27) Recognizing that it ain't so bad, kid

My grandmother is retired, and therefore watches a lot of daytime television. Once I sat watching Dr. Phil with her (because I love her and these are the sacrifices I make for her), and it was showing some "out of control teenagers."

She shook her head in disgust, and said something I'll carry with me forever.

"I could have been a prostitute, you know. I could have been out on the streets if I'd made one wrong choice. My brother could have been a drug pusher or a pimp. There's no reason for any fortunate person, with enough to eat and the opportunity to go to school and do the things I couldn't, to be doing stupidness like this. I raised my brother, I raised my three children, I never slept on the street or with a man for money, even though that would have been easier. It's not a matter of strength. It's a matter of doing what you need to do, period."

A matter of doing what you need to do, period. Truer words were never spoken.

The difference between venting and complaining

This has been on my mind lately because it's crunch time. Exams and final assignments are on top of us and I'm hearing a lot of complaining.

Not venting. Complaining. There's a difference, even though it's slight.

Everyone needs to vent sometimes. I get it. The little things pile up and you need to get it off your chest. I certainly do this. And it's okay to do it a little more often when you're feeling especially stressed.

Complaining, though. Complaining is when you can't get through a conversation without dropping in how much your life sucks. Your family is crap, you've been busy, your dog pooped on your rug, you got a zit, blah, blah, blah. I'm not talking about saying it, and then giving a little sigh and laughing and moving on with your life. That's under the venting category. I'm talking about the people who seriously believe that their life is more terrible than everyone else's.

These are the people who can't be vented to. These are the people who, when you say something that's been bothering you lately, just because you need to not keep it inside, start the next sentence with, "I know, I..." or, even worse, "No, I..."

And it's always followed by something that makes you go "Really? Jeez, poor you. Just look at all the damns I give about that."

I'll gladly be vented to. I'll gladly offer my support when it's necessary. If you start complaining, though, you lose that privilege. You officially go under the "things that are totally irrelevant" column.

Oh, your family is messed up? So is everyone's. You're tired, even though you don't work? Wah-wah. You're just positive you've got depression or bipolar disorder or something? Why the hell are you talking to me about it? Do I look like a psychologist? Clearly you're not that worried about it or you'd talk to a professional. (And no, that quiz on Quizilla doesn't convince me.)

Any of these things when posed in a venting situation is fine. I totally get it, you need someone to talk to, and I'll lend an ear. When they come up over and over again, every time I talk to you?

Seriously. Just...go away.

It's a matter of doing what you need to do, period.

Not so bad, is it?

I've got familial skeletons in the closet so big I'm going to have to buy a bigger house to fit them all in. I'm tired. I work. I go to school. I've got health issues on all sides, including some unknown illness that's decided to take me hostage lately.

Do I vent about these things? Sure. But I make a marked effort not to complain about them.

I smile, and do what I have to do. With practice, it's not even that hard.

Just recognize that your life doesn't suck. It doesn't. You live in Canada, you're attending school, you have a job, you have the resources to speak to someone if something is really troubling you. What the hell is so wrong with your life?

Nothing, that's what. So just do what you have to do. It'll make your life (and the lives of the people around you) that much more okay.

.../rant.

26) Recognizing your own ineptitude

I was that kid, growing up. Less than 95% on an assignment was unthinkable. I read constantly, but still had a lot of friends. I barely studied beyond a quick read through before tests, and generally had the right answer in every course.

I was a straight A+ student. It had always been that way.

Please don't think I'm bragging here, because it bit me in the bum later on in life. Hard. With big teeth of bum biting doom.

You got less than 90%?! OHHHHHHH!

To this day - to this day - thinking about the absolute horror of being anything less than academically perfect and multi-talented makes me cringe.

I was expected to be perfect by my peers, and even by teachers, though I don't think they realized they were doing it. I remember getting my first mark below a 90% (I think it was 88% or 89%), and the horrible chorus of "Ohhhhhhhh!" that followed from the class haunted me for days.

It only happened a handful of times, but it was enough, especially when coupled with other comments, even when those comments seemed to be positive.

The salt through sugar

It got to the point that I was doing well because it was expected of me, and I was fanatical about it. When people tell you over and over, "You're smart, you're bright, you can do anything," eventually you stop taking it as a compliment and start viewing it as an order, especially when the reaction to anything else is seemingly abject horror.

It bled into other facets of my life. I was always good at things. I got things. That was the way I was (as I was told by every classmate daily for years). That meant that if I couldn't do a thing almost immediately after picking it up, I got frustrated and embarrassed and stopped doing it altogether.

Sports. The guitar. Dance. These are things I had to practice. These are things I couldn't focus on for an hour and do flawlessly. I was ashamed of that, so I put them down and focused harder on the myriad of "anything"s I'd always been told I could do, and never spent time on the things I wanted to do but couldn't perfect immediately.

I was pushing myself way too hard to achieve a standard I didn't care about (I knew even then I wouldn't care about a grade on a ninth grade French test six years on), and something had to give. In high school, when I started taking advanced courses and, inevitably, certain grades began to fall (I can't articulate the meltdown I had inside when I got my first mark in the 70s, in grade 12 Calculus).

I graduated with honours, with every mark, as usual, over 90.

And then...

Nothing.

I didn't go to school, because I was terrified of spending time and money on something I didn't want to do for the rest of my life. I was petrified of having to be perfect at things I didn't like for another four years, and then having to be perfect in a job I despised until I retired.

So, I didn't do anything. I moved to Toronto, hopeful that I'd be inspired, and worked at a dead end job, paying my (and my then-boyfriends) rent and bills.

I was even more miserable.

You suck at this, and that's fine

Fourteen months passed, I moved back home, and I realized that I had to stop. Just stop. Like, immediately cut it right the hell out.

I was never going to be good at everything. I started working on being okay with that.

Then CreComm happened, and you pretty much have to be okay with that in this program, or you'll implode.

I started getting marks and being alright with it if I'd gotten a 70% (which happens in this program; fact of life, unavoidable). As long as I was working hard and doing my best, I tried to stay positive. I focused on the feedback, not the marks, and slowly it started helping.

Recognizing that I'm not a machine that has to do everything right and be the best was the best thing I ever did for myself. Sometimes I see other people doing the "grades freak out" now (because I'm lucky enough to be in a program full of gifted people who understand what this feels like), and I think to myself 'How did I do that for over 12 years and not jump off a bridge?'

Of course, it never completely goes away. There are still times I get down on myself because I didn't do amazingly, astonishingly well, or because I'm doing work that's hard and I can't pull it off in ten minutes. Sometimes that little girl who can't bear the "Ohhhhhhh!" still creeps up on me. But I'm learning to shrug her off, now, and it's making me a better, less-likely-to-snap-and-streak-through-Elmwood person.

It's something we should be taught from day one in school: try your hardest. Never slack because you think mediocrity is okay, but don't put yourself down because you don't excel at everything. Try your damnedest, yes, especially in the things you like and find interesting; but don't let the pursuit of perfection drive you crazy. It's perfectly alright to be totally inept at some things.

25) Magazine Trade Fairs (Specifically...Mine!)

This Thursday, March 28, you know where you should be? You should be at Red River College at The Roblin Centre (160 Princess Street) checking out the Creative Communications Magazine Trade Fair.

Super quick lowdown - HIYA!

What is it? It's why there have been numerous CreComm students wandering aimlessly around campus in a daze, muttering, "It's done. It's over. We made it. WE MADE IT," then breaking down into hysterical tears of joy.

All semester we've been working on magazines. We pitched them, we wrote them, we took photos for them, we designed them, and now we're launching them with the showdown to end all showdowns.

Each magazine group is setting up a booth for the Trade Fair in the Atrium and you should definitely come down to enjoy the fruits of our labour. The best part: we're CreComms and we crave your approval, so there'll be contest, prizes, food, and more.

Soleful

My magazine is called Soleful. It's the magazine for enshoesiasts. That means my group's booth is going to be all shoes all day.

And we've got some fun stuff lined up. We work hard...we play hard.

Come down for free candy, a shoe shine, fun competitions (including Wii races), and me in a bondage suit.

Yep. Me in a bondage suit. Those boots up there in that poster? You can see them in all their shiny, kinky glory. Up close and personal.

As a bonus, you can learn all sorts of fun facts about shoes. Talk to us, baby! Want to know about running (especially of the minimalist variety)? Hit up my girl Sara Wasiuta. Want to find out about shoe shining and how to keep your shoes looking their best? Brendan Macgranachan's your man. How about fancy men's dress shoes and how to ball hard like a sir? Kieran Moolchan's got you.

And as for BDSM kink in the shoes community? I've got everything you need to know. Kinky shoes, of course, but also everything that goes with them. I'll even have some rope if you want to learn some fun knots (for when the shoes come off).

And, of course, we love shoes just as much as you do. Come fangirl/fanboy about them with us. 

Tell me more!

Where? 160 Princess Street.

When? Thursday, March 28, 2013 from 12:00 to 4:00

Why? Go back and read all the sweet stuff that's going to be there. Why not?

Hope to see you there!

24) Boardgames

The man I'm dating is into boardgames. Like, seriously into boardgames. Not the usual ones that take an hour or so to play. I'm not talking Scrabble or Taboo or even (the hours-long giant) Monopoly.

I'm talking games that take up the entire table. Games that require the rules to be handy at all times. Games that use upward of six die to complete combat sequences.

I'm talking the nerdiest games known to man, and he's got me into them hard.

What even is this?

The first time I went along with him to a game night with his friends, I played the first game, a short, funny card game based on casting spells and winning or losing HP points. It was relatively easy, and I had fun playing it.

Then they broke out Eclipse.

They pulled out about fifty thousand little pieces with symbols and numbers and I decided I'd sit out and watch, since I didn't want to slow them down.

About four hours later the game was over, the table was covered in tiles and blocks and cards, and I had no idea what I'd just witnessed. It had looked like fun. I had rolled dice when my boyfriend told me to, and tried to figure out what the numbers meant ("I'm helping!" I laughed, rolling the die, "I do good?!").

I was utterly lost, and totally compelled.

A few weeks later they pulled it out again, this time with an expansion, and I sat down resolutely, saying, "Okay. Pass me them there playing card place mat thingies, and tell me what the things mean, and I'm going to learn, goddammit."

Fifteen minutes in I was pretty lost. Half an hour in, I was getting the basic hang of it. Two hours in I was actually winning a little bit. Three hours in I was nearly arrested for assault when the guy across the table took over my star systems (okay, that's an exaggeration).

By the end of the four-hour game, I hadn't won, but I hadn't totally lost, either. I felt like I'd gotten the hang of it, a little, and I immediately turned to my boyfriend as soon as we got in the car to go home.

"Teach me," I said, "Teach me more. Teach me all the games. All of them."

Do you have a spare hour or eight?

I haven't had a chance to play another game since that night, but I've been stoked about it ever since. I've been researching other games. I've been watching videos. I've been thinking and strategizing for the next time I get to play.

I've been telling my boyfriend constantly, "You have to teach me how to play Twilight Impirium! I need to know!"

For the record, Twilight Impirium is, as I understand it, the mother of boardgames. A single game can take upwards of eight hours. I've been told it's like Eclipse on steroids. I'm simultaneously frightened and excited.

Also for the record, I'm lucky I'm into this stuff. Twilight Impirium is the boyfriend's one true love and mistress.

He bought a new game the other day, and I've been itching to learn it. He showed me another game called Space Alert. Each game is played in real time and lasts only 10 minutes, and I want it so incredibly badly. 

The thing is, these games are totally different from the boardgames I'm used to playing. They combine luck with strategy, planning with response, attack with defence. They're the glorious love children of HP Lovecraft, JRR Tolkien, Monopoly, and chess. They allow for a lot of brainwork with a lot of fun, and the games take long enough that there's a lot of time to enjoy a drink and chat with friends.

There are far too many dice. The names are ridiculous. It's impossible to explain them without sounding like a dingus (the point of the game is to have as many star systems under your control as possible, see, so you've got to research and upgrade your spaceships to keep them safe, but you've got to watch the power levels to make sure you can support the upgrades, and you can protect your systems from neutron bombs with...where are you going? Hey! Come back!).

But they're so addictive. And you feel a little accomplished after finishing a game, because it wasn't mindless. You've had to think and do math and work things out. You've had to make alliances and break them. You've jokingly threatened bloody murder to all your friends, and you feel pretty damn smart for making it through to the other side. It's taken all day to play and it's going to take another 20 minutes just to sort the pieces and put them away, but damn it, you've finished, and it was fun.

Do something a little different. Pick up a board game that takes a little skill to play. Pick up one that has poorly painted geeky pictures on the front. You might just have more fun than you thought you would.

Just...be forewarned. You might end up like me. It's a slippery slope into a deep, cavernous hole. I don't even recognize myself. All I know is I'm seriously considering reading about 80 pages of instructions for Twilight Impirium, and I'm actually looking forward to it.

But it makes my life pretty okay. That's what matters, right?

...right? (Hello? Old friends? Come back! I promise I'll stop fangirling about boardgames! Come baaaaack!)

23) Actually finishing

I used to remember what it felt like to be finished stuff and have time for myself without feeling guilty. It's been a while, admittedly, since I've had that feeling. CreComm kind of takes that away from you. It's all, "Hey, I see you've got some homework, there. Here, take some more. And some more. Are you finished that? Feeling relieved? No, no, remember all this stuff you've got to do, still? Silly student. I own you. You're my b**ch here."

I love the program, but I miss being done.

Freedom!

There's something satisfying about putting a lot of work into something and then being able to hold it up at the end and say "I'm finished! I'm done! I can relax!"

More accurately, there's something satisfying about actually relaxing afterward. Pulling out a book, putting in a movie, taking a nap...doing something you enjoy, without thinking 'Oh man, I've still got x and y to finish' is the greatest.

True relaxation is the period after you finish one thing and before the next thing is plopped into your lap.

I spend a lot of time thinking about the things I'll be able to do once I'm finished whatever it is I'm working on. Mostly, I look at the hundreds of books on my shelf and think 'I'm going to read the hell out of you.'

I've read one book since the beginning of my program last September. Two, if you count Ms Ayed's work, which was assigned reading. So...not a lot of finishing going on. It seems like there's no time between things, and I'm starting to forget what it feels like to have a day off.

But it will come. The day will come when all my assignments will be in and all my extra-curricular stuff will be over with and, friends, it's going to taste sweet. I promise you, there hasn't existed thus far in history a nap such as the one I will nap; a book such as the one I will read; a game such as the one I will play.

And that's because being done just makes life that much more okay.

22) Solo dance parties

Get funky

When I get down or stressed, sometimes there's only one thing to do about it: lock the door, close the shades, pump the tunes, and have a full out partay in my room.

I dance. I mouth the words. I give a concert to myself in the mirror using my mp3 player as a microphone. Sometimes I even hurt myself a little pulling sweet, sweet dance moves that would put the world's best to shame.

Afterward, tired and sweaty, I collapse onto my bed and feel a little better about the world, mostly because I was able to not think about anything but funky tunes for a good hour or so.

Give me a break -- and break it down!

I am not a dancer. I love to go out dancing, and I can keep the beat, but I realize the dancing I do in my room is somewhat Elaine-from-Seinfeld-like.

And that's the point.

I'm taking all my rage and frustration and putting it into something positive. I'm moving hard, imagining the moves I'd like to be able to pull (even though in real life I pull more muscles than moves), and all my stress is put out through those moves. I'm not thinking about what's stressing me out. I'm thinking about how great it feels to put all that negative energy out of my body.

Afterward, yeah, I still have stuff to deal with, but I'm also all danced out and full of good music, and that makes it all easier to deal with.

Plus, let's face it: everybody wants to be a rock star. Why not indulge and be one for a while every week?

21) A Thousand Farewells...in a way

Here’s the thing: A Thousand Farewells by Nahalah Ayed is good. It’s well written and covers some amazing stories from Ayed’s life. It’s just not good in the way I was hoping, and by about halfway through the book that was starting to get just a little disappointing. By the end I found myself respecting the work, but liking it less and less.

The book is clearly written by a journalist. It reads more like a series of exceedingly long news stories than a biography, which, to be fair, works in some ways. Ayed has traveled to a lot of places, talked to a lot of people, and been through a lot of things. Keeping the writing crisp and clean makes all those details easier to remember and understand.

I still don’t fully understand all the conflicts in the Mideast, but that’s not for Ayed’s lack of trying or clarity. She does a good job of concisely explaining what’s going on and, more importantly, why it’s happening. This is due, I think, to that journalistic writing style.

The problem I had was that it made certain parts of her story feel too distant. I pick up a newspaper or watch the news to get crisp stories with human detail. I pick up books to get the grit and the grime and the feelings that don’t make it into the paper.

Some details got lost because I was too far outside of the story. It’s fine that Ayed was suffering from dizzy spells or getting accustomed to seeing guns on the street, but I don’t want her to tell me that. I want her to take me inside it with her writing, and that’s where the style fell apart.

As a result, I found it felt almost as if the book was written too soon. It was like Ayed was still too close to all the things that had happened and couldn’t choose which stories to tell and which ones to leave out, so she decided to keep them all in and write them like articles. I’d be curious to see what A Thousand Farewells would have looked like a decade from now. Would her perspective be different? Would she perhaps leave out some of those more journalistic stories and bring the reader inside the most important, most telling ones?

Now, this isn’t to say the book was bad. It’s full of insights into the life of a foreign correspondent and the lives of those they come across. It just feels less raw than I was hoping.

I’m used to reading nonfiction like The Other Side of Paradise by Staceyann Chin and watching documentaries like The Waiting Room where the emotion is clear, but magnetizing. In The Other Side of Paradise, Chin tells the story of growing up poor and gay in Jamaica. There are less stories than in A Thousand Farewells, but there wasn’t a single page in Chin’s work that I wasn’t engrossed in. There wasn’t a single thing that felt unnecessary.

By the end of Chin’s work I felt I understood the authour more than I had, and I understood her struggle and could really empathize with her. Not so with Ayed, I’m afraid.

By the end of The Waiting Room I was choked. The human detail wasn’t mixed in with facts and news. It was purely human, and that’s what I appreciated most about it.

There’s only one thing missing from Ayed’s work, and it’s Ayed. Reading about mass graves? I was horrified. Reading about the Arab Spring? The detail was great. I felt for the people.

Reading the short three chapters dedicated to Ayed’s childhood in a refugee camp? I felt very little of anything, and that’s because the details weren’t personal enough. I was angry at the father and I kept on expecting Ayed to delve into the nitty gritty and the feelings she must have been experiencing during that time.

I wanted to read the fights. I wanted to read the thoughts. I wanted it to feel longwinded to any journalist but absolutely engrossing to any lover of nonfiction literature.

In that regard, I was disappointed.

There’s another aspect to this book, though, that was fantastic. Reading it as a journalism student, it did give background to the people I watch on the news each night. Ayed explaining the incredible jobs stress and yet the almost inexplicable urge to continue her work gave me a new respect for journalists as dedicated people.

There’s the distinction, really. I respected this book, even though I didn’t like it. It taught the most important journalistic lesson, and it’s paraphrased conveniently on the dust jacket:

“People are not quotes or clips, used to illustrate stories about war and conflict. People are the story, always.”

Her clear dedication to telling the stories of others is what makes this a respectable book, and definitely a useful read for journalists.

I just wish I’d felt after reading the book as a whole the way I felt reading those little nuggets of human stories: enlightened. Disgusted. Proud. Fearful. Horrified. Dignified.

Empathetic.

Instead I felt that Ayed needed to turn the lens on herself and not use herself as a quote used to illustrate stories about other people in war and conflict.