Sundogs

This morning my friend and I had to head out of town for a rural docket appearance. It's COLD here right now...freezing. We were driving down the highway with the sun on the horizon, in front of us and to the left. I caught sight of a short rainbow beside the sun...and shrieked with glee (can't shake the kid sometimes). My friend, who grew up in the North West Territories, exclaimed that it was probably Sundogs, and asked me, as navigator, to check and see if there was a matching one on the other side of the sun. Sure enough a pair of rainbows were visible flanking the rising sun.
It was beautiful, and something I've never seen before. Wikipedia obliged me with an explanation for the phenomenon (relatively common, actually...but totally beautiful.)

I Hope That I am Always Suprised by People

I heard a great story yesterday afternoon, "studying" in the library, from a friend of mine.
I have to describe my friend in order for one to appreciate how suprising the story was...and how marvelous.
My friend has a PhD in environmental sciences - I like to call him doctor...he seems to like that I call him doctor - Dr. "Bob". He's in his late thirties, early forties and is very intellectual - literally one of the smartest people I've EVER known. I've seen him lecture on various water issues, drainage patterns, the long term effect of the oil industry in Alberta - stuff An Inconvenient Truth was made of - except this was Dr. Bob's own research. He boggles my mind on a regular basis because he is so smart.
OK...so he's also...umm...how can I put this?? Not the burliest of men. Thin, tall, glasses, long face, small eyes...he's a cyclist. He's also very disarming...innocuous...the anthesis of "trouble." But he does have a wicked dry sense of humor and, as far as I'm concerned, a mischevious side that is just itching to get out.
Ok...so there's the description...now for the story.
Dr. Bob spent a whole bunch of time in Australia a few years back...sort of wandering and working and then some working and wandering. At some point he found himself in rural southern Australia, outside a small village near Melbourne working on a farm that sported vineyards producing delicious bottles of Shiraz. A quirk of the little hamlet was that a lot of Italian Mafioso apparently also own vineyards in this area...farms that grow lots of grapes, but nobody ever seems to pick the grapes, and yet they report stunning profits from the sale of their wines. Hmmm.
One day Dr. Bob was walking into town to run some errands: get a haircut, take his sleeping bag to a tailor for some repairs, pick up the mail from the post office. As he was walking down the main (and only street) in town, he approached the motel which was surrounded by every police vehicle within a 3 hamlet radius. He walked past the motel, and then thought to himself that he would like to speak to a police officer about an individual that had been working on the farm who had stolen some items from fellow workers and then fled town just days prior. Dr. Bob wished to know how to file a police report, so he turned back towards the motel and just as he was doing so two police officers pulled towards him in their vehicle. He approached the car, and placing his hands on the edge of the open drivers window, he said "good morning officers." However, rather than replying in a similar friendly tone, the two officers eyed him suspiciously. The one in the passenger seat said to his partner, "he matches the description," upon which Dr. Bob (slightly alarmed) said, "Pardon me?" Bad Cop gruffly snapped at him, "We ask the questions here, not you!" Good Cop (aka the Driver) then proceeded to ask him a series of questions about who he was, where he was from, why he wasn't carrying identification with him...all which were answered by Dr. Bob honestly and completely (from canada, living on a local farm, and he wasn't carrying identification with him because he was just out for a walk). Abruptly Good Cop asked Dr. Bob to step back from the car, and sped off.
Dr. Bob, slightly uneasy, carried on with the rest of his day.
Next day, he came back into down to pick up his repaired sleeping bag and stopped in at the post office. Postman knew Dr. Bob...heck as the only foreigner in town everyone knew Dr. Bob. "have you seen the paper today," asked postman. There on the front page of the paper was a story about the incident Dr. Bob had come upon the day prior. Apparently a very wealthy business man had been found murdered in the motel. The only witness to the crime was the prostitute he had hired, and she had identified her jealous boyfriend as the shooter...a man now on the lam. The article went on to describe how the police had "unknowingly" stopped the suspect and went on to describe in detail (right down to the clothes he was wearing and the green sleepingbag he was carrying), my friend, Dr. Bob. Dr. Bob was the prime suspect in a murder investigation and the supposed boyfriend of a local prostitute...Dr. Bob of the tree hugging, and spandex bike pants...Dr. Bob of the Nalgene water bottles and the left wing politics...Dr. Bob...a murder suspect.
So Dr. Bob went back to the farm and hid out (I'd like to think under the hay in the barn...but probably not) until the real killer was caught...just a few farms down the road...one of the Mafia vineyards. And the funniest parts of the story is the description of the real suspect - was he tall, and thin with round glasses and bike pants? Nope - he was a short, stalky, swarthy Italian with more hair than a grizzly bear. So much for matching the description.

Dusting off the Keyboard

Man, it has been a long time since I've followed through with my intentions to post anything.

What has come to pass in the last month has been plentiful, emotional, relaxing, stressful, overwhelming, joyous, etc etc etc. Crazy exams, trip back to Van...one down to Seattle, Christmas, ski trips, trip to Vancouver island, New Years on Denman island, family dynamics, old friends, relatives, boyfriend developments, reunions, engagements, health scares - it's been a long month. Really lots of fodder for posts...and yet now thinking on it...it seems too much to post in one fell swoop. No doubt it will creep into my posts in the future.

But now school has started again, life is resuming its normal, hectic pace. My apartment is resuming it's normal appearance which I feel is sort of indicative of what is going on in my life. I did a lot of cleaning this past weekend, and carted 4 garbage bags full of stuff down to the trash room. 4 of them...I have a little 500 square foot apartment. That's a lot of junk.

I had my first Intellectual Property class today. I'm excited for this class. I think it's highly relevant and pertinent to a lot of current events/pop culture. Just a brief class today...but did you know that apparently the Coca-Cola formula is a trade secret carried by only 2 people in the world? Apparently these two people are never allowed to fly on the same plane or even to be in the same building together lest they suffer the same sort of catastrophic death and the Coke recipe be lost for ever. Interesting...

What else? Oh...I've been invited to a sex toy party this Saturday night. Kind of like a tupperware party but selling entirely different sorts of plastic and rubber products. I've always been curious about these and I'm very excited to attend.

Hmmm...maybe enough for tonight...

(Un)Familiarity.

Hmmm...1AM...writing a paper that's due tomorrow. It's been a long time since I've been here. I have "fond" memories of pulling all-night paper writing parties with my roommates in university. Each of us in our own corner; frantically writing and smoking, writing and smoking; sporadically testing out seemingly brilliant phrases on eachother; round of cheers for each additional page written; willing the printer to spew pages just a bit faster; screeching up to the school, abandoning the car - doors open, keys still in the ignition - and sliding the paper into the drop box just as the secretary is packing up to go home. It was always so satisfying to see a classmate running up the stairs as you were strolling down. Kind of got a bit smug - ha...so I wasn't the last one.
OK, so not that much drama this time around. The paper will be finished in plenty of time...but it does bring back memories.

So I have to buy a Xmas present for the new man friend. Admittedly, commitmentphobic me is somewhat wary about this new development. It'll be a month...ONE month...uno...un...yi...a single...and now we're buying presents?? But I talked to the friend, the set-us-up matchmaking friend, and apparently MF was probing her for ideas. He used the word "we" tonight too. So casually, "My sister wanted "us" to come tobogganing tonight, but I told her that "we" couldn't make it tonight because "we" were busy." And I say "Oh, that's too bad...I would love to go! It sounds like fun!"...but I'm thinking - Who's busy? I'm busy...I'm writing my paper. But you're not busy...so who's we? He and me...that's what he meant. So what does that mean? Does that mean girlfriend?? Admittedly I've tried it on a few times these past couple of days, just a couple of test runs in a safe environment - "Boyfriend brought me flowers to cheer me up", "I made boyfriend chicken soup on Friday because he was sick." I think the hives are starting to go down now...And what does he mean - his sister wants "us" to come? So his sister knows about me? We're going to double date with his sister? Sisters don't like their brother's girlfriends...I don't cope well with that...I am NOT used to NOT being liked! And there's that word again - girlfriend. He wants me to meet f-a-m-i-l-y?? Breathe Lindz, just breathe...serenity now...count to ten...ommm.


And though my instinct is to booty-call old MF in order to sabatoge this new situation, I am going to fight the instinct. I like this new one. He knows I'm neurotic, he's dealing with my exam anxiety, he says he can handle it. He's so calm, and steady and trusting of everything: me, our relationship, life. He knew I was working late tonight, and he works the night shift, so he suprised me with coffee on his Tim Horton's run. He's good, this one.
So, if it means that I have to buy a gift after only a month...then I'll buy a gift after only a month. See...heart rate is slowing, eye is ceasing to twitch...see, you can do this! It's funny cause it's only when I'm not with him that I'm neurotic...when I'm left to stew with my own thoughts and envision all the scenarios in which the rug gets pulled out from under me and I get screwed.
So...a gift...I've got part of it under control, but I'm not so confident in the rest of it...has to be thoughtful, yet not too personal...and the type-A in me says "self, you are NOT a crappy gift-giver...get it right" and so I stress. I mean I'm the person that starts shopping for Xmas in June so that I get it right. I have a gift drawer...I've bought wedding gifts for my friends who are yet to be coupled and baby gifts for my friends yet to be impregnated. Type A...that's what I said. Thoughtful, and yet not too personal....right...

Deja vu??

So I was going to write a post today, and then I had this vision of writing it before. So I scrolled back through my posts only to discover that, in fact, I already had.

So does this mean that I am totally unoriginal? Or does it mean that it's a notion that is near and dear/undecided in my mind?

I'm inclined to think the latter. I'd like to think the latter...but then it was only a post about salad dressing, so perhaps not.

Something beautiful

I know advertising is awful...gets into your head and creates a consumer out of you. But sometimes the writers of ads just have a vision...and they create something beautiful.
My friend showed this one to me this evening. He says the entire thing was filmed in a single take one afternoon in San Francisco. Apparently they parked a truck filled with rubber balls at the top of a hill and opened it up and let them roll.
I think the results are
spectactular

I've taken to watching it on study breaks...kind of soothing.

From my early morning family law class

RE: the effect of lifestyle choices on custody orders:

"Most judges lived through the 60s and 70s...they don't really care if you smoked a joint every now and then. They probably have all smoked a joint at one point. Pot is not such a big deal.

Now CRACK, crack is a BIG deal."

And thus I was awake.

Some Kind of Warped Radar?

Why is it that men wait until you have moved on and are happy with a new guy to come back and say all the things you wanted them to say while you were together?

Is it some kind of twisted radar...they sense that you are happy or that you're seeing someone new and they take that as their cue to come sweeping back into your life?

I'm not trying to be bitter or spiteful...I'm honestly curious. I didn't say a damn thing to guy #1 about guy #2. Not a damn thing. So how does he know??

When it rains it truly does pour...that's the truth of it...relationships cycle in monsoons and droughts. Why is it that the monsoon season coincides with exams...that's really my question.

And why does it have to be so damn cold here...I just want to set up a command station from my bed and never leave.

Butterflies

Second date tonight...I'm way more nervous about this one.
Damn those expectations!

Ill-timed, but Uncontrollable

I am newly twitterpated. Mr. So-Good-On-First-Date, I had a fleeting moment where I understood why some might be so quick to jump on a plane to Vegas.
We went for a winter walk to half admire, half make fun of the Christmas lights. We gave hot apple cider to the homeless guy that asked us for change. We talked for hours and hours until the wee hours of the morning.
He's so good on paper - firefighter, in the process of adopting an abused half-German Shephard half-Lab puppy. She's only six weeks old and was found basically beaten to within an inch of her life. He's handy and is a ticketed auto mechanic. He's from BC, a Canucks fan, a go-cart enthusiast AND a hobby photographer. We both shoot with Nikon cameras and are snobs about them. He wants to go skydiving. He likes artsy films and has seen more of Stanley Kubrick's films than I have. We have the same favorite movies and his mom is a quilter (my mom isn't a quilter, but a home made quilt is the thing I covet most in the world). He brought me a single red rose.
We played the scar game, which is rather sexy, really. You know...like the I'll show you mine if you show me yours but re: scars. He beat me with a dirt bike accident induced compound fracture/skin graft.
But with exams right around the corner...I just don't know. This is NOT a great time.

Awed

I just finished reading perhaps the most awesome book I have read in years: Atonement, by Ian McEwan. He won the Booker prize for his previous book, Amsterdam, but this author is phenomenal...and that is not an embellishment.
To nutshell the book, it is about a young girl; she is an author; she has a wild imagination. She has an older sister and a brother, and her brother's school chum is the maid's son who has had a smouldering love affair brewing for years with the older sister. She has two cousins who come to the house for an extended visit. She is 13. It is 1935 in England. You read the back of the book and it says essentially, that this 13 year old will commit a crime that will reverberate through the lives of the characters and all the way through the war. The book, however, opens up in this lovely pastoral scene: birds chirping, lovely English manor, witty repartee between the characters. You, as the reader, cannot fathom how the author is going to get from this lovely point a, to the awfulness which is promised in the summary. And yet he does. And I'm not going to spoil it for you. It just simply must be read.
As an author, what McEwan truly excels at is understanding the vulnerability and the arrogance of humans. He understands how a nice tableau of life can just unravel and how once things have inertia, they are unstoppable. He understands that actions are set in motion not with one big decision, but are rather a culmination of seemingly meaningless, thoughtless, mundane events in life.
He writes his characters with sympathy, and yet holds them accountable for their actions. You love them, and feel compassion for them, and yet cannot forgive them for what they have done. And that makes them real.
I realize that I haven't given much of a plot summary at all, but the beauty of this book is that you are continually suprised. After finishing it, I read a number of reviews on the internet and was a bit miffed at those which gave away plot details. It is best to go in blind.
The other thing I love about this author is that he writes prose...true descriptive beautiful prose. More like a 19th century author than anything modern, and yet he is contemporary. Critics have compared him, and I agree, to Virginia Woolf. Yet, I would add that his writing is, in my opinion, far more accessible than Woolf's. Perhaps it is the modernity of his language that give me this impression.
If I had to choose one novel to recommend...perhaps even of the last 5 years, it would be this one. It is nothing short of phenomenal.

Could you repeat that?

You know you've been friends with someone for awhile when you start to hear reruns of their favorite life stories...or sometimes you can even recite their favorite stories ("Hey 'Cole...I have a penis and you have a vagina, right??" would be one of my personal favorite friend stories - thank's 'Cole...I still get a chuckle out of that one).
But this is not my point...
Sometimes in your idle chitchat with your good friends they just slip something into the conversation...just nonchalantly, casually, and it causes you to double take. More often then not there is a diamond in the rough story behind it. Like today, my blond haired, blue eyed friend and I were chatting about travelling and she mentioned that she wanted to go to Africa and visit her "dozens of aunts and uncles." And then in the next breath she was talking about something entirely different. ...hold on, rewind, back up, explain yourself. Not just anyone has dozens of aunts and uncles, nor a single African aunt or uncle...and it's not every day that you meet someone with dozens of African aunts and uncles...and I certainly have never met a blond haired, blue eyed person with dozens of African aunts and uncles. There's story there...I could smell it.
I love my childhood friends...there is a certain comfort, a level of trust there...almost more like a sibling than a friend. But friends you make as an adult...there's always suprises, there's a whole life worth of stories. And people certainly do lead facinating lives.
One of my favorite I-have-five-minutes authors is Robert Fulghum. He wrote things like "All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten", and "Uh-Oh - Observations From Both Sides of the Refridgerator Door." But one of his more interesting books conceptually is one called "True Love." Now granted, even a romantic like me can only take this book in small doses, but if I recall correctly what he did was set himself up at a coffee shop. Stuck a sign on his table that said something to the effect of, "tell me a story about love, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee." It was a success...he amassed some amazing stories...and not just about romantic love either.
My mother laughs at me because invariably when we go shopping I wind up striking up a conversation with someone in a store. I can't help myself. People are interesting.

OCD??

Why is it that some days I frantically and compulsively check my frequently read blogs for new postings? Some times I go for days without reading them, and then all of a sudden I just crave new postings. And I get really upset when I don't get them. What are you all doing?? Where is my daily dose?? Not even a measly comment to wet my whistle.
I'll keep checking...someone is bound to post something sometime.

Barking in my dreams

Last August we put my old lab, Maverick, to sleep. He was thirteen and a half years old, he had hip problems, was almost completely blind, was losing his hearing. In the last few months of his life he grew stiffer and stiffer until he could no longer climb the stairs. A walk just down the block would take up to a half hour, with him painfully and gingerly hobbling the whole way. Sometmes when he was just standing his hip would all of a sudden just give out, and he would be unable to get to his feet again.
His eyes were still young though...I'll never forget the day we took him to the vet, and he looked at us with such trusting eyes as the vet gave him the shot. So calm, so warm, so young...his eyes were like warm chocolate and the friendliest things you'd ever seen, unless he felt he had to defend us. Then...watch out.
Several months ago I heard about this book, Marley & Me, by John Grogan. It's about the life of his lab. It took me all this time to get up the courage to read it. I still miss my dog, in unexpected ways.
It's a phenomenal book...I laughed harder than I have in a long time. But I cried my eyes out. Sobbed, really, to the point of red and puffy eyes. Like the next day I woke up and my eyes were swollen almost completely shut. But it was cathartic. Lab owners are all the same, same kind of people, same kind of experiences. More often than not they have the same temperament as their dogs: enthusiastic, alert, friendly and a little bit reckless. So I identified with the writer. But more importantly, the little silly, annoying, destructive things that labs do...the lovely, friendly, affectionate things that they do. All of those were there. And it made me love my dog all the more...it reminded me of all of those things that he used to do. It made me happy to remember that.

I realized today that it's been awhile since my last post.
Life is chaotic, there's been a pity party or two, a lost election, a trip home, a paper written and a lot of self-indulgence.
I should be back...soon.

Another world

I live downtown. I love the noise and the bustle: the horns, and the flurry of people and the rumble of the traffic, and the clouds of steam coming from sidewalk grates. I love the glimpses of blue sky in between tall towers - or even better, the reflection of clouds in the windows of skyscrapers. I love the concrete jungle. I love it because I never feel alone, I never feel alienated, I always feel like I'm at the heart of things. I've never wanted to be the center of attention, but I've always wanted to be at the center.

I woke up this morning, and the first thing I heard was the weather report. It had been snowing all night, and everyone was whining about the state of the roads. I love that feeling when you are cozy in your bed, kitten curled up in the crook of your arm, and you can see outside the soft falling snow. I always sleep with my curtains drawn: 1) I like to wake up to natural light when I can, 2) the way my windows face, no one really can see in, 3) I like to contemplate the weather before I get out of bed. So I contemplated the snow for a moment, and then I was roused from my warm cocoon by the smell of freshly brewing coffee. (New coffee pot...auto shut off (yeah, I'm not going to burn the house down by forgetting to turn it off)...and delayed brew (I love to wake up to fresh coffee))....

I take the train to school...so the condition of the roads and the disaster of traffic concerned me not. I sliced myself the last of the banana bread, poured my coffee into my spill proof travel tumbler, and headed out into the snow.

I've commented on the silence of snow before, I think. I love to take a walk in the falling, or newly falling snow because it's so peaceful. The world seems muted, clean, calm, quiet. But I've usually considered this in the context of walks through the forest, or along the sea wall - things of that nature. This morning when I walked outside of my building, I was treated to the same effects on the city. No hustle, no horns, no traffic rumbling - just quiet, slow, muted whiteness. No concrete jungle, just drifts of white. It was slow...it was peaceful. I'm sure by the time I go home this afternoon it will be all gone and as I said before, I do love it...but for a moment it was another world...a snowy world...a quiet world...a lovely world.

I'm going to the Dixie Chicks concert tonight.

I think that regardless of what one thinks of their political opinions, or their music, in this world where young girls look to people like Britney Spears and Paris Hilton as supposed role models, it is refreshing and hopeful that a group of fierce, independent thinking and classy women are also on the stage.

The point to me is not what they had to say, but that they had the courage to stand by it when faced with the kiss of death in the music business - loss of fan base. If girls can learn from that rather than how to be a Slave 4 U, or how to star in your own internet porn movie, I think we just might be ok.

Therapy

I've been wallowing a little bit later...in self pity, in self criticism, in self loathing, in self consciousness. It's funny how these things a) come in waves, and b) tend to be slightly contagious. My two good friends have also been throwing themselves a bit of a pity party lately. It's not as if we don't have a thing in the world to complain about, but events which, under other circumstances, we might have been able to roll with, seem to be holding us up.

There is some dwelling going on.

So last night I decided to take matters into my own hands. It was time for some banana bread. I truly think that it is a cure all. Like chicken soup to a physical ailment, banana bread is equally comforting to the emotional self. And it's the whole experience of the bread...the smell of it baking, the slathering of the butter on the steaming slices, the ice cold glass of milk. I've always thought that if you have to have a serious conversation with someone, tell them bad news or whatever, you'd better have a loaf of banana bread in the oven. Real estate agents like the smell of coffee or baking cookies in an open house...I think they're missing the boat - banana bread would be far more effective. Walk into a house baking banana bread and you are immediately at ease, calm, warm.

I don't like bananas, truth be told. I don't like them because I am averse to their consistency. It makes me gag. Fruit should be juicy...not smushy. For a long time I thought I was weird for thinking like this...but just the other week I met a like minded individual - a kindred spirit. Anyways, my point is that I buy bananas, and put them directly in the freezer...cause then whenever it's time for the banana bread, all I have to do is pull them out and defrost them in the microwave.

I have my secrets to a good banana bread. First of all, I can't stand chunks of banana in the bread - see above. So I put them through my potato ricer - smooth like butter. And second of all I like my bread moist, so I add almost twice the required banana portion - but again, smooth not lumpy. The most important secrets are the spices: clearly cinnamon and lots of it, but the lesser known and more important, in my view, one is allspice. Allspice provides depth of flavor, and, most importantly, that dark caramel color to the loaf.

One of my favorite restaurants in Vancouver, Glowbal, serves banana bread with a cinnamon butter at its brunch sitting. It's one of my favorite things about this restaurant (also their Benny - rivals Fruits Folie...for sure) . But under ordinary circumstances, I think that banana bread is best hot with butter, and a cold glass of milk. Obviously if you are just removing it from the oven this is not a problem, but I've found that when it come to reheating, slices of banana bread stand up quite nicely in the toaster. And toasting also crunches up the crust rather nicely too.

Anyways, the banana bread definitely did the trick. The three of us polished off an entire loaf and a litre of milk, and then giggled our way through Grey's Anatomy, and played with the kitten. Terminated/suspended relationships were not mentioned even once.

And this morning, as I run the baking gear through the dishwasher, and tidy up my apartment, I am comforted to know that I still have a half a dozen bananas in my freezer: ready to be mobilized as soon as there is a need.

It's beginning to look a lot like Xmas

I can't help it...I love the season.
This weekend we had the first snow storm of the year...it was one of those gentle storms where the fat white flakes swirl softly. The kind of storms that are romantic and dreamlike. And I wanted to bust out the Christmas music.
But I promised myself, no...not until November.
Well it's November 1st, and I'm gonna listen to the Nutcracker as I read tonight. And tomorrow I just might put up a few decorations.

Holding up a mirror

I had a very privileged childhood - private school, figure skating, horseback riding, weekends skiing or in Hawaii. I wanted for nothing. And one thing that always pissed me off was when people treated me as if they thought I was a snob. Like they reacted to the way they thought I was going to treat them...or when bus drivers spit on us for no other reason than we were in our school uniforms.

I know...poor little rich kid.

But my point is that I feel in a lot of ways like I do a lot of what I do in my life because of this cosmic guilt I feel over how privileged I was. Like all the volunteering and crap. I feel like I have more to give back to my community than most people...like I owe more.

But I've been thinking about why I get angry about how I'm labelled...why I take it as such an affont, and why I am so quick to hold up my "contributions to society" as evidence of my un-snobbery. I think that what it really is, is a feeling of moral righteousness. Like I want some sort of award for what I do. And that makes me wonder, if you don't do something for the right reasons, then should you do it at all? And I think that the answer is, yes...you should...because the fact of the matter is that people benefit from your contributions whether you do it for noble reasons, or for nasty ones. But we should ask more of ourselves...we should expect of ourselves to do things for the right reasons, and not be so goddamned selfish.

And then I got to thinking about how I do treat other people. Maybe I do deserve a little anger or scorn. Maybe I am judgmental, and then aloof or cold when I deem someone to be beneath me. And I mean beneath me in terms of socioeconomic status, or in terms of intelligence, or education or attractiveness. This self analysis was all prompted by a conversation I alluded to in a drunken stupor on Thursday night. It really fucked me up emotionally, and has caused me to look at some of my interactions with people. We had a heart to heart about our relationship. We're good friends...but it took some time. I love him now...it really wouldn't take me much to fall "in love" with him...but it wasn't always the case. How do I describe him...he's quirky...he's not mainstream...he grew up in the bush...he's not conventionally handsome. And when I first met him...those were the things that were foremost in my mind. I could make excuses for myself - I was in love with the asshole with the dry-toast girlfriend at the time...yada yada yada...but none of that excuses that fact that the ugly truth is that I dismissed him. In retrospect, I can see that he put himself out there...and I rejected him. Not only did I reject him...but I don't think it would be too much to say I was rude. Quite frankly, if I were him I certainly wouldn't be friends with me, let alone saying the things he was saying.

There is no excuse for treating people poorly...sure, because you might become friends with them and grow very fond of them. But even if not...even if you never have cause to see them again. It takes just as much effort to be nice, as it does to be rude. And the bottom line is that we none of us are superior human beings...we maybe more advantaged, or luckier, or priviledged. But worthiness...shouldn't that be measured by our actions, and not by our opportunities? By what we do with our lives, and not what we were born with?