assertion within the tribe and it is through that which motivates the man.  I hear a lot of feminist bullshit and I don’t mean that like “women shouldn’t do the same things a man does” or anything like that.  What I’m talking about is what we were born to do.  The fact of the matter is males in our species lead the tribe of apes to find food, shelter and security and in the contemporary world that biology still holds true where in 99% of cases you have alpha males leading organizations whether that be political, a corporation or a religious group.  I’m not saying women can’t or shouldn’t, I’m explaining why that is.  As for females they are far more adept at nurturing offspring and taking a mothering role and on the flipside that doesn’t mean men can’t or shouldn’t do that but in both cases the innate biology from the time we are born is driving us to do those things.

So I’m some dick that functions as a sociopath it seems but the reality is far from that.  I’m a deep hopeless romantic.  It is what I have desired from females since I was in second or third grade.  I would write little love letters the night before school and then slip them into their backpacks where they would find them later on.  My heart has been devastated beyond repair and yet I continue to seek.  I encourage you to start corresponding with me and allow me to write letters that will make your heart turn to jelly.

To take that, which is the truth and apply it to this conversation is that a lot of women like that.  They want a man to be in touch with his emotions and be able to communicate with her.  The problem is that the majority of the time when that characteristic is found in a man it also brings with it a slew of undesirable biological traits.  The man often has not yet asserted dominance over other men in her life or can provide the same level of security that other men can and to come full circle here that is why that guy as lovely as his personality is will stand lower on her picking ladder of men than a guy who can provide for her biologically but is uninteresting and may even treat her poorly.

The sad truth is that when my heart was destroyed it was for this very reason and for the most part has continued on until today.  Imagine being inside of my head and seeing through to the biological root of our function and yet unable and unwilling to bring myself to comply when I know exactly what I need to do to get the women that I want.  I’m a wreck in that sense and hell, if my novel ever gets published one can only dream that I’ll be able to continue my life as a hopeless romantic and simultaneously provide for her as well.

——-

Anthony hangs out at Lounge Nouvelle (his brain child), with the email gnomes, and on Twitter. Go say hey. He likes that sort of thing.

I went to my version of Acadia before the Olympics celebrations began. My sister-in-law sat in the passenger seat, smiling softly to herself as we drive past the mountain-ridged Costco, past the city’s only octo-plex theatre, past the dotted lights littering the mountains; it was all the same as it had been when I left it at Christmastime. My nieces are asleep in the backseat. K’s black hair matted against her forehead. Z’s blonde curls bouncing with the suspension. Eyelashes flutter in protest as the lights glare into the truck’s crew cab.

After I drop off my sister-in-law and her daughters, I drive along the Halston Connector, eager to get to my parents’ house — my adolescent home — to see them and settle in. This drive is usually filled with happy anticipation. I tried to conjure up these feelings. Of course I was excited to see my parents but that was… that was it. I wasn’t at all interested in seeing anyone else or doing anything other sitting at their house — my Kamloops home — and getting work done.

The summer was my greatest challenge of 2009. I was lonely. I was miserable. But I was still happy to be in the beautiful little city that helped raise me. When I sat on the bed in my bedroom, reading the cards and listening to Marianas Trench, I came to a frightening conclusion: this city isn’t mine anymore. I may know the streets. I may be able to walk around the downtown core blindfolded and still be able to pick out where every store is and what it sells. I may even have retained a few friends and connections to my home, including my family and Mike’s. It was a rude awakening.

The first time I moved away from home, I was eighteen. I went forth into the hell-hole known as Fort McMurray: the booming oil sands hole-in-the-wall five hours away from anything resembling civilization. It was never home. Last year, I moved to Burnaby with my husband, my brother, and another couple into a big house in a cute neighbourhood. But that wasn’t home either. When I finally moved back to Vancouver after my long summer in Kamloops, I was skeptical that I’d found home. True, the apartment was beautiful. True, the apartment building was six months old and was surrounded by shopping, restaurants, and adorable thrift stores. True, it had a rooftop garden and gym.

Okay, truth: I was in love with the apartment.

But was that enough to call it home?

The transition was slow enough that I wasn’t aware of it happening until I went back to Kamloops at the beginning of February. When I walked down the streets, it didn’t feel right. My heart wasn’t there anymore. It was back in my beautiful apartment with my handsome husband in the bustling heart of Richmond. I was lonely in ways that I had only associated with being away from Kamloops. Loneliness while at home with my parents, friends, and dog was… terrible. I withdrew inside myself. I stayed in the basement, parked in front of the flatscreen, and attempted to get some web design work finished.

I was uninspired.

I paced around relentlessly, trying to fill the emptiness that plagued me until I finally opened myself to it. I felt better but not whole. I cried to my mother. I cried to my husband. I cried myself to sleep almost every night that I stayed in Kamloops. Everything that was familiar was haunting.

I talked to Mike about when I got home to Richmond. I asked him how he’d dealt with this change. He told that since he’d never really been anywhere but home in his heart — especially since he met me — that it wasn’t something he’d actively thought about. But he assured me that home isn’t where we think it is. Home isn’t even necessarily where your stuff is; it might not even be where your heart is.

Home, to me, is wherever I can get up from my chair and dance wildly at the drop of a hat. Home is where I can sing loudly in the shower without fear of disturbing neighbours or roommates. Home is where I can walk around the neighbourhood at night and not feel uneasy. Home is comfortable. Home is beautiful. Home is solace.

Home may not be where I remember it to be but it still exists all the same.

So I asked myself the age-old question, “Am I beautiful?”

For my trip to the Gossip nightclub here in beautiful Vancouver on the very last night of the Winter Olympic celebrations, I traded my normally casual style for something that was all drama: a BCBG Max Azria tunic paired with zippered leggings from Aldo and a pair of six inch heels from Spring. My short, black hair was pliable and styled. My vintage jewelry from the 1970s was all flair. But I walked into this bar and even though my attire was killer, my body apparently wasn’t.

Vancouver is full of rail thin women. Beautiful, rail thin women with long, luxurious hair complete with huge, bouncing curls. I walk around the downtown core of Vancouver as often as I dare during the day. The women are in perfect three piece suits with perfect Prada pumps. I pull the zipper up on my hoodie to hide the fact that I hadn’t done laundry yet. I look at them intently, drinking in their fashion and coveting their fashionable success. I search their faces for the glimmer of happiness I was sure they would possess. But instead of virile women, full of life and happiness, I see twentysomethings with fine lines from anxiety and stress. I see thirtysomethings with a twitch that was reminiscent of my brush with anorexia. I see fortysomethings that held their bodies together with plastic surgery and a fake smile; their eyes were broken and empty.

In spite of their perfect appearances with their perfect attire and perfect bodies, each one of them was as unhappy with their bodies as I was with mine. But do we unite in the face of such adversity? No. We nitpick. We judge. We preen ourselves with such ferocity that it borders on obsessive. We are brought up on a steady diet of heavy sex appeal, the pull of celebrity, and the need to be perfect: perfect in body, health, and mind.

The perilous pursuit of perfection.

I walk into these nightclubs and expect to turn a few heads. Hell, why shouldn’t I feel like that from time to time? I seek approval from the young men (and women) that don’t find my particular brand of physical beauty to be worth noting. I could outwardly exude confidence until I’m blue in the face from the lies and still manage to find a way to be a wallflower. While preaching that I don’t need the approval of people, I try to dress well when going out. I never leave my apartment without (at least) foundation, most times more. I am a fucked up dichotomy in action: I want to flip off anyone who requires me to be status quo but damn it, I want to be pretty too. Even if I’m happily married, I bitch and moan that no one notices me.

I concede.

I’ve fallen into the modern trap: strength in value but value through conventional beauty.

The girls that throw themselves into tight dresses and high heels at these clubs speak of the beginnings of a descent into the maddening pursuit that is perfection. They are reinforcing that you can’t be beautiful unless you’re the status quo. I hate that damn status quo. I’ve been after people to break it down and burn it since I was a kid. It drives my Dad crazy.

So why, oh why am I stuck fighting the status quo when I wish that my body would just be what it used to be: muscled and toned? I want to be normal. But not. Ah damn. I’ve gotten myself in a right pickle.

Is it possible to accept your size? If you accept your size for what it is, can you love it?  And after you accept and love your size (no matter if you’re a 0 or a 22), what then? Change? Designer clothes that you can’t really afford but need to have in order to feel like you mean something?

I grew up in a small city in BC’s Interior. Its style seems to be ten years behind. There are still 1980s haircuts running rampant as you walk around the downtown core. But let me tell you something about my hometown: those women were confident. They strutted their stuff down Victoria St and let nobody tell them that they were caught in a time warp. So what? They loved themselves and the way they looked. It gave them a confidence that I never had. I may rock the latest short hairstyles that are popping out of Europe. I may even rock some modicum of fashion sense here in Vancouver. But I’ve got nothing on those brilliant, out of style babes hanging out in Kamloops. They let you know that even if they’re not fashion forward or rail thin, they’re beautiful and that’s all there is to it.

Moral of the story: it doesn’t matter who you are, how you dress, or what you look like; happiness is not your pant size and confidence is not found in designer labels. It’s all about how to rock your frock. The rest be damned.

PS. Happiness is Not a Fish You Can Catch is my favourite Our Lady Peace album. It’s good sound, if you haven’t heard it before.

Did you miss me?

I missed me too.

Yesterday was the grand finale for the Winter Olympics here in Vancouver, BC. I’ve half had my head buried in web design, projects, and hockey to notice too much else around me. But today? Today is a new day. A day for more projects. For video games. For zombies to give brains back and stop chewing on the tourists. And, to mark such a special occasion as the return of my sanity, I’ve hunkered down at Quest for Balance.

Ever struggle with finding your One Passion? Yeah, me too. At twenty-three (!!), I’ve already managed to dabble in a variety of careers, jobs, and hobbies. I’ve wrestled with the voices in my head that tried to demand that I submit to the One Passion. The trouble was that I didn’t have One Passion. I have Many Passions.

I wrote about it on Quest for Balance: The Myth, The Legend: One Passion to Rule Them All.

I had a conversation with my father back in December about the strength of woman. He told me that behind misogyny is fear: fear of the strength of woman; fear that women will stand up and put our stake in the sand; fear that everything they know about the world is completely wrong and backwards. My father — the man who taught me to be a warrior princess — was raised by a man who didn’t believe or acknowledge the power of woman. He thought himself to be better than women because he possessed the right chromosomes. As soon as my father was old enough to make up his own mind, he chose to bask in the strength of woman; specifically, the strength of his mother.

My grandfather had no daughters to temper his disposition. He had three sons.

When I was small, my father didn’t turn his back on me like so many fathers do when they have first-born daughters. Instead, he embraced his sassy daughter and taught me to think for myself. To be strong. To yield but never break. To stand my ground. He taught me the magic and beauty of logic. He showed me how to separate myself from my emotions to take better task of the situation. He told (and tells me) that he loves me.

As a teenager, my father and I clashed in every way. The women in our family — the Hoffmans — are outspoken, intense, and opinionated. I am tempered steel; I am all these things and more. Teenage Amanda was brash and irrational, ruled by a hormonal emotional response to every situation, regardless of its nature. I failed my first math test. I raged. I seethed. I cried. I threw the test in the garbage, instead of learning from my mistakes. I failed several more math tests as a consequence.

As a consequence of tunnels and responsibility, I tried to distance myself from my emotions. I tried to be cold and logical. No one taught me to be that way. No one told me, “Amanda, detach from your emotions. You are now required to attain the emotional discipline of a Vulcan.”

Aside: it’s not a violetminded post without a geek reference.

It didn’t work. It was too much work to go against my code. I needed my emotions to survive and cope and compute. I needed to attach myself to people because that’s what I do best. Heart met sleeve. Sleeve met defeat many times. Heart met other hearts. I was stronger for it. I was more complete with my connection the great macrocosm of the universe.

I’ve often described my love of people as my great tragedy.

I love everyone in this world, in spite (and sometimes because of) their many flaws. And yet, I am so disgusted by the atrocities of people that it makes me sick to be around them. I want to hate them for what they do to each other. But I can’t. I sincerely believe that I’m completely incapable of truly hating a person. I may be able to hate their behaviour but I cannot hate the person.

“People are inherently good. You’ve got to give them the benefit of the doubt.” My husband has drilled that into my head during the five years that we’ve been together. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone is worth it.

I’ve seen that we cut girls and control them and keep them illiterate. Or we make them feel bad about being too smart.We silence them. We make them feel guilty about being too smart. We get them to behave, to tone it down, to not be too intense.
Eve Ensler

To behave is to show respect to the people around you. We can’t go around and be completely wild and out of control. Restraint is an intrinsic part of the social contract that we must acknowledge as we step out of our homes and tread the same sidewalk as the rest of the inhabitants of this world. Intense, on the other hand, is the only way I know how to be. Those that know me, know that everything I do is done with fierce conviction and an intensity that has a tendency to freak me out.

Be bold. Be intense. Don’t tone it down just because someone tells you that it’s inappropriate. Are you hurting anyone by the look in your eyes? Is your passion killing the people around you? If it is, then it’s time to put the knife down and pick up a paintbrush.

Boys are taught that emotions are wrong. That compassion clouds judgment and sound decision making. They grow into men that are cold and unfeeling, unaware of the fact that they are hurting on the inside. They become violent monsters to compensate, somehow thinking that this is strength and not weakness. They kill and hurt other people — usually women — because they have failed to acknowledge their vulnerability and tears.They teach their detachment to their daughters and wives because it’s the only thing they know.

The strongest men and women in the world are those that acknowledge their fears, tears, and emotional needs.

Value the girl in us. Value the part that cries. Value the part that’s emotional. Value the part that’s vulnerable.

Eve Ensler

My husband has embraced his Girl Self. My father is discovering his Girl Self. My mother and her capacity for goodness and forgiveness has never known any other way to be: she is the embodiment of Girl Self.

Let’s spread the word to every woman and man: your emotions make you strong. They allow you to see things humanely. They allow you to love fully and wholly and without fear. Your Girl Self is important. Your daughters need you to teach them that. Your sons need you to show them how. Your husbands and fathers and brothers need re-education. Your wives and mothers and sisters need to know that they are not crazy. They are whole and perfect in their capacity to love and forgive.

Vive le revolution émotionnel.

violetminded will return to sanity tomorrow.

Happy New Year. Cheers, Alex.

In silence, a literal breaking occurs. I AM BROKEN. Acknowledge it. Name it. Ouch.

SILENCE IS BROKEN. My voice returns. I will roar.

I didn’t roar today. I sat in silence for close to an hour, whittling away at a project for a friend. My head was alive. My heart felt empty. I felt lost. Not right. The more I tried to put my finger on it, the more I detached. The emptiness clung to me like a second skin.

Emma soothed me.

Ride it out. It will happen periodically for years and years to come. Just remember, these times are great for growth. Even when they feel like you’ve slipped through a crevasse into Bizarroworld.

I sat back and thought about growth. I’d done an impressive amount of growing lately, especially considering that I draw the Tower at least a few times a week. For those of you unfamiliar with Tarot, the Tower card signifies big change. Like, cataclysmic change. To draw this card more than once in a month, let alone a few times a week, means that big things are coming and have come to pass. I was am unsure of the root of the growth.

Growth took a back seat for a while.

Christopher talked about the nature of geekdom, which spurred him into asking the question: “What’s so wrong with being an Average Joe?”

Mediocrity. My own special version of Hell: where everyone is cookie cutter average and everything is a bloody suburb. I grew up in a suburb. It wasn’t horrible but it was decidedly medicore. And, like Ronna, it got me thinking. Why is mediocrity so bad? After all, we’re nothing average to the people who love us.

The thinking continued.

The emptiness persisted.

The silence remained unbroken.

The darkness lapped at my toes as I dipped them in the abyssal water.

And then it hit me. Or bit me. I don’t know which. Ouch.

I was thinking too damn much; paying too much attention to the emptiness, the silence, and the darkness, trying to will it away instead of accepting it. Not everyone is going to like me or what I write about. Not everyone is going to be interested in my company. It’s not a slight. You’d think I’d have learned that when I was a teenager. Apparently, I’m slow on the uptake.

Embracing the dark is difficult. It’s not a forever state. It’s just for now.

The past is my playground, where I’m free to ride the merry-go-round as many times as I please without being scared of the monsters beneath. I like the swings best. I’m poised to jump as I pump my legs to shoot myself higher and higher; I’m reaching a place where I used to be queen of the castle. Or, at the very least, a duchess with a lot of pull with the rest of the nobility. After the swings, I go to the slide and ride the slick surface to its end, raising my arms in the air. The slides are joy. It is the highest and lowest point in my life.

The future is the challenge of swinging myself up to the top of the monkey bars to perch and dangle my legs between the bars. At seven, I was limber, agile, and energetic. At twenty three, I am ponchy, cumbersome, and no less energetic. So I scramble, trying to reach the top of the bars so I can look over the other houses in the neighbourhood. My surburbia. My kingdom. I just know that somehow the top of the monkey bars is where all of dreams will come true. But, here I am, staring at the monkey bars, paralyzed by fear that I won’t be able to get up there. The pebbles pay the price as I scatter them with a flick of my ankle.

The present seems to be someone’s idea of a drunken one night stand: it seemed like a great idea when both parties were intoxicated but the morning after is always a bitch. So I drink a fifth of the vodka I had stashed in my purse in one tough swig. It burns going down. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still afraid of those stupid fucking monkey bars. Another bunch of pebbles are punished for their insolence. I’m alone on the playground when my mom calls at me from across the street; it’s getting dark and she made me dinner.

But I can’t go in. Not yet. I need to best those monkey bars.

Another fifth of the vodka downed before I toss my purse unceremoniously to the side. The bars are low enough that I don’t have to jump to catch them. My arms always burn in protest.

Too much work, they moan. Let’s just go back down to the ground and the pebbles and our mom.

I won’t take no for an answer. I’m so sick and fucking tired of being on the ground when it seems like everyone else can get to the top of the monkey bars. I hate them for being better than me. I hate being second best. I hate waiting. I ignore the pain in my arms and attempt to swing my legs up to catch the other bars with my heels. Several tries later and I’m still swinging with my legs half bent.

I hate these monkey bars.

After another stiff swallow of vodka, I’m tipsy. Angry. Upset at my failures. I rode the merry-go-round four times without falling off. I even closed my eyes, in spite of my brain reminding me of the monsters beneath that steal and eat unlucky little girls who don’t pay attention. No monsters ate me. My past loved me, relished my presence. So why didn’t the future welcome me with the same reverence?

Fucking monkey bars.

I try a few more times, but am met with the same failures. When my mom finds me three hours later, I’m sopping drunk from polishing off the bottle of vodka and crying from not being able to get where I know I need to be. Those monkey bars will solve all my problems. I know they will. Mama, why can’t I get to the top of the stupid monkey bars? Why am I such a fucking failure?

She soothes me, placing a calming hand on my clammy forehead, and holds me close to her sweet smelling blouse. Oscar de la Renta swims through my senses and suddenly I don’t want to get to the top of the monkey bars, as long as I’m safe on the ground. I have so much to be thankful for on the ground: my pretty mother, the pebbles, the grass, the terrifying merry-go-round, and the simplicity of knowing that my feet would always find their way.

You can reach the top of those monkey bars, my sweet, she murmurs into my lank black hair. Just believe in yourself. Try something else. Don’t be stuck on one method. Do everything. Try everything. Be spontaneous. Attack them. You are the maker of your design. But don’t run too fast. The present is a gift.

Yeah, the sort of gift that a mean aunt would give me on Christmas, I retort, burying my head between my knees. It’s not spinning down there; this weird chasm between my legs.

But it is a gift all the same, she says, smoothing my hair with a wise hand. Do not be so quick to judge yourself or others. We can help you reach the top of the monkey bars, you know. We love you.

Just like so many times before, I shrug off her help and protest that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. I don’t need anyone to help me. I got up there once. I can get up there again. You should see if Dad needs you. I’ll be in soon. I promise.

I had promised it before.

I hadn’t been home in five years. I slept on the playground, curled around my empty bottles as though I gave birth them. But I didn’t want to leave without reaching the top. I would take as many tries as I needed in order to get up there.

There are countless more attempts before I collapse on myself underneath the stars and clouds. I am alone in this, I think to myself as I weep bitter tears. I am alone. These stupid monkey bars are going to be the end of me. I can’t get where I need to be. What if this is all there is? What if I never reach the top? The monkey bars cast frightening shadows across the playground as I drift into an uneasy sleep, full of empty dreams and sad nightmares. My unconscious doesn’t bother trying to scare me anymore. The loneliness scares me enough.

The dawn breaks and I begin with making another attempt, falling on my back and knocking the wind out of me. Tears stream down my face as I curse the Divine for failing to notice that I was struggling. I gave everything I had for so many years, happy to feed the heartless, the soulless, and the aimless with my heart, soul, and ambition. All I asked for was to get to the top. So why am I still here at the bottom? Why am I, your raven daughter, the one to pay the price for mistakes I haven’t had the chance to make?

I throw more pebbles at the sky and curse the infernal Divine.

I sit on the swings, trying to be the queen, the duchess. A startling man wanders onto the playground and manages to catch up to my swinging, smiling warmly at me. He says his name is Michael. He has green eyes like spring leaves. I like him instantly. I ask him if he’d like to ride my merry-go-round and he says yes. The monsters raise their scary eyes above, curious about the man called Michael. Michael plays games with me and we are happy. Mama doesn’t call me inside this time, she just watches from the door to our house, smiling and content that someone is playing with me. I’ve had other boys play with me on the playground but they all left when it was time for dinner or when it got dark.

Michael stays with me and drinks the raspberry schnapps I buried underneath my slide a few years back. It is sweeter with company. He tells me that I’m pretty and that I should smile more. So I smile more to make him laugh. He laughs with every fiber of his being. He is a man and a child. I envy him his merriment but his smile is pretty, with the gaps between his teeth and a twinkle in his leaf-green eyes. I like him. He is pretty and handsome and perfect. I hope he stays with me forever.

The monkey bars loom in the growing dark.

Can you climb to the top of the monkey bars? I ask him, swigging the schnapps, feeling the alcohol warming my veins. I’ve been trying but I can’t get up.

Michael is very tall. Tall as a tree. Even taller than Dad.

When he stretches his arms, he can touch the clouds; he says that they tickle his fingers. He hops up to the top of the monkey bars and reaches for me but I can’t get up yet. I’m still stuck on the ground and in the pebbles.

I can’t make it, Michael, I sob, wracked with guilt and sadness. I want to come up.

I can lift you, he soothes. Lean on me. Let me save you.

I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.

It’s beautiful up here, he says as I sit on the ground, fists in my hair. Please let me help you.

I refuse. I want to be up where he is but I need to get up there myself. He doesn’t understand me. I am alone again. Michael is ahead of me. I am jealous of his ease. Why do I always struggle?

But he doesn’t want to be on top without me so, without another word, he lifts me on his shoulders. I protest loudly; I’m afraid of heights and of the monkey bars. I don’t want to go up, I tell him. It’s okay to be on the ground.

No, you belong up there, he grins. Go and I shall follow.

I grasp the top of the monkey bars and pull myself off his shoulders without a lot of fuss. He is so tall that I graze the clouds. They tickle my cheeks. Michael is so handsome and perfect. I love myself when we are together. I sit on the top of the monkey bars. The sky is peaceful. The neighbours wave as they walk their dogs. I am so happy that I wave back. But the great epiphany has not come and I find myself disappointed.

Michael sits with me and wraps his arms around me. I am still ponchy and cumbersome but he just squishes closer; he is unafraid of the external me. Smile more, he says as he rests his strong chin on the top of my head. We are on top.

We are together. Life is a miracle.

Mama calls to me from our front door. She is proud of me for reaching the top but she was proud of me no matter where I stood or sat or danced. The Divine still ignores me as I sit with Michael’s arms around me but it’s okay. I don’t need their approval or help anymore. I have Michael. He has me.

The monkey bars have been bested.

Now I’m eyeballing the clouds.

I’ve always been a thrifty shopper. I’ve mastered the art of shopping on a tight budget. I’m an expert at making ten bucks stretch for two weeks. It’s a rarity for me to pay full price for anything outside of restaurant food and video games (but let’s get real: if it’s a game, I trade-in my old games for it anyway).

I went to the local bookstore this evening, just looking to kill time before I met up with a friend of mine. After I’d paid for my purchases, the cashier looked at me and said, “You’re really thrifty. You got some great deals here.”

I smiled and agreed.

“I’m a sucker for a good deal.”

Smiling back, she handed me the bag and said, “I never buy anything on sale. I don’t have the self control. I just want it now.”

Immediacy: the affliction of our generation (especially).

Everything needs to be instantaneous or it’s not worth it. The web page must load immediately. If that skirt is fifty bucks, we try it on and just can’t wait. Or that book that we can’t live without? Just bought the hardcover for thirty dollars. Charge it, baby.

It’s become a badge of honour to be full price consumer.

Luxury is just that: a luxury.

Am I guilty of impulse buying? Damn straight. Happens to me all the time! The difference between my impulse buy and the girl ahead of me in line at The Bay is that I just dropped thirty dollars on an LBD while she dropped three hundred on a fashion forward dress that’s bound to be out of fashion by fall. But hell, if she can rock the dress well beyond its best before, good on her. Chances are that she’ll put the dress in her closet next to last season’s fashion forward dress and forget about it until she buys a new one for next season.

Even if you have millions to spend on clothes, shoes, and electronics, that doesn’t mean that you should. Celebrities go into debt trying to keep up their luxurious images. Many of them go bankrupt living a lifestyle that is well beyond their means. Regular, every day people go into debt and go bankrupt for the same reason. Debt is the condition of our culture. We’re all fighting to get the hell out of it, even Mike and me.

A little closer to home is the question I get asked fairly frequently:

“Amanda, can you teach me how to shop like you do?”

Take a knee, Padawan.

Five Steps to Your Thrifty Nirvana

That delightful woman I wrote about a little while ago (y’know, my mom) taught me everything I know about shopping on a budget. She gave me a discerning eye. I’d give my eyes to you but that’s kinda gross. Instead, let me share her wisdom with you.

One: Never, ever buy full price.

I was downtown Vancouver the other day, perusing my favourite shops on my way to the library. I came across three really beautiful blouses, all of which fit me amazingly (thank you, Urban Outfitters). Two of the blouses were new arrivals (read: not on sale) and the other was more than 50% off.

Guess which one I bought.

The other two went on my wish list. I wrote down the style and SKU in my BlackBerry so that I can keep an eye on the products over the coming months and wait to for a sale.

Two: Shop around for the best deal, especially on groceries.

That’s what those annoying flyers are for. Flip through the flyers to see who’s selling what and for how much. I know what you’re thinking:

“Amanda, I really don’t have the time to sit down and flip through flyers just to save thirty cents on a bag of frozen peas. Isn’t there an easier way?”

I’m glad you asked me, telepathic reader!

Head to the store and price check in the aisle. Honestly, that No Name rice is just as good as the expensive Basmati rice from the specialty shop down the street. Might even be tastier.

Goes the same for clothing, electronics, books, you name it. Get a second opinion from another store. Don’t be afraid to wait while you do your research.

Three: Exercise your waiting muscles.

I know the waiting game sucks. Buying the product right now is just as much fun as Hungry Hungry Hippos was is. Buying on a whim is a blast.

But, if everything you purchase is on a whim, you’re going to end up with stuff that you not only don’t need but you couldn’t really afford in the first place. Of course, some people see need fairly subjectively. For example, I really do need my computer(s). Other people could beg to differ that a computer is a need.

Four: Buy used. Trade-in. Swap.

Thrift stores are awesome for buying cheap, unique furniture that’s been gently used or restored.

If you’re a gamer like me, trade-in your old games in order to purchase new ones.

Trade-in your old consoles in order to buy new ones. Well, don’t trade in your NES or Sega. That’s just silly. But if you’re looking for a PS3, trade in your PS2; your XBox for an Xbox 360; your Gamecube for a Wii. Your new console is fairly backwards compatible.

Swap clothes, crafts/art supplies, and electronics with your friends. Tired of that blouse you bought last year? See if your best friend needs an addition to her wardrobe, as long as you’re the same size. See if you can snag that sweet dress she’s not wearing anymore.

Five: Figure out what a “good deal” is.

This was the most difficult part of learning how to shop. Originally, I thought that any kind of sale was a good deal. It must be, right? It’s on sale! All sales are made equal.

In fact, all sales are not made equal.

In British Columbia, a 15% off sale will pay for the taxes on the full price product.

Figure out what the mark-up is on the product you’re looking at. As an ex Best Buy sales associate, I knew which products were mostly mark-up and which ones were sold mostly at cost. Laptops and game consoles are sold barely above cost. DVDs, CDs, cables, and accessories are mostly mark-up; it’s where the store made its profit.

If you figure out what the mark-up is, you can determine whether or not the sale is a “good deal”.

Practice Makes Perfect (Sense)

This isn’t something that you’re going to be able to master in one shopping trip. It’s going to take discipline, patience, and dedication. These tips are the culmination of fifteen years of watching a Thrift Master at work.

What are your thrifty shopping tips?

You’re my world
The shelter from the rain
You’re the pills
That take away my pain
You’re the light
That helps me find my way
You’re the words
When I have nothing to say
And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you
You’re the fire
That warms me when I’m cold
You’re the hand
I have to hold as I grow old
You’re the shore
When I am lost at sea
You’re the only thing
That I like about me
And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
How long has it been
Since this storyline began
And I hope it never ends
And goes like this forever
In this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
Tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you

Tangled Up in You – Staind (The Illusion of Progress)

I found you in the most unlikely place, almost five years ago. This love thing; there’s nothing quite like it.