Heartbreak, madness, sex, love, betrayal, outsiders, intoxication, war, whimsy, horrors, God, death, dinner, baseball - and lack of travel

I actually despise posting YouTube videos with one-liners in my blog. I mean, that's really not what Mainstream Melancholy was going to be about. So I apologize for the pathetic and ill-inspired attempts of late, however entertaining Chelsea Handler and Russell Brand are.

The truth is I have found it difficult to sit down and write. I'd love to be able to place the blame on my beloved iMac keyboard that I have never fully embraced (I prefer my Dell board at work and I know I'm going straight to hell when I admit that one). But it's the stark landscape of boredom which drags itself across my uncelebrated webpage. The last year at work has been turbulent and to some extent, the ride's still on. That discordant intensity has taken its toll and I haven't written a review for I can't remember how long. However much I'd like to proclaim that my upcoming birthday milestone hasn't phased me, I've come to the conclusion that nobody is every 39 years old - you're way too busy obsessing over "I'm going to be 40". I can't believe it and when I think of some 40-year-olds, I can't stop myself from musing how much more "mature" they are than I. I'm keeping my immature friends close that's for sure. It's either keeping me young or in complete denial. And rather than answering to people who ask that dreadful question "How old are you?", that I'm 39 again since I totally botched up enjoying the final installment of my thirties, I think I will just have to admit I'm 40. My thirties were a wash anyhow. I made that lamenting mistake of getting married when I was 32 and it was really down hill from there. So we're off to the races in a new decade of me not making repeated mistakes. By mistakes, I mean my categorically tedious choices. Perhaps most of us are ricocheting off our own ignorant choices. So what makes me so special? I'm just the fool griping about it on a personal blog. Hah! These are the very artifacts that will bite me in the ass one day when I am Queen!

Back to reality. The good thing is today I'm on a much needed vacation from work. My mom and I didn't take our trip abroad because I couldn't overcome the seismic upgrading of my anxiety. The usual suspects of fear of flying, fear of heights, fear of strange places, fear of people and fear of leaving Buddy with a neighbour dictated that I just stay put. So I won't be going to Paris.



I know these recurring themes are the hallmark of my existence, but really with all the nastiness happening around the world, why would I leave town? I obviously need a man in my life. A man who resembles Donald Draper but with the supportive sweetness of Mr. Darcy. Come to think of it - what the hell's wrong with resembling Mr. Darcy? That there's my problem.

With my time off I'm working on removing the stress crease that has recently formed between by eyebrows and has made it's way up my forehead. Lathering Linacare over my visage two-times a day and not checking my work emails is part of this regime of de-stressing. I almost called my work voice mail to see what the hell is going on. How insane is that. It's not like I'm curing cancer and how much could really go wrong?

This week and the next is really my birthday gift for myself and I am truly happy to sleep in past 5:30 AM, make Starbucks at home, read, write hopefully, and putter around home base. There's just not enough anti-depressants in the world to scamper away on a plane somewhere. Not even New York could entice me. Whistler last Sunday was very nice (though Markus-Dickus gave Marni and I the total snub at the Dubh Linn  Gate - typical little ass) and I'll look forward to going to Washington State next week - but that's all I can handle at the moment. If I can pull a few articles together for The Tyee or The News I'll be very pleased. Afterall, my day job won't be in the foreground to suck the creative life out of me.

For me and I suppose many people, it's a matter of the reality around us that corrodes our inspiration and passion, thus making us totally depressed. I happen to believe most people are depressed but in denial of their willful despondency. But of course that is my belief - why the hell else would I have created a blog titled Mainstream Melancholy? We're all so damn depressed we don't even know it.

[big exhale]

Today I'll venture out to Surrey to see my cousin Casey for lunch. We grew up like sisters. She's two years younger than me. Casey's a professional wife and mother who lives in a beautifully decorated home, drives a large SUV, arranges gorgeous table settings and plans luxurious meals, while lunching twice a week with other professional wife/mothers. Somehow I never saw myself pulling that off. Sure I can decorate and cook and I love to shop for chochkies as much as the next Canadian woman, but would I then be able to recognize the mournful, plaintive and the snide undercurrent? Probably not. I may not recognize the brilliant vigor of “The Paris Review Book of Heartbreak, Madness, Sex, Love, Betrayal, Outsiders, Intoxication, War, Whimsy, Horrors, God, Death, Dinner, Baseball, Travels, the Art of Writing, and Everything Else in the World Since 1953.” And THAT would be truly dulling.