Curves

Convergence

Symmetry

It’s been eight days (one week back at work) without the routine of putting on make-up. I’ve enjoyed the convenience, and the time saved, but throughout the past week I’ve found myself inexplicably having unpleasant flashbacks to my elementary/middle school years.

I wasn’t a popular girl. My family was not involved in our small farming community. When I was in grade three my stepfather had divorced his first wife and shortly thereafter brought my mother, me and my two siblings to live on the farm where he had lived all his life. That was very odd behaviour at the time (mid-seventies); and our social isolation, my mother’s alcoholism and morbid obesity didn’t help. We stood apart: not in a good way.

Then, at age 14, I got glasses, further sealing my fate as an outcast. I was too smart, I got straight-As (a social life-killer then as it is now). I preferred reading to riding horses or joining 4-H or figure skating, activities the other kids did regularly.

There were a lot of mean comments about my mom’s weight, which were designed to also imply that I too was a fat ugly cow, or at least destined to be one (I’ve never been overweight, and my mom was in fact quite attractive). I was teased a lot, and excluded from social activities.

Meantime, one of my mom’s main hobbies for a while was trying to sell cosmetics to friends and neighbours. There was a lot of make-up around, and I was schooled in how to apply it from an early age. This was the seventies, I had a lot of blue eyeshadow in those days, and I tried to feather my hair like Farrah Fawcett’s.

All to no avail really. Not that I cold parse it out at the time, but make-up couldn’t make me more popular, couldn’t make the girls stop teasing and make them invite me to their parties. Even if boys found me attractive, it wasn’t in their best interests to make it known, or they could face social ostracization too.

Make-up nevertheless became a way of pretending I fit in, that I really was attractive. Pretty. Worthy. When I finally escaped the confines of my family of origin and the town where I grew up (to which I’ve never returned, unsurprisingly) the masques of femininity followed, and have carried on well into my adult life. I’m not alone, of course. My story isn’t all that unique. That’s why this poem “Pretty” by Katie Makkai makes me tear up every time:

“This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.”

Upon reflection, I’m not surprised that a prolonged period of going without make-up has led to the resurfacing of some uncomfortable memories. At this point in life those deep-seated assumptions are ready to be uprooted. I have a feeling I’ve uncovered more than just a fresh face.

The story (directed by John Madden who did “Shakespeare in Love” among others)  begins in Tel Aviv in 1997 where Rachel (Helen Mirren – I want to be her when I grow up), an ex-Mossad agent, is reliving a pivotal assignment from 1965 because her daughter has written a book about it. She and her partners David and Stephan were sent to East Berlin to kidnap a Nazi war criminal so he could be put on trial.

It’s clear Rachel is uncomfortable with the accolades, and we soon relive the events of 1965 where the issues of justice and morality, evil and revenge, right and wrong are not so cut and dried as they would seem. The plot to spirit evil Dr. Vogel to Israel to face justice goes awry, and the young agents must hole up with their captive until an alternate plan can be worked out. The agents in 1965 are young and idealistic, there is a crisis of leadership tangled in a love triangle. The consequences of their choices during that pivotal time have repercussions for decades to come.

There are such nuances and layers in the characters, the plot and the writing that even though I was bone-tired, I could not fall asleep during this movie. It made me think. I love it when movies do that, and they do it so rarely, that this one comes highly recommended.

By the way I’d like to thank film critics everywhere. I listened to an interview with Roger Ebert on The Q radio show on CBC recently, where he mentioned that he watches so many bad movies he sometimes laments the wasted hours he’ll never get back. I’m here to tell you that I am very, very grateful to you: you watch all the crap movies so we don’t have to. I’d buy you a beer (or in Roger’s case, a non-alcoholic beverage of choice) or make you a home-cooked meal anytime in appreciation. I’m in your debt for all the hours I’ve not wasted on bad movies you’ve warned me about.

Mt. Finlayson hike. I usually only go without makeup while exercising or camping

I noticed this yesterday morning because I had forgotten to do just that the night before, on New Year’s Eve. I had been essentially make-up-less since our office closed for the Christmas holidays December 23. Then, December 31, Chris and I reserved a table at La Terrazza for our first anniversary dinner, so I painted my face, as much as I ever do.

I had already grown accustomed to not scrubbing my face to within an inch of raw after a week of going fresh-faced, so I felt the “ick” of make-up left on overnight as I stepped into the shower January 1.

You see, I had agreed, with Janis Lacouvée and a few others, to go without make-up for a month in January 2012, as part of an awareness-building, gender-role exploring, self-reflective exercise called “Fresh Year, Fresh Face.”

I’m a moderate make-up wearer. One of the things that attracted Chris to me was the fact that I don’t really have a need for a lot of “warpaint.” In fact, our first Skype date (Dec. 31, 2010) I had barely made myself presentable after getting home from the Run Through Time 5K race: my beauty routine for that first virtual date involved a quick sponge bath, a quick fix of the hair and that’s it. I had just run 5K, my cheeks were pink, I felt good. Nevertheless, it’s not my habit to be less than carefully made-up for a first date of any kind. It was already 11:30 pm in New Brunswick by the time our call started, and I didn’t want to keep him up any longer than necessary.

Apparently I looked as good as I felt. I did apologize to Chris, explaning that I usually take more care with my appearance for a first date, to which he replied: “So, this is you looking uh – not good – huh? Wow.”

Nevertheless, that little it of makeup I was accustomed to wearing was my “game face.” While crawling out from the depths of my worst depressive episode (over ten years ago now) the routine of putting on makeup in the morning was a healing ritual I needed in order to go through the motions of belonging to society: every day I would force myself out of bed, eat, shower, and while I applied make-up I pretended it was a mask I was putting on in order to appear normal and healthy.

It worked, until one day it no longer felt like a forgery. I had “faked it til I made it.”

Tori pondering life without makeup

So I approach this exercise with a little trepidation. Can I let go of my ritual and still keep my mental health? Will this start down the path of “letting myself go?” These are very real concerns to me, and I’m thankful I have company and an outlet where I can explore these issues.

I should add that Fresh Year Fresh Face is not just about the make-up. I’ve also darkened my hair to more closely match my original hair colour, with the intention of also giving up salon hair colouring. It’s been varying shades of red or blonde for many, many years, and now I have several grey strands coming in. I’ve moved to Vancouver from Victoria, leaving my youngest child to pursue her studies and a life in Victoria independent of me. Chris moved in (at least for a few months) just a couple of weeks ago. That’s a lot of change in the past two months.

It’s safe to say a more apt moniker for what’s going in with me right now is Fresh Year, Fresh Life.

You can follow all the gals participating in Fresh Year, Fresh Face on Twitter, we’ll be using the hashtag #FYFF.

Perfect! Just what I need! I don’t put milk in my coffee or tea, so it’s always too hot when I first get it. Then, when it cools, I tend to drink it up fast because I hate it when it’s not warm enough. What if I could put some cute little metal coffee “beans” in my drink and have it perfect temperature for hours? Sign me up!

For months I received email updates on the development of the final product (they weren’t readable on my iPhone, which was annoying, but we’ll just leave that aside for now). And I was SO EXCITED to see the package in my mailbox – finally – this past week.

So here is one of my five-pack of “little” magic beans:

THEY’RE HUGE!

(I texted that to Chris, who immediately responded with “That’s what she said.”)

At the time I sent them some seed money through Kickstarter, Coffee Joulies didn’t have a web site, but they do now http://www.joulies.com/ – and when you read carefully, you are warned:

“Each Joulie is about the size (and shape) of half a medium chicken egg.”

And how many chicken eggs do you need in one cup of coffee?

“Using all five Coffee Joulies in a 16oz thermos displaces 3.75oz, leaving enough room for a full tall coffee/cappuccino/latte. Make sure to tell them that at your coffee shop so they don’t charge you for a 16oz coffee.”

So here’s what 5 joules (two and a half chicken eggs) looks like in my 12-oz mug at home (luckily I have one that is clear):

They displace nearly four ounces! Yeesh! Something I thought I could discreetly carry in my bag for my once-or-twice weekly run to Caffe Artigiano is suddenly a weight-bearing exercise. I guess I could keep them at work to put in my tea mug, but gimme a few weeks of upper-body strength training so I can pick it up without busting a bicep.

Bigger may be better though, if they work as advertised. I put four in my 16-oz mug this morning and sure enough, I was able to drink my tea right away, but as soon as the lid was off, my morning beverage started losing heat just as quickly as if there were no joulies added (it was just that much heavier). I’ll give it a week, try them in my insulated mug and see if they work any better, and report back.

New home, new city, new routines, truly living alone in my empty nest for the first time. I don’t even know where to begin to write about it all. So I’ll start with today.

Today I finally did it: I shopped for some groceries at the Granville Island Market. I hadn’t been there since February when I took Chris there, both of us visitors, tourists.

I had told myself the first thing I wanted to do as a Vancouver resident was go to Granville Island Market as a local. It took me over a month to finally do it (well, two and a half if you count from when I actually took possession of my home).

I wandered and lingered. I admired hats at Edie’s and notebooks and pens at Paper-Ya. I bought an umbrella, I gave coin to the buskers, I bought a bag of roasted chestnuts and some cheese curds. Then I got some vegetables and local meat, my meals for the coming week.

In my month here I have: given directions to tourists, got embroiled in the Occupy Vancouver controversy, ventured into Richmond for some of the best pho I’ve ever tasted, learned the public transit system and voted for mayor.

It’s probably going to take a little longer for it to really sink in, but I’m a Vancouverite now.

I wanted to go because I was annoyed. Inexplicably annoyed. I say “inexplicably” annoyed because I agree that too much power and wealth is concentrated in the hands of too few people in the world, and because generally yes, we do need a better way of making decisions, keeping those in power accountable and dammit the system of democracy we have just seems to leave so many people out.

A friend had gone there and his report was “What’s the big deal, it’s just a bunch of tents in a small area of a big city, why is everyone so threatened,” and I said “Well, because there are other groups of people who have booked that space and are prevented from using it because a bunch of young people want to camp out and have a party in the park.”

Then I realized I was talking out my ass because I hadn’t found out for myself what it was all about. So I vowed last Tuesday at lunch to go and see/hear for myself.

Walking through the site, I was struck by how neat and clean it seemed, for a campsite. There was no smell of marijuana in the air (which is unusual for the Art Gallery any time of year) and there were people with safety vests saying “medic” walking around. There were people on a stage saying their piece, announcing the next general meeting, etc. There was a children’s area, and information tent, a food tent and a clean-up tent with what looked like a very clean, foodsafe dishwashing area.

As it turned out I was pressed for time because I had a meeting right after lunch and I didn’t get away until late. So I deposited my trail mix with someone at the kitchen who thanked me politely.

I got the impression not of a party, but as a space where people had come together earnestly to make change happen.

“This used to be me,” I thought. I wasn’t totally converted to their cause, but I had a new respect for the (mostly young) people there.

Full disclosure: in my university days I was a social activitst. I helped organize demonstrations of tens of thousands of people. I even got arrested for acts of civil disobedience. Twice. Each time I carefully weighed the pros and cons, arranged legal representation and for my children to be taken care of, and accepted the consequences. When I was arrested I went willingly and nobody yelled, resisted, mouthed off or otherwise exacerbated the situation. We didn’t even passively resist, because did you know this? — You can be charged with obstruction of justice by refusing to actively participate in your own arrest and imprisonment. I chose not to do that, 20-odd years ago. I spent several hours in holding cells each time, and was conditionally discharged each time.

So when I say what I’m about to say I know what-of I speak. I have some street cred, you might say.

I watched yesterday afternoon the Occupy Vancouver LiveStream feed from the provincial courthouse, where some OV protestors decided to relocate after they were kicked off the Art Gallery grounds by a court order.

As far as I can tell, they went to the court house grounds because it is provincial lands, and a new injunction will have to be sought in order to evict them from there rather than city-owned land.

This means that the encampment has become the raison-d’etre of the movement, not the ideals it claims to represent. The courthouse is simply a convenience, because it’s province-owned property rather than city-owned property. The protestors are simply putting off the inevitable.

Plus – they’re blocking access to the courts. The only recourse ordinary people have to civil wrongs done to them. I don’t think these people have any idea what they’re doing. An independent judiciary is a cornerstone of democracy. It is still a well-respected and independent body. This Occupy movement was able to represent itself in this court this past week and state its case eloquently and passionately. I know – I heard one of their representatives speak on CBC radio last Monday. She was articulate and persuasive.

And she lost. The court said their Charter rights to free speech would not be violated by an injunction for them not to camp on the city’s public property.

The Occupy movement (or what’s left of them) is choosing to flaunt that court by moving to another jurisdiction – the province.

Isn’t this exactly the legal weaseling the Occupy movement hates when it comes out of the “One Per Cent?

I was monitoring Twitter at about 2:30 pm when a got a link to a LiveStream site of the courthouse “occupation.” I logged on to ask the protestors: “Why the courthouse?” I never got an answer. I saw a protestor take a swing at an official – a firefighter or something, who did swing back. I saw the protestor get arrested by the city police. I saw a mob taunt and try to provoke the police who were making the arrest. I was amazed at how the police kept their cool and did not arrest anyone else and did not drag the protestor to the van, rather they tried to carry him. I was shocked at the mob that surrounded the police and the arrested man, saying “let him go, let him go.” I imagine the police were probably incredibly nervous. I would have been shitting myself actually, had I really been there.

That was on the verge of being a mob, not a non-violent demonstration.

That’s not the way civil disobedience was done when I did it.

This is not Iran’s Tahrir Square. This is not even Wall Street.

Occupy Vancouver, you lost a potential supporter today. And I think I can safely say from a great many other Vancouverites: “Get off my lawn.”

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PS this is my personal blog, not a civic service. I reserve the right to not publish any comments I don’t like. Go somewhere else to carry on the debate, I may join you there.

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About those 100 posts:

So – 37 down, 63 to go. Or something like that.

I resumed my blogging yesterday when someone asked me for my delicious Greek Lentil Soup recipe. It was easy to do, so I posted it, thinking “Oh yeah, I have this 100 blog posts in 100 days thing I promised to get back to after I moved to Vancouver.”

With 60+ posts to go, I’m posting anything and everything that comes to mind. After the 100 posts, I’m evaluating where I really want to take my writing, and will re-focus accordingly. For now, I’m just getting it done. I’m “shipping,” as Merlin Mann would say. So – read in that spirit and keep in mind – YMMV (Your Mileage May Vary.)

This comes to me from my daughter, @pocketbuddha who herself got it from a cookbook, the name of which I’ve forgotten.

• 2 cups red lentils
• 2 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 onion, diced
• 1/4 tsp chili flakes
• 8 cloves garlic (yes 8! I use half that, but go for it if you love garlic)
• 2 diced carrots
• 1 Tbsp fresh rosemary
• 2 Tbsp fresh oregano
• 2 bay leaves
• 8 cups vegetable stock
• 1/2 lemon’s worth of zest
• 2 lemons’ worth juice

Garnish: fresh rosemary

1. Rinse and drain lentils
2. Sautée onion and a pinch of salt until translucent in a stockpot
3. Add garlic, carrot, pepper, chill, rosemary, oregano, bay leaves, and salt and pepper. Sautée until tender.
4. Add lentils and stock, boil, then simmer until lentils begin to disintegrate
5. remove bay leaves and purée part of the soup, leaving the rest for texture
6. add lemon zest and juice. Salt and pepper to taste.
7. Top with rosemary for serving*.

* Non-vegans can top with feta cheese.

I want to wish you a happy thanksgiving, and I also have a request. Admit it, I don’t do this very often, and I promise I won’t do it again for at least another year

I also can’t help but think of the bigger picture during holidays like this. Where are we going to go if or when we can’t run anymore? Or cook for ourselves, or dress ourselves, or go for a walk in the park?

Someplace like Mount St Mary’s hospital perhaps.

Maybe you and I will be felled by old age, a terrible accident or disease like cancer. Chances are it will be a process, not an event. Many of us will need long term care at some point.

That care does not come cheap. There are people at Mount St Mary’s now who need some extra help. The Cancer Society needs funds to search for a cure.

This year I vowed running was not going to be all about me. Now here it is, two days away from my next race – the Victoria Marathon (I’m running the half – 21.1 km) and I need to put my mouth where the money is. On this Thanksgiving weekend, please think about giving back to the community, and supporting my efforts to make my running about giving back and paying it forward.

My goals are modest:

Raise $200 for Mount St Mary’s hospital in Victoria. Make your donation online here.

Sell some YYJRuns 2012 calendars (in which I appear, running with wild abandon along a trail at the Royal Roads University grounds) to raise funds for cancer research. You can pre-order yours here.

Please visit one or both of those links today and give what you can. A $15 donation to Mount St Mary’s, and a $15 calendar. I’d be thrilled, but more importantly so many others will be able to live a better life. And for that, we can all be grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving, and much love to you and yours.