Lost & Found

I lost my wallet.  Or it was pinched.  Or it evaporated into ether.  Either way, I last time I saw it was at Wal-Mart.  I replayed the moment in my mind a million times the night it happened.  The upstairs neighbours have been thumping around nightly, screaming, racing, a constant stream of traffic keeping us awake for a solid three weeks.  I’m talking three to four hours a night of broken sleep.  (Props to the new parents out there, that shit is the worst).  I’m lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, twisted with the agony of having lost all my identification, cash, and enough change to buy three coffees.


Another busy day at Wal-Mart, my arms are loaded with many things.  I’m standing at the check out.  I take one step away from the wallet, my eyes never breaking away from it as I tuck receipts into an envelope.   I grab my stuff, all my bags, and bulky pillows and bedding items.  I leave the store, make several more stops, not using my wallet again.  I took my car into the shop, transferred all of my recently purchased theatre props into the courtesy car, and was driven by an employee to my house, where I left my purse in the car, and ran up to the house to grab my laptop.  Then I went back to the theatre, dropped my large red purse, along with many other bags, and then it was a flurry of setting up; emptying bags, running around, talking to different people.  I then go upstairs to my desk, tick many things off my latest to-do list, kick my feet up on the desk, and ate a granola bar.  I exhale deeply and congratulate myself quietly for having such control over my life.


It was just the day before that I hit my stress peak.  I had some money in the office, folded once and held together by a white paper clip.  I didn’t need it, but I checked on it, and noticed it wasn’t where I thought it was.  Ugh, the worst feeling, that salt and vinegar kind of tingle along your scalp line when all isn’t well in Who-ville.  I went on with my day, with that fear ticking in my brain.  I had so much going on, juggling too much, the last thing I needed was to lose something so important. And that fear, compounded with that awful anxiety of not knowing where something is, along with the white trash not-so-grandmother/daughter duo thumping around upstairs and robbing you of sleep, made my heart feel as thought it were being pressed into a vice.   I call my friend Sheanna, and she reckons that “it’s not just the money” that’s bugging me.  I’m working lots and it’s all great, there are exciting opportunities, interesting projects, I’m meeting amazing people.  And these action packed-twelve hour days are great. But trying to blog after long days has not been a priority.  I tried, failed, and then I just stopped, for a day…or two…or three.


And so, I found the money, and was awash with relief.  I then put the money in my wallet, where surely it would safe…at least until the following day, when I let my guard down for one minute while the entire contents of my life evaporated in my purse.  I combed through the day in my mind; called every place I went.   My husband and I search every corner of the the house, the car, I go back to the theatre to look there.  Searching in drawers and rooms that the wallet could never possibly be.  My heart is pounding and I’m sick, just sick, trying to imagine where it could be.  Where could I have left it? lost it? Was it stolen? When would that have happened?  I think of the scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life“, when (oops, spoiler alert!) forgetful Uncle Billy goes to the bank to make a large deposit, but bumps into his nemesis, mean old Mr Potter before he makes it to the teller.  He plucks a newspaper from Mr Potter’s hands, and when he hands it back,  he inadvertently folds the envelope with $8000 into the paper.  Because Mr Potter is a prick, he lets Uncle Billy sweat, and allows poor old George Bailey spiral into attempting suicide.  There’s a moment when George and Billy have searched every place, even rooms that are never used.  George snaps, grabbing Uncle Billy’s collar and just rips into him, calling his a stupid foolish old man, and then Uncle Billy cries.  It’s a really sad scene, because Billy is endearing and George is hardworking.  Okay, now image that scene, and now image me doing that to myself.


Where could it be? Who is my Mr Potter?  I try to imagine the wallet, on someone’s nightstand, in a trash bin, dropped in a parking lot, pilfered by some unfeeling reprobate.  Or did I walk away from it? That moment at Wal-Mart, thinking that I need to slow down, don’t forget that wallet, you know, cause and effect and whatnot.  In trying to go back and remember, it’s all so very fuzzy.  I’ve been running on this endless sleep deficit.  I’m not thinking clearly, everything is a blur.  Loss prevention from Wal-Mart contacted me, after I requested they look at the footage.  I was well prepared to come to terms with my walking away from the wallet.

“You definitely put the wallet in your purse”, the woman tells me.

This actually makes me feel worse.  At this point I have no idea where it could be.  I can’t even begin to image.

“Message from the universe”, Sheanna texts me in response to the “what the fuck is happening to my life?” text I sent her. What kind of message I wonder?


Sure, I get it, I’ve lost my identification = I’ve lost myself.  But this was no time for reflection, I pushed through the rest of the week, working, not blogging, and trying to chase up my missing wallet.  Today, I get another text from Sheanna, asking whether I’d found my wallet, and whether I’d been blogging. No and no, would be the answer.  She texted, “When you blog, your wallet will come”. And it was only then that I read what she wrote the night I lost my wallet, wide awake in the middle of the night.  That by not doing the one thing that is most important to me, that I’ve lost myself, and that losing money equates powerlessness. Which I get,  I was so focused on not letting anyone else down, that I stopped blogging and doing yoga.   I worked through lunches and didn’t give myself a second of calm.  Thinking I lost my money was a warning.  Actually losing it was a punishment.


Well–may it appear, money still lovingly still tucked in the pocket, coffee change still intact.  But, come what may in the form of messages from the universe.  I’m sorry universe, I’m listening.  Next time, maybe not such a dramatic lesson, I can’t afford the tuition.

tumblr_ms9un8agTP1rhuz1no1_500Images Courtesy of Google

Summertime Sadness.

writing is not on the menu,

but it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.

I’ll let Lana Del Rey take it from here

cause its raining all kinds of misfortune, I fear



In Over My Head

The inevitable happened.  Not only did I not blog, I didn’t blog two days in a row.  I was prepared for an onslaught of outrage from the desperate masses.


I would open my curtains in the morning, and my god, the people! the upset! The crying out for my blood! My words! No place is safe, I’ve let everybody down, two days in a row.

Marie Antoinette

Believe me, it’s not from lack of interest, it’s from lack of time.  I haven’t been luxuriating in doing-nothingness.


I’m hardly toiling in a cotton field, I love what I am do.  I am just super busy balancing three jobs, living life like I am walking a tightrope over the Grand Canyon.  Trying to remember all the separate details for all the individual jobs, trying to not cross wires, trying to be everything for everyone.  Trying to give 100% x 3.  My head is so full of so much, that I couldn’t possibly open another compartment in my mind to allow for creative thought.


And so, what can be eliminated to reduce the stress? Well, the blog.  Although, it was kind of an accident, not writing.  The first time was after a day of endless work. We then stepped out to see my brother’s band play, and there was a moment, at 11:40pm, and knowing that I wouldn’t get it done.  And you know what? Midnight struck, and the walls of my life did not collapse.  The sky did not fall, and the people were not outraged.  Which was only slightly disappointing.  I mean, maybe the people were mildly devastated, but I heard nothing in regards to the lamentations of the fans who rely on my blog as one would on oxygen.


Anyhoo, a million apologies for my unavailability.  I relish the level of normalcy my life will take on after the September long weekend.   I will have one job, get back to my weekly yoga practice, fall into a new writing routine.  And most importantly, I will exhale so strenuously, that I might swoon from the relief of having so little on the go.

marie 2Images Courtesy of Google

Butter Fingers

We have very few drinking glasses around the house because I always accidentally break them.  We have an uneven number of bowls and plates because they slip from my fingers, as if my digits were made of melting butter. My husband calls me ‘goat‘…because I’m always ramming into doorways, and knocking things with my ‘hoofs’.


If I’m a pygmy goat then my husband is a bear.


In our small townhouse, he often crowds me. He’s well over a foot and a half taller than myself,and our kitchen is so small that when he makes his tea and toast in the morning, I can’t be in the same room.  This is frustrating and I occasionally retaliate, and ram him the way a goat would when cornered.  This is us, in happier times frolicking in a winter wonderland.  Ben’s getting a little silly with this tire, I really don’t know where that came from.         Goat-Bear2

Tonight, about to step out onto our outdoor enclosure, I reach the cord for the blinds.  It’s a plastic rod that requires delicate handling, but history proves that goats aren’t good at dexterity.  I’m yapping away, squawking about nothing in general, looking over my shoulder when I twist the plastic rod, which then rips from the hook.  In fact, not only did I rip it from the hook, I yanked the hook from the base, which then lunged into the open air vent, making this wonderful metallic rattling all the way down into a deep black hole.  Ben, the stoic bear, leapt to action, fetching the flashlight to explore the vent.

polar-bear-leapingI stood behind him, in my pastel pajama pants, wringing my hands apologetically.


The piece is gone, down the drain and heading somewhere towards Mexico by now.  Now we’ll have to open and close the blinds, Ben needs to reach up and pinch the remaining bit of broken plastic and drag it to and fro.  Personally, I think it adds something to the general ambiance of the room.

thanks for listeningImages Courtesy of Google

Loyal Tenenbaums

While poking around the library I happened upon “The Royal Tenenbaums”.

The_Royal_Tenenbaums 7I had been thinking about this movie, but had difficulty finding it.  I love this movie.  I’m going to toss a declaration out there and say that this is my most favorite ever.  More than “Annie Hall”.  More than “Amelie”. More than “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”.


I vividly remember seeing this movie at the cinema.  Everyone I was with hated it, but for me, it was a revelation.  I loved the style, the detail, the melancholic mood, the music, the actors, the characterizations, the story…shall I go on?  It’s so sad and funny, cynical and nostalgic, hopeful and pessimistic and most importantly, is deeply romantic.  After the film ended, I had stars in my eyes, swooning over the whole damn thing.  But it was the clandestine love between Margot and Richie that appealed to my romantic sentiment.

margot-and-ritchie-2-686I was twenty years old when this film came out in 2001; my love for this film never wavers, it simply grows old with me.  In fact, I notice different things every time I view it.


And this evening, after a long hot work day, my husband and I tucked in with pizza, ice-cold pear cider and this movie.  And then I got a little bit drunk.  And it was wonderful.


And so, if I may, I’ll finish with my favorite scene from the movie.  This gets me in my heart every time.

Images Courtesy of Google, YouTube

Cougar Town

I had a very long day, one that started at 6:00am and ended around 10pm.  And it was non-stop jungle madness.  I feel stupefied with exhaustion.  I sort of shuffled through the front door, plunked down on the couch, in the attire from my third job, delicious black polyester pants, a rich burgundy collared top with a shiny name tag.

woman-on-fainting-coach_yellow-brown-blue-exhaustion-vintage-glam_amy-neunsingerI feel like I can hardly string a sentence together.  I know that I really need to go to bed, but I’m sitting here, with the computer on my lap watching “Cougar Town” with a great deal of interest and intensity.  This show is something I’ve heard of, but never seen.  And it’s…a little bit horrifying.  Courteney Cox what the hell did you do to your face?  Seriously? How do you go from dancing in the dark with Bruce Springteen…

Bruce Springsteen

…to scaring the hell out of children because you look like the a wax rendition of the Joker, but placed  somewhere in the hot Sahara desert.  I’ll never understand why people do that to themselves, and as far as “Cougar Town” is concerned, it’s just so damn distracting.  I feel like a boozy toddler trying to write now.  I’m feeling like Courteney Cox’s face, totally messed up and completely out of sorts.


Golly, poor crossed eyed me.  It’s time for sleep, if I have any hope of looking fresh faced in the morning.

screen-shot-2012-06-21-at-2-14-37-pmAll Images Courtesy of Google

Hello, Norma Jeane

My husband bought me a lovely little present.  A 1956 Rambler 500 bicycle, blue with white trim and a wire basket.  She’s a rough old girl, but she just needs a little loving, a little sprucing.

On the drive home, I think about what I would name her. I’m big on naming things.  My bicycle in Australia was Miss Daisy, my car, Cracking Rosie. In a downtown apartment I lived in my early twenties, I stuck a label above my mail box that said ‘H. Golightly’.   Any excuse to make a movie/book/music reference I guess.  What would I  call her?

She’s icy blue, and classy as hell, how about Grace Kelly?

grace kelly

But she’s also a sweetheart, maybe Doris Day?


Is there anything cuter than Audrey Hepburn?

bike audry

I love Carole Lombard, and who doesn’t want room for your dog? (I’d like to give a shout out to my good friend Harriet for this one).


Should Igo for something exotic, Brigitte Bardot?


Maybe something short, a la Twiggy?

twiggy I reckon this bike is a bit feisty, if she talked maybe she’s sound like Katherine Hepburn.


I won’t commit just yet,  I think.  Riding around the parking lot, on this nearly sixty year year old bicycle, I think about when she was brand spanking new.  And all the people that owned her.  This bitch has seen some things.  And so I named her Norma Jeane.  And then the bike belonged to me, even though we had already purchased her and bought her all the way home.

mm bike

(Just a snap of me riding bikes with Audrey Hepburn.  I think the bicycle is rather slimming, don’t you?)


All Images Courtesy of Google

The Perks of Being a Cry Baby

Just come back from a walk around the block. That has to happen sometimes, especially after a particular emotional movie.  And I wasn’t expecting this from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower“, I just wasn’t. Then again, as my husband says, the list of movies that make me cry is far longer than movies that haven’t made me cry.  And he’s gotten kind of used to it, my sniveling, the ever mounting structure of soaking wet tissues, and worse, my pretending that I’m not crying, which is just embarrassing for everyone.  And eyes don’t bleed water, you can’t butch it up either.


Anyhow, Ben had to sort of pack me up like a baby, and get me out walking, like getting fresh air after mild carbon monoxide, I have to cleanse my cinematic palette.  Something about trees and traffic that wrench you from the agony of fiction.  Once, in Australia, we had to do this after I brought home “A Single Man“.

single man  

Designer Tom Ford directed this movie, and got a bit of mention in fashion magazines.   This movie is so stylish, so elegant, apparently shots were filmed with a silk stocking over the camera to create this dreamy, filmy look.  This movie also snapped me like a twig. It certainly falls in the category of ‘once is enough’ category.  I would highly recommend this heartbreaker, but for me, it’s too emotional to repeat.


That is pretty rare, as I usually prefer a film the second time around.  But when it’s so upsetting that you have to literally come to terms with just happened,  Once is more than enough.   I feel this way about “Life is Beautiful“, I couldn’t even talk about that movie after I saw.  It won a bunch of Oscars, and then Roberto Benigni went out and remade Pinocchio, which wasn’t the thing to follow a stunning Holocaust-themed picture.


I would absolutely watch “The Perks of Being A Wallflower” again…eventually.  This film it got me right in the heart.  I won’t even venture into the plot, as its a relatively recent film, and I won’t want to spoil it.  But it’s really special.  There was such vulnerability it choked me up a couple of times.

hankySo, maybe it was a really touching movie, or I am slowly descending into some kind of premenstrual madness.  Perhaps a little of Column A and a little of Column B.  That’s the point of a good story, either it’s amusing, educational or cathartic.  Sometimes it’s a little mixed bag of all three.  “Wallflower” does a good job of mixing light with dark, humor blended with serious issues.  And you want so badly for the protagonist to be well, find that place to belong, and be safe there.

wall flower

I’m such a sucker for a well told  tale, my little heart will absorb it, and hold on it, and I will carry it along with my own memories.  And I will mourn the losses and failures of characters who were created by other writers who might just feel the same way I do: ” Happy and sad all at the same time [and] still trying to figure out how that could be”.

perksImages Courtesy of Google

Stranger Danger

Yesterday I was in the grocery store, doing the weekly shop with my husband.  Passing through the dairy aisle, I noticed an elderly gentleman, hands gripping the cart, his expression totally blank.


Now, it is not uncommon for me to straight up approach a stranger.  It doesn’t surprise my husband in the least, who keeps pushing the trolley down towards the freezer aisle.

“Are you alright?” I ask the man, gently resting my hand on his wrist.  In the cart was supplements and margarine.

“Yes…I just don’t what I’m looking for”.

He looks so lost that it breaks my heart.  I wish him luck with his shop, and continue on my way.

As I near the freezer aisle, I notice a sample table with strawberry tarts and whipped cream.  I get the tart, and seek out the man, who was now staring blankly at the shelves with napkins and other paper products.


As I approach him, I am stricken with a splash of panic.  Who am I to just walk up to strangers and touch them, ask after them and then bring them dessert, just because I sense sadness or loneliness in them?


But I push on, and offer the man the tart, who takes it, and holds it with both hands and takes a long look at it.  I put my hand on his arm and gave it a gentle stroke.  He smiled warmly at me, and I left him to his tart in the paper aisle.

I can’t resist reaching out like this sometimes.  You can count on me to compliment a stranger’s outfit, offer to take a family photo for other holidaymakers, crack a joke in the hospital waiting room, airport lounge, or in any kind of queuing situation.  I believe that you have the ability to change people’s day, and possibly their lives, with a tiny gesture.  This is the general story in “Amelie“, a young woman butting her nose into the lives of others, to try to brighten potential dark moods in the drudge of day-to-day existence.  Is that so wrong? Is that weird? I ask this of my husband, who sort of shrugs indecisively.

I don’t know.  Maybe it is a bit strange, a bit risky.  Sometimes I’ll offer to take someone’s photo and they look at me with disdain or mistrust.  Like I’m only pretending to help so I can run away with your shit.  I just want you to have a nice picture of your family on holiday.  Something frame-able.  I’ll keep on doing it because it’s in me to do it.  It’s worth the danger of offending someone, or being rejected.  To me, there’s nothing more dangerous than loneliness, and sometimes you just need to be reminded that you are a part of a giant cosmic web, and that you belong.  And I’ve only come by to say that I see you, I acknowledge you, I’d like to help you, and most importantly, that you are not alone.

love,movie,amelie,life,quote-68112d5354357332472d5dbd89df5ca1_hImages Courtesy of Google

Before Sunshine

Once, I was sitting in a sauna at the YMCA when I overheard a woman vehemently criticizing one of my all time favorite films, “Before Sunrise“.

before sun

“They just walk around…talking…the whole movie! Nothing happens”.

Nothing happens? Everything happens! Two people meet on a train and wander around Vienna, and talking about magic and memories, about spirituality, travel, life, death and metaphysical energy, and they fall in love in the process.  That’s the greatest night ever.  That’s everyone’s travel fantasy.  I was obsessed with this film in high school. What I would have given to meet a man like mid-90’s Ethan Hawke.  How I wanted to be ethereal and mysterious like a young Julie Delpy.   How I wanted to explore a European city– to go places, to have been places.  To have something to say and to truly be heard.

Still, I can appreciate the woman’s complaint.  The movie is hardly action packed, it is very much a conversation based piece.  There are no bad-guys or major obstacles, it’s extremely mellow.  It’s walking and talking.  But it’s impossibly romantic, and mildly philosophical slice of life picture.  Also, the photography is excellent and the actors have serious chemistry.  Ordinarily I would say something, I like to defend the things I love, but she didn’t deserve to understand how special this film was.


“Before Sunset” followed a few years later, and I also love that film.  The original has an ambiguous ending, and so the follow-up was completely necessary and totally satisfying, like catching up with old friends.  Most recently a third film was released.  Sadly it was not released in my city, but I wait with bated breath the day I get to experience “Before Midnight“.


As for today, my husband and I, worn down from the week, had downgraded a planned night out for dinner and a movie, to nachos and rented DVD‘s.  At the Movie Mart, I spotted the series on a shelf.  Four dollars for both films, I’d be a fool not to snap them up.  And so, while my husband played a bit of X-Box, I tucked into the office, a place I have not spent much time, and half-watched the film as I puttered about.  What I love about this movie, now almost twenty years old, is that within the scenes and dialogue are my own memories and aspirations: what I wanted for my life, where I wanted to go, who I wanted to meet.  How this film reflected a romantic version of the life I craved.   I grew up in a small town, and had a perfectly dark and difficult youth.  This movie was so light and lovely that it genuinely brought joy into my claustrophobic existence.   To watch it now, many years since the last time– having traveled, having found love, having grown up–it’s interesting to compare the then to the now.  And it’s the strangest feeling, how you can suddenly feel like a teenaged girl and a grown woman at the exact same time, like this cinematic quantum leap; like being able to tell your younger self: You will go somewhere. You will meet someone.  You will be alright.

Images Courtesy of Google