This notion I can provide support for all the way back to my childhood in farm town Saskatchewan. Picture my entire school being obsessed with Ace of Base in the early 90s. Picture me going up to the DJ at a school dance and requesting Meatloaf or The Cranberries because I couldn’t bear to hear The Sign another time without retching. It was weird and seemed a little wrong.

Following my move to blue collar town Alberta, I encountered something new. The kids there listened to Nirvana. At that time, I’d discovered The Doors and could have gladly spent my life listening to their greatest hits album but I felt like I was closer to being right. I was still wrong because I didn’t like Nirvana (and don’t to this day) but I faked my way through until I discovered punk music and joined an entire counter culture of kids who were just as wrong as I was.

My friends and I took some pride in the fact that we were misfits and no other group would accept us as we were. It wasn’t for lack of trying though. I was as much a social butterfly then as I am now but my main group of friends from high school is the one I still hold on to today. We were from different schools in different towns and all felt like we had few people to rely on outside of our group so we encouraged originality and grew in our wrongness. I became quirkier while some of the others began travelling down some very dark paths. Some of them remain there still. They’re not bad people but they make mistakes, just like we all do, but most people would consider them wrong for doing what they do and me wrong for caring about them.

Fast forward to my adulthood. I can’t tell you how many things were wrong with me over the last several years (but I’m going to try).

Let’s kick things off with a bang – I don’t believe in God. I don’t think I ever really have or ever will. According to the majority of the religious community (in my experience) this makes me wrong, and not as in ‘I don’t fit’ wrong, as in ‘I’m wrong because God exists’ wrong. I’ve been told by perfect strangers that I am going to hell because of my belief system. I’ve been told the same thing by friends and I probably have family who have already closed the tab, refusing to read any further. Are they wrong? No. They’re entitled to their opinions. They can believe what they want to believe. I don’t like it when it gets forced down my throat. But me? I’m the one who’s wrong.

Moving on to work. This is a hard one for me… I always feel so torn. In Alberta, my career was one of the few places where I felt that I fit. The problem that I had with my professional community though, was that everyone was and is encouraged to think ‘outside the box.’ Since removing myself from it, I’ve seen that even our most forward of thinking was, in some senses still ‘in the box’ because it had to fit within some very careful parameters of what was considered to be best practice. Without getting too into things (another post about my work is likely to surface soon enough), I believe in inclusion as the ideal but I currently work in a segregated school and it works for these kids. In fact it often works better. How do I know? Many of the kids I work with were in inclusive settings and they fell through the cracks, so now they’re in a segregated setting where they’re excelling. I believe that sometimes segregation works and that makes me wrong.

And since I seem to be trying to piss off my entire universe, let’s move on to my family. Don’t misunderstand though, I love my family and they love me. They’ve been supportive through all of my highs and lows while picking me up every time I crash and burn… but I’m wrong to them too. You see, I’m very left wing while the majority of my family (but not all) is pretty far to the right. To add insult to injury, I’m also the youngest sibling of three. I can’t possibly be right, ever. I’ve been credited for years by coworkers and friends for my astounding memory and attention to detail but when I go visit my family, I am credited for having a horrible memory and making things up as I go along because I couldn’t possibly remember such things and therefore, I’m wrong. Even when I have a good point, I’m wrong just because I’m wrong and I’m the youngest, most random, free-spirited, inexperienced, wrong person who ever wronged being wrong.

My environment (this time location versus family) has always been very conservative and yet I’ve come out on the opposite side of things. I’ve always stuck up for the little guy rather than driving over him with my pickup truck and could never understand why people did what they did. I’ve fought for the things that I believe but only ever have found myself right when I’m with kindred spirits (of which, I have a surprising amount in Alberta despite its dominant culture). I admit that we are the products of our environments but in my case, I seem to be the wrong product. So much so that I very recently compared visiting family in Alberta, to visiting family in jail. I never felt right there and I don’t think I ever will. I applaud those friends who can feel at home there as it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do.

In terms of my relationships, I seem to have somehow shown that sometimes two wrongs can lead to a right. Or maybe I’m wrong about that too (let’s hope not).

In recent years, I’ve relocated my life and my wrongness to a city where I don’t feel so wrong any more. Here, I feel encouraged to have unique taste in music, my friends once again find me weird but not uncomfortably so, my lack of religion is a non-issue, I’m enamored with my profession, and my family still loves me even if it’s at a distance. Somehow, by following my overwhelming sense of incompatibility with the world, I found a place where not only am I okay, I can finally be right and feel at home.

Some people (near and far) still tell me that it seems wrong to be so far from my roots but I can honestly say that life has never felt so right.

I’m all too aware that Facebook is a large part of my life and my society but I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from it and the response from my friends list has been sweet and touching.  It seems that when I take a break from our favorite online social network, people start to think that there’s something wrong.

I guess the irony of the situation is that in some regards, there is something wrong… but not with me.

Over the last year, I’ve become increasingly disenchanted with my online life.  I always knew that by creating an online profile I had eradicated much of my privacy and would learn things about the personal lives of others but I didn’t recognize the powerful negative influence that these things could achieve.

From the beginning, I was painfully aware of status updates which were written just for the sake of writing something.  I swore I would not write anything overly mundane or obvious such as “Shauna is at home” or “Shauna has socks on.”

As time continued on, there were also horrid grammatical errors which made my skin crawl but I could deal with those too (two, to).

Now my biggest beefs are those which state the obvious or overly announced…  MJ is dead! (ok, fine).  GO OIL/RIDERS/JAYS/OTHER FAVE SPORTS TEAM! (meh).  It’s snowing!  (No shit, I can see out the window).  Or… x% of the world is affected by ___.  If you support ___ copy and paste this rather than saying something original and/or donating money to this cause (I’m left-wing and support just about everything except intolerance and hypocrisy but I really dislike these – sorry!!).

I know I sound like a jerk but these are things which all combined have been eating at me.  I’ve even gotten in moods where the worst offenders of the day get removed from my friend list.  Sad, eh?

But it’s just the beginning.

In the past if we wanted to kvetch about work, we did it.  We always had to be careful what we said to whom but we could go off if need be.  Now we can’t.  I know.  I’ve gotten my wrist slapped for it.  Granted in this instance, I was at fault and shouldn’t have written what I wrote… but I was upset and vented a little too openly.  I didn’t post pictures or give names or do anything overly taboo but I overstepped my bounds and I recognize the error of my ways.

I’ve never been too cautious about who I accepted as friends but as time goes on, I am leery of not only who my friends are online but also in person.  It’s not that I dislike or distrust the people who I work with, it’s that there are elements to my life which I want to keep private from my professional life and vice versa.  If I want to whine about my job, I want to do so without fear of it travelling down the grapevine to my superiors or to other eyes/ears which have no business knowing.  I am also aware that with today’s privacy laws, I am legally not allowed to whine with any amount of detail other than “I had a rough day” for fear of losing my job and/or facing a lawsuit.  I have become blatantly aware that I can get along with my coworkers and have them in my life without having them *in* my life.  I’ve drawn a line out of necessity… FB taught me that I need to keep these worlds separate.  Bizarre.

Because it continues on.

Have you seen the new “See Friendship” link?  It’s completely taken the work out of cyber-stalking by presenting all information (i.e. wall posts, pictures, events, etc.) between two friends… or non-friends, depending on their privacy settings. Creepy.

And the privacy settings.  Remember to update yours frequently because they set to default each time FB updates them.  This leaves you very vulnerable to prying eyes.

And on.

How about those people who must include profanities in every aspect of their profile.  Or talk about their drug use.  Or include “Getting wasted” as one of their favorite activities.

I have a mouth like a trucker and a liver the size of your head but that doesn’t mean it should be the sole focus of everything on my profile (Note that I have removed some pictures which would indicate otherwise… haha).  My rule has always been that if I wouldn’t want my Mom to see it, then I won’t put it on anyone’s profile.  I highly recommend using this guideline.

While I’m on interests, I also need to mention my firm dislike of all those bloody things which FB users can “like.” I really don’t think it’s necessary to give a thumbs up for “Steak and a blowjob day” or anything else which is equally irrelevant.  Support your friends, support a cause, support the arts or support yourself but on occasion, it’s okay to support not clicking a link just for the sake of clicking.

Furthermore, did you know that if you’ve clicked “like” on a sponsored page, that I can see you’ve liked it when I (or anyone else depending on your privacy settings) go to said page?  These links are smearing your information all over the internet.  Arg.

Oh wait there’s more.

It seems that some people only ever use FB to complain about how horrible things are.  Certainly there must be some silver lining or an entertaining way to view misfortune from time to time.  Yes?

I’ve had friends argue through their status updates rather than talking about their issues. Or keeping their opinions to themselves.  Or walking away.

I have found out about the deaths of old friends on FB.  And engagements or weddings.  And babies.  And relationships or the demise of said relationships.  Shouldn’t I find out about at least some of these things in person.  Or via phone.  Or good old-fashioned gossip?

And don’t get me started on FB chat.  I haven’t gone on there since a married man friend of mine tried to online sex me up while his wife was at work.

Le sigh.

The questions which remain are these:  What now?  Do I need to remove my all of my friends and start over on a highly exclusive basis?  Should I reset all of my privacy settings (again)?  Should I create two separate profiles (one personal, one for everyone else)?  Do I continue to shut my yap out of fear?

I know I’ve committed a lot of atrocities via FB, primarily smearing my personal life all over it, but I’ve also learned some tough lessons through doing so.  I’ve put the brakes on and learned caution in what I post but now I’m not sure how do I regroup and reformulate my relationship with my online buddies.  I’ve had the honor of reconnecting with long-lost friends.  Some I’ve even had the opportunity to visit in person.  I suppose that I ultimately fear losing future chances of reuniting with people from my past if I’m too particular now.  I’ll figure it out, this I know.  Until then, I’ll continue on with less frequent updates and photo changes but I’ll still be around, not to worry.

And the irony of me posting this blog entry to my profile is not lost on me.

Peace out.

I have been battling fears about turning 30 for the last year (plus).  Although I know I’m still young and I have a lot of time, I fear the cease-function of my reproductive system and my lack of direction in career.  I fear the internal need to meet (presumed) expectations and my inability to commit to a life path.

What I am excited about is opportunity.  My 20′s were chaotic and traumatic.  I look forward to happiness and peace; to stability and control; to all the things which I felt I lacked over the last decade.  More than anything, I am eager to continue my 30′s with the new zest for life which was all but unknown to me until the last couple of years.

With this all said, the first month of my thirtieth year has exceeded expectations thus far.  I was able to venture out West to see my loved ones and meet my nephew, who was born during my stay.  I returned to a job which I adore and a special someone whose presence in my life is recent, wonderful and a complete surprise.

I feel strong, happy and fulfilled.  I don’t think life can get much better than this, regardless of age.

Oh and I can’t forget the most important thing – My ovaries did not spontaneously implode.  I guess 30 isn’t so bad after all.

xo

I can remember with vivid detail, flipping through my baby book to the list of potential names which my parents toiled over before deciding on the one which I bear today. As a true child of the ’80s, I was upset because I wanted to have a ‘cool’ name like Cindy. One day, my Dad started calling me Cindy just to interrupt my incessant whining and he met roaring success. I no longer wanted such a silly name. Mine suited me much better.

As time progressed, I learned how complicated my simple name could be. There have always been people who have known me for months or even years before learning the correct combination of my first, middle and family name. To make matters worse, I’ve adopted a series of nicknames over the years which makes the correct order of my name even more difficult to figure out. The discovery of my legal name in its correct form is most often followed by embarrassment on the behalf of the other person and reassurance that it always happens that way on mine. It’s turned into something of a non-issue since I’ve developed the preference for my ‘hyphenated’ name.

My middle name is complex both in its identification and history.  Although it’s a name passed down through generations to me, it wasn’t always that way and was only adopted by my family when they immigrated to Canada from the old country. It wasn’t a name that they liked but it stood out as being unique in an area filled with others bearing mutations of generic titles comparable to ‘John Smith’. After carrying the name for three generations, my mother, being an only child, wanted to pass it down somehow, so my parents lobbed her name in half and used the second piece as my middle name. I would like to pass it along one day too.

Perhaps the most fun I’ve had with my name has come with my travels over the last several years. I’ve learned that the pronunciation of my name is nearly impossible for those who are not native English speakers. It means crude things in some languages and is said with looks of confusion by speakers of others. I suppose there is the potential of this happening with anyone’s name but I still enjoy the giggle whenever it happens to me.

Regardless, these are just some of the things which make my name as unique as me. It would appear that sometimes all the fun is in the little details which often go overlooked.

So what is my name?  I guess you’ll just have to ask me to find out.

Life is splendid right now yet lacking interesting news, so I have been getting progressively more upset with myself for being unable to put words down. I suppose I could work on posts which are random and poorly thought out, but that’s never much fun for anyone (and often results in weird rambling posts such as this). The good news is that I may have come up with a fitting solution.

I was out for drinks with another writer friend last week and was telling the sad tale of my ongoing block. We were troubleshooting and trying to come up with resolutions to my problem when an idea struck me.

I want you to tell me what to write about. Yes, you.

Whether you email me with a random word or send me a Facebook message asking my opinion on such and such, it really doesn’t matter. I may not spit out your requests in a timely manner but I’m intrigued by the idea that by putting the ideas in your hands, I become limitless in what may come out.

It’s bizarre and random but I like it.

I’ve already received my first task, which came from my writer friend. He very recently took a Creative Writing class and has challenged me to complete the same series of assignments which were required work for him. Sadly, I will not get course credit for this work but I will get practice and if all goes well, I’ll likely join his Writing Circle, which is comprised of his former classmates. Good incentive, no doubt.

So, here goes… Wish me luck.

Despite my ability to rationalize staying in on just about any evening, I decided that I needed more substance for my meals this week, so I grudgingly threw some street clothes on and made my way to the nearest grocery store, noticing some ominous clouds making their way towards my part of town.

Once I had completed my power shop, I exited the store to discover that rain had started to fall but the sun was still shining  brightly (one of my favorite things).  I crossed the street and turned around to see a massive rainbow arcing from downtown all the way over the buildings in front of me and down the perpendicular street.  There were people stopped up and down the roads pointing and commenting.  Above the sounds of city traffic, there was a collective murmur of awe and appreciation.  It was beautiful.

Even without all the dramatic descriptors, we all know how I feel about rainbows, so I followed my instincts and whipped out my cell phone ready to take a picture as a keepsake.  I frantically started button mashing and it jammed up, unable to function with my anxious haste.  Disappointed, I rushed home, threw all of my purchases in the fridge, grabbed my camera and then raced outside to try to get a picture of the gloriousness which had graced me just a few moments earlier.

Sadly, the rainbow had all but disappeared by the time I made it to the park across the street but the smell of the rain lingered along with the memory of the almost picture perfect end to an otherwise normal day.

When I moved to Montreal, I did it under the premise that I was going to go to Journalism school.  I had finally found a career where I could combine my two greatest passions in life (writing and travel) and get paid for it.  I had grandiose dreams of all the places I would go, people I would meet and things I could write about…  But long before I had received my rejection letter in the mail, I had decided that Journalism was not something which suited me as well as I had originally thought.

While reading newspapers and magazines, I would see the very linear and monotone methods of reporting events and it simply didn’t appeal to me.  What I wanted to focus on were the more on editorial or column-type topics.  It was disheartening when I came to realize that not only is Journalism a dying industry but very few professionals ever make it to the level of writing which I so desperately thought I wanted to do.

I revisited the feelings which I had when I did some professional writing in the past. Although I had been told I had creative control, it was frequently pulled out from under me as there were just too many administrative items which needed to be included.  It was never anyone’s fault but it bothered me that I would pour my heart out into a really great article, which would then end up in the recycle bin and never be published.  I didn’t want to do that again.  If I was going to write, it had to be on my own accord.

As time progressed, I also realized that when I write, it’s more of a hobby rather than a career goal.  I enjoy writing in my leisure time and about topics which are relevant to me.  It’s a purely selfish pursuit which I don’t expect others to always appreciate.  I didn’t want to write on someone else’s agenda because I feel that whenever I do, the end result comes out contrived and convoluted.

My final revelation which became glaringly apparent is that I often use writing as a means of therapy.  I’ve never seen a counselor, nor do I plan to, but I believe that this is why my blogs sometimes present in a self-pitying tone.  It’s not that I’m depressed or seeking sympathy from others, it’s just that writing is often my means of venting.  Once words have been laid, they rest there and I feel cleansed.  I believe that this is the majority of the reason that since beginning my blog, my journaling has taken a rapid decline.  I now purge my thoughts for the world to see rather than keeping them in a password-protected .doc file.  It’s exposing but comforting at the same time.

It was while talking with my Mom one day that I finally admitted something which I had thought to be true for quite some time but had never so much as whispered to anyone:  I believe that I dreamed my dream of Journalism school as a reason to leave Edmonton.  The dream gave me a place to go and a goal to reach.   It was perhaps an excuse but one which people would understand and accept.  It was if I knew deep in the catacombs of my heart that if I said I needed to leave, just for the sake of leaving, that I would have encountered a lot more resistance from those who care about me.  I also know that for me, a very goal-oriented person, there was a need for something tangible to hold onto while I dove into the unknown.  I guess we all need our safety nets (whether perceived or real) from time to time.

Ironically, I now live a mere three blocks from the school which I once hoped to attend.  I pass by it often but only sometimes giving it a second glance.  Its relevance in my life is monumental yet hardly worth consideration.  I find it so amazing that time has a unique ability to show us how translucent our dreams can be while still leading us home.

I have my limits though and Mr. Lobster Claws broke through them without a backwards glance.

Over a year ago, I met Mr. LC on a dating website. Through various e-communications, I was fairly certain that we wouldn’t be a match romantically but I thought he was worth a shot and I was definitely open to a friendship if nothing else.

We met up one winter’s eve and went out to a very casual resto and had a very casual conversation. We had much in common but my initial impression was correct and a friendship was all that would ever come of it.

After a couple of hours of chatting, we were both gearing up to call it a night when he brought up a movie screenplay which he had been working on… a movie about psychic lobsters with razor blade claws.

I repeat, a movie about psychic lobsters with razor blade claws.

He got so excited about it that he told me nearly every last detail over the following 45 minutes…  I think there was some stuff about lasers too but I spaced out after realizing that I wouldn’t get a word in edgewise until he was done his tale of radioactive genetic mutations.  I know there was much more to it but my mind has dropped the strange and quirky details since.

Eventually, I was able to tame down his excitement about his project and was redirect his attention to the fact that we had been wearing our jackets and ready to leave for nearly an hour.  We parted ways and that was that.

I actually had a friend who shared this story as comic relief when he was on a date that wasn’t going well.  Sadly, his date thought he made it up because in her mind, there was no way such a story could exist in real life.  It ended the date then and there.  Maybe I should have passed on Mr. LC’s number so she could see for herself.

So yes… there is nerdy and then there’s too nerdy.  Even in my world.  Needless to say, Mr. LC and I never spoke again. C’est la vie.

In what way am I failing? I can’t commit.

I’m not sure of the reasons why I’m unable to do so but I think they can mostly be summed up by saying this: I have yet to find the right one.

I’ve found potential mates on websites, I’ve gone speed dating and I’ve dated friends as well of friends of friends but each time, it ends. Granted, things always end for different reasons but I’ve noticed that with the exception of my jaunt over to Europe, many of the almost-relationships I’ve had over the last few years come to a screeching halt when I can’t envision myself spending my life with that one individual.

I am constantly reminded of a couple of friends back home who would discuss their inability to commit and how it stems from a belief that humans are not designed for monogamy. I always found this belief scary and bordering on an excuse to run from things which hold the potential to cause pain but as I look back at my patterns, I wonder… am I not destined to spend my life with one person?

I’m not suggesting that I should live a life of promiscuity or polygamy but at the same time, long term commitments are something which I am unable to fathom right now. It’s a bizarre and threatening realization which makes me contemplative and concerned that I may be a crazy cat lady in the making (but I am allergic to cats, so I may collect plants instead).

Regardless, I’ve come to accept that I need to take a break from my random and poorly thought out attempts at finding love. I need to concentrate on my future endeavors regarding career, travel and leisure. I also need to refocus my attention onto my reasons for making my move across the country, namely to find myself and figure out what makes me tick. It’s an arduous process but one which requires completion.

In the meantime, I’ll be sharing some of my dating horror stories over the last couple of years but I will likely only share the cringe-worthy. I want to protect the innocent and be respectful because intermingled with the bad, there were also a couple of really good people who didn’t quite fit into my world. They deserve better than to have a smear campaign on my blog and believe it or not, there are some things which I prefer to keep to myself.

Be well. xo

Sadly, Bubbles is getting old and cranky. She’s slow to load the most simple of files and from time to time will completely crash when I make too many demands… ah yes, she is a true woman at heartdrive.

I’ve been promising myself a new computer for several months now but assumed I would have to wait until the fall once I had paid off a few things which required my financial attention. Much to my surprise though, my tax return this year is a whopping three times what I had budgeted for, so I was able to justify the expense several months before I had originally planned.

Bubbles will always have a soft spot in my heart. She’s been through a lot with me and although I am upgrading to a fancy new computer, I’ll surely keep her around for a bit even if it’s just for file storage and backups of my most cherished pictures.

… and I have no idea why I named her Bubbles. It just happened and it stuck. Hopefully my new computer will get a name equally ridiculous.