The Knowledge

I’m reading a book.

No, not a large magazine.

No, not a large pamphlet.

No, not the subtitles on Housewives. 

An actual book. One that consists of many, many words on many, many pages that have been glued together along one side and bound in a cover.

It’s called A Short History of Nearly Everything, and it’s OVER 543 pages long (it’s 544 pages). It was written (typed) by Bill Bryson.

Contrary to its title, it is not a short history of nearly everything*, it is a short history of a few very large things: the cosmos, the earth, etc.

I will say (type), that I have definitely learned some things.

Here are some of the things:

The human body has 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 (seven billion billion) atoms in it. That’s a sh-tload of atoms! 

99% of the human body is made up of six elements: oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. We’re basically made of the same material as a tossed salad.

Our sun is one of about 200 billion stars in our galaxy. It’s also 149.6 million kilometers away from the earth. And you thought your commute was bad. 

The earth is 4.543 billion years old. In my opinion, it doesn’t look a day over 4 billion. 

Before reading this book I had never really spent much time thinking about our universe, the rise of life, cells, or atoms. Now it’s all I can think about.

And that’s a problem… Because I’m spending so much time thinking about quantum mechanics (and molecules, and neutrons, and protons, and electrons, and atoms, and subatomic particles) that I hardly have time to watch television anymore.

The other problem with having more knowledge is that it makes you realize how very little you know. The more you read, learn and think about things – the more you realize there is so f-ing much more out there to read, learn and think about. It can be overwhelming.

And maybe that’s why most of us don’t. It’s much easier not knowing what you don’t know.

If you actually spent any time thinking about our universe and the rise of life and cells and atoms, and the fact that you’re just a bunch of quarks and gluons… You might actually go insane… Or become religious. Or both.

And that’s why I watch Housewives. 

 

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* I’m 157 pages in, and so far there has been nothing about my favourite subject: 1980s sitcoms.

Just a bunch of atoms over here

 

 

 

The Last of the Kimberlys

Kimberly.

It’s not a name you hear anymore.

No one is naming their baby “Kimberly.”

According to Baby Name Wizard (it’s a real thing), Kimberly is #743 in popularity for girl’s names, well behind Esmerelda (#435) and Brynlee (#242).

First of all, who would chose the name Brynlee over Kimberly? “Kimberly” is a name of English origin, meaning, “From the meadow of the royal fortress.” “Brynlee” is the name of someone who steals nail polish from the drug store. There’s just no comparison.

And that* is what is wrong with the world today… People are naming their kids badly.

You want your child to grow up and steal nail polish? Go ahead and name her Brynlee. You want your child to grow up and become a doctor? Name her anything else.

The name Kimberly was most popular in 1967, so I have only ever met Kimberlys that were much, much, much older than me.

And I have never met a Kimberly that was younger than me.

Therefore, I think it is safe and 100% accurate to say I am the last of the Kimberlys.

One day Michael Mann will want to make a breathless, escapist, romantic, action-adventure movie about me (based loosely on the book!) starring Daniel Day Lewis (who will agree to come out of retirement to take the part). It will probably win an Oscar (for best sound).

 

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* Not just that… (video games, McDonalds hamburgers, mean girls, mean guys, vape pens, selfies, tweets from the toilet, guns, decaffeinated coffee, man caves, etc. etc.).

 

The (First) Noel

I saw this joke in the Daily Mail (a quality newspaper if ever there was one):

Why does Liam Gallagher avoid going to France at Christmas?

Because they keep talking about Noel.

***

While it’s true that France celebrates Noel in a way that neither Liam Gallagher or I can fully understand, we must try to understand their position.

Obviously, the country of France has really taken to the English musician. Born on May 29, 1967, Noel Thomas David Gallagher was the lead singer and songwriter of the rock band Oasis. Oasis took the world (and notably, the entire country of France) by storm with their first album, Definitely Maybe (1994).

It is true that Noel is really good-looking in that pale, British, blokey, rough-around-the-edges kind of way, and I do prefer his natural, pleasant modulation over younger brother Liam’s pitchy, whiny intonation.

The hot-headed brothers were notorious for their sibling rivalry, on and off stage. After a particularly heated exchange at the V Festival in August 2009 (which may or may not have included Liam breaking Noel’s guitar – it did), Noel called it quits on the band he formed with his brother, stating that he, “Simply could not go on working with Liam a day longer.”

Noel went on to form the band Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds, which has not had the mega-success of supergroup Oasis, however France continues to celebrate his life and work.

There are many traditions associated with the celebration of Noel (on Jesus’ birthday, no less). The French gather together to feast and sing carols, they decorate their homes, and they greet one another with the phrase, “Joyeaux Noel”, which can be translated, “Merry Noel.” Perhaps the French know something about the frontman’s personality that the rest of the world does not?

Children in France leave their shoes by the fireplace, hoping that “Father” Noel will fill them with presents. Unfortunately, this year Noel Gallagher will be on tour with his High Flying Birds, so children in France will find their shoes empty. It’s unfortunate – but as Queen (the band, not the monarch) once said, “The show must go on.”

Every year, on December 25, France celebrates Noel and his achievements. I can understand why Liam would feel slighted. Had he been slightly more talented and kind, and less of a cocky argy-bargy, France might be celebrating him. We will never know.

It’s no wonder that Liam avoids going to France around the holidays!

The Wisdom

I love John Hughes.

There is no other writer slash director that captured youth, or jejuneness,* the way John Hughes captured youth (or, jejuneness*).

It’s like he never forgot.

He grew up into an adult, but still remembered exactly how being a teenager felt… His characters reflected the angst, the awkwardness, and the inexperience of being in that graceless phase, AKA, the springtime of life.

John Hughes’ movies were full of philosophical gems, worthy of contemplation.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is my favorite movie of all time, and it is chock-full of them… pearls of wisdom that should be reflected on, meditated on, studied, and chewed:

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

I’m no expert in Philosophy** but I think what John Hughes is trying to say is that life moves very fast, and if you don’t stop and look around every once in a while, you could miss it. It seems fairly obvious – but then again, how often do you really just stop and look around?***

Another great quote from Ferris Bueller:

“A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. I quote John Lennon, “I don’t believe in Beatles, I just believe in me.” Good point there. After all, he was the walrus. I could be the walrus, I’d still have to bum rides off people.“

You should definitely believe in yourself (at all times), even if you are a member of The Beatles and consider yourself a walrus. And, carpooling is a virtue.

Another:

“First of all you can never go too far. Second of all, if I’m going to be caught, it’s not gonna be by a guy like that!”

Self-explanatory.

And, another:

“The question isn’t ‘what are we going to do’, the question is ‘what aren’t we going to do?'”

Life is what you make of it. You’re either in the game, or standing on the sidelines. Think big. And then think even bigger. Skip school (or work), “borrow” a Ferrari, go to a museum, take in a ball game, sing karaoke in a parade, and then swim in a stranger’s pool. Dance, hide, run, smile, kiss, and do whatever else takes your breath away.

Most importantly… You have this one life. Don’t forget to live it to the fullest.

 

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* I was looking for a way to use the word, jejuneness.

** I dabble.

*** You might want to try it right now?

The Leather Pants

An old favourite… 

My parent’s house is in the middle of nowhere, 17 kilometers from the nearest town in the middle of nowhere – nowhere being a small town in Northern British Columbia with a higher than the National average cancer diagnoses for its residents, and three pulp mills to prove it.

Every Christmas, my dad puts up thousands of lights on the house: on every post, beam, eave, window frame, and around the garage door. Their electricity bill skyrockets for the month of December ($364.69 in 2008), but he thinks it’s worth it.

He’s sentimental about the holidays, and he isn’t the only one. Our entire family (dad, Stan; mom, Linda; sister, Michelle, and me, Kim) is very sentimental and it isn’t just one thing, it’s everything: the Baby J (Jesus), the Spekuloos (a Dutch cookie made with ginger and almonds), the Christmas tree (with an electrified angel on top), the music (Boney M’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’), and the smoked turkey (regular turkeys are put to shame). It’s everything.

My sister and I always return home for the holidays, bearing gifts and revelations from the city (‘Global warming is real’ and ‘Pork is the other white meat’). My mom greets us at the door with a long hug (14-19 seconds) and a wide smile rimmed with mauve lipstick.

My dad plugs in the Christmas tree and declares, ‘Christmas time is here.’ Occasionally, (but only very occasionally) there would be ‘difficulties’ upon our return. There would be an argument or disagreement or some other ‘ment’ that would cause tension and tears.

The Christmas of 2004 was one of those.

‘O, come let us adore him.’

My sister and I sat on my mom’s bed as she pulled my dad’s Christmas present from the back of her closet. She had got him a Leatherman tool (an all-purpose tool for the very handy man) and my sister was about to wrap it, scotch tape at the ready.

‘What’s that?’ I pointed past my mom to the closet contents that were mostly beige and neutral. There was a glimmer.

‘What?’ My mom pointed at a few blouses but I shook my head.

My mom pulled a hanger from the closet, and on it hung a pair of black leather pants. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Your dad bought them for me.’

My sister and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious,’ we were in unison this time. My mom unbuttoned her jeans, let them fall to the floor and reached for the hanger. She pulled the leather pants up over her calves, but they held fast at her thighs. ‘They don’t fit, mom.’

‘They do.’ My mom didn’t sound convinced. She struggled and then flopped down on the bed. She looked like a fish out of water, flipping and flopping as she pulled the leather pants up over her hips and fastened them.

‘Can you even stand?’ My sister poked my mom in the thigh. Her finger left an imprint on the leather.

‘Yes.’ My mom pulled herself over to the side of the bed, let one leg drop and forced herself upright. ‘So there.’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We were heading out to a Christmas eve carol service at church. My dad stood at the door jingling his keys, my sister was checking her lip gloss in the hall mirror, and I was standing at my mom’s bedroom door watching her scour the closet.

‘Let’s go Linda. It’s ten to seven,’ my dad called up the stairs, knowing full well that it took 15 minutes to get to church and we would most certainly be late.

‘Just a minute,’ she replied as she pushed the clothes from side to side, the metal hangers screeching on the metal bar. She pulled several pairs of pants from the bar and threw them on the bed. ‘I can’t find them.’

‘Can’t find what?’ I said, but I knew.

‘My leather pants. They were here.’ My mom got down on her hands and knees and reached to the back of the closet.

‘Just wear something else,’ I suggested knowing that the leather pants were folded neatly in a Safeway (Canadian grocery chain) bag in my mom’s rolling suitcase, down in the basement storage room.

‘Your dad wanted me to wear them.’ My mom stood there, staring into the closet, hands on hips.

‘Linda!’ my dad called, louder this time. He meant business. He hated being late.

‘I’m looking for my leather pants.’ As my mom uttered those six to seven words (depending on whether you count I’m as two words, ‘I’ and ‘am’ or one word, ‘I’m’), she caught my gaze. ‘Where are they?’

‘What?’ I sank down the stairs and moved closer to my sister. There is strength in numbers. ‘I don’t have them.’

‘Where are they?’ My mom stood at the top of the stairs wearing a white sweater and a pair of Spanx (a body shaping undergarment). She descended the stairs slowly, pointing at my sister and I. I had never understood why pointing was rude, but right then – without any words or explanation – I knew. ‘Where are they?’

‘Gone.’ As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. My dad’s head snapped in our direction.

‘Where are the pants?’ I had never seen my mom look this angry, ever.

‘Where are the pants?’ Dad moved toward the three of us. My sister and I were backed up against the wall, our family portrait hung just above our heads depicting the very best of times, thirteen years previous: my mom with no sag, my dad with a full head of hair, my sister with straight teeth, and me with an enthusiastic smile. All before time took it’s toll.

Dad repeated himself, ‘Where are the pants?’ I could tell he meant business.

‘We’ve hidden them,’ I said.

‘We?’ My sister jumped ship. I knew she would.

‘Where are the pants?’ My mom said as she yanked her Spanx up.

‘I’m not giving them back. They’re ridiculous, and you’re nearly sixty.’ I pushed past my sister and moved toward the kitchen. My dad looked at his watch and I saw his face flush red. He really hated being late.

‘Give the pants to your mom,’ as he said this he marched toward me. ‘Or, Christmas is cancelled!’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We stood there for at least three full minutes. My dad staring at me, my mom inching closer, my sister listening to her voice mail.

‘Give me the pants, Kim.’ My mom put her pointer finger up in my grill and then repeated herself, as if I hadn’t heard her: ‘Give me the pants, Kim.’

My sister chimed in, ‘Give her the pants, Kim.’ I shook my head no.

My dad kicked off his shoes, walked over to the Christmas tree and began removing the ornaments.

‘What are you doing dad?’ I called, but he wasn’t listening. He unplugged the lights on the tree and pulled off the electrified angel topper. It was at this point my sister started crying.

‘Fine!’ I said, but it really wasn’t. I ran downstairs to the basement storage room, unzipped the suitcase, pulled open the Safeway bag and there they were: stiff, inky black, and smelling of the William’s Lake stampede.

I marched back up the stairs reluctantly and handed the pants to my mother, who slipped them on over her Spanx then and there.

I noticed my dad had placed the electrified angel back on top of the tree and was standing at the door again with his shoes on, ready to go.

Christmas was back on.

‘Christ the Lord.’

The Oral Agreement

So my husband and I have an oral agreement, and by that I mean it’s a written agreement about what I am allowed to do “orally” with Eddie Vedder.

We lovingly refer to it as the “Ed Ved Agreement.”

I mean, it’s important to have such an oral agreement written out, agreed upon and notarized should I become his pen pal, should our paths cross one afternoon in a sleepy Seattle suburb while he walks his aging Labrador dog… Basically, the oral agreement means that should I “run into” Eddie at some point and the sexual tension be so potent that we cannot resist each other (orally) I can follow through.

And I should probably explain what I mean by “oral”… smooching, tongue-kissing, tonsil hockey, “making out,” some light canoodling, and other slobbery stuff with our mouths, lips, tongues, and teeth.

Obviously there would be no intercourse, no hands stuff, and no emotional intimacy.

Before we got married, I said to my husband, “Husband, I have strong feelings for Eddie Vedder. If I ever met him, would it be okay if I made out with him?”

And the husband (being very conciliatory) said, “Sure, as long as it doesn’t go any further than that.”

And then I said, “Mind if I get that in writing?”

You’re probably thinking, “Why on God’s green earth would you ever want to kiss anyone else when you have such a wonderful relationship with your loving and hunky husband?”

The answer is simple. Ed Ved was my first crush, and I still feel funny* in my body when I see him.

You’re probably also thinking, “Do you and your husband have an oral agreement about anyone else?”

Yes.

You’re probably also wondering, “Does it work both ways?”

If you’re referring to an oral agreement that my husband has had written up and notarized, then the answer is also yes.

Fair is fair. 

If Rhys ever meets Pat Beneath at a bar, or “run into her” while parking his car, or become her trusted advisor, he’s allowed to do whatever he wants with her, orally.

And I get it.

 

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* not “ha ha” funny.

The Fine Line

My dentist said that I should get Botox®.

It was more like a suggestion really… A really suggestive suggestion.

We were just sitting there (well, actually I was sort of reclining in the chair and he was standing over me with a mouth mirror and a torque wrench), casually discussing oral health (as one does when one is at the dentist) when he casually said that I could, and possibly should get Botox®.

I should note: I suffer from Temporomandibular joint dysfunction (TMJ to the lay person), which is a dental condition involving the jaw joint, muscles, teeth, and central nervous system. I have to wear a (sexy) mouth guard to bed every night because otherwise I’ll grind my teeth and then my jaw will dislocate, and then I can’t open my mouth wide enough to eat a club sandwich.

Enough about the cross I bear…

“Dr. Cho” said that he could inject Botox® in my jaw, which would block the nerve activity in the jaw muscles, causing a temporary paralysis which could help with the ol’ TMJ. Then he casually added that it wouldn’t take a whole vial (Botox® is sold in vials), so he could put the rest of it in my forehead and take care of that “fine line”.

I left Dr. Cho’s office feeling a lot of things… Anger, sadness, embarrassment, lust (all the feelings), and to make matters worse, my gums were bleeding from an over-enthusiastic hygienist.

Dr. Cho made it sound as though my mid-30s face required it.

Some things to keep in mind:

1. I have been ID’d on multiple occasions and locations, which means that some people (with glaucoma and other “seeing” problems) think that I look younger than the legal drinking age, which is 21.

2. I regularly ask people at work and on buses how old I look and they (almost) all say: “late 20s”.

3. From the back, I look even younger.

There is a fine line between being giving constructive and pertinent medical advice and suggesting (admittedly, casually) that an extremely young looking patient (with zero cavities) could, and possibly should inject Botox® in their face… Just because they have some fine lines.

 

The Rain

You know the old saying, “when it rains it pours”? Yeah… that’s not true in Southern California. When it rains here in SoCal, approximately 4 – 6 drops fall from the sky, and then it stops raining, and people feel disappointment for many reasons (for example: they have wanted to take a bath for the past six months but feel too guilty to indulge in such pleasures), but mostly because we Californians are in the worst drought in 1,200 years.

So, let’s be honest… when it rains, it doesn’t necessarily pour.

Although, to be fair… sometimes when it rains, it does pour.

So, I think we can safely say that both statements are true. Sayings are sayings for a reason.

And, sometimes, when people say “when it rains, it pours,” they aren’t even talking about rain (or any form of precipitation for that matter).

Sometimes they are talking about how when things go wrong (or right), a lot of things go wrong (or right).

I’ll give you an example…

You wait for two years for great work opportunity and then two equally great work opportunities come your way within the same week. And then you’ll say something to your friends like, “when it rains, it pours!” and they might think you’re talking about the weather and the chance of precipitation, but you’re actually talking about the fact that two work opportunities have come your way in the same week. Oh, and you live in California (Southern), and your friends (who also live in Southern California) might get excited by your statement, thinking that the end of the worst drought in 1200 years is imminent, but then you say you were actually just using this particular idiom to illustrate your point about how when things go wrong (or right), a lot of things go wrong (or right). And they might get (very) upset with you, thinking (and saying) that you are taking this drought thing too lightly, and now you’re also using it to illustrate points, and that perhaps you do not recognize the severity of this drought, which happens to be the worst drought in 1200 years.

And then you’ll reply, “I totally understand the severity of this drought, which is why I haven’t had a bath in six months.”

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

 

 

The Interview

No, not the one with the Vampire, or the one where Barbara Walters made Ringo Starr cry when she brought up the death of John Lennon (Note to self: If you ever meet Ringo Starr – ixnay on the ohnjay ennonlay)…

I’m taking about a particular interview that I had several years ago… An interview that will go down as the worst interview… of all time.

And saying that it was the worst interview of all time is really saying something… because I’ve had a lot of bad interviews… (it’s also saying something because I’m making a statement).

There was the one where I wore my “lucky blouse” which had a button issue… in that the buttons refused to stay shut, and I may have (I did) flashed my “brassiere” to the Receptionist and the Human Resources Manager… which is super awkward when you’re interviewing for a job at a church…

Saying that, somehow I’ve managed to get all the jobs that I’ve interviewed for… including the one at the church (Luckily, I was wearing a conservative “brassiere” that day).

I’ve also been accepted into most* programs that I’ve interviewed for…

(And yes, I really do like ellipsis… those series of dots that indicate a leading statement… those ones… just there.)

Now the reason for the * back there… I’ve been accepted into most* programs, but not all programs…

There is one program at one school that did not think I would make an ideal candidate…

The program? A Master’s degree in Creative Writing. 

The school? You may have heard of it… it’s the oldest and most prestigious educational institution in the English-speaking world? It’s called Oxford. Ring any bells?

So I applied to Oxford… and after they carefully considered my application, I was invited to have a telephone interview. The date and time were set weeks in advance.

I started to get excited… I started visualising how I would traipse** around Oxford with a heaving book bag and self-satisfied smile… and how proud my mom and dad would be, and how they would finally have a chance to brag about me (because to be honest I’ve not done much to merit much bragging).

Anyway, long story short… three days before the telephone interview I had to have emergency surgery because they thought that I had a tumor behind my eye (I didn’t).

They sent me home with 11 stitches across my eyelid, and several prescriptions… Vikes, Oxy, Blues, French Fries, Tranqs, Beans, Kicker, Percs… And while I’m definitely not condoning the recreational use of these prescription drugs, I will say that if you do have a surgery and use them responsibly, they are pretty f*%$ing awesome.

I spent the next few days as high as a kite.

Then, on Monday morning… the phone rang.

Oh snap.

The interview.

You know, the one with Oxford University with regard to your application.

Yeah… that one.

I took the phone receiver, and I tried my best to ignore the large purple dinosaur that was flipping pancakes in my kitchen (mmmm… pancakes!) and I carried on with the interview…

I have no idea what was said, how it was said, or the language in which it was said. 

I do know that a very*** short time later I received an email from Oxford University stating that my application had been “unsuccessful”.

Sure, I was initially disappointed… Oxford University has a fairly decent reputation as far as post-secondary learning institutions go, and I had really hoped to traipse…

But then I thought about what a stuffy old institution Oxford was, and how I’m really the opposite of stuffy (I’m extremely breezy and informal), and then I was okay with it…

Oh, I also swallowed another Kicker, which may have helped.

~ 

EPILOGUE: I ended up moving to England, and took a Screenwriting program through the University of Oxford’s Department for Continuing Education, which looks good on a resume, but is really not the “Oxford” Oxford.

A few weeks later I had an interview with the University of London that went much better… and guess what? I ended up with a Master’s degree (with distinction!) in Creative Writing.

So suck it Oxford.

____________________________________________________________________________

* Not all, but most

** Because one does not “walk” when one attends Oxford

*** Like, very… Like, within an hour

The Project

I was feeling a bit grumpy earlier this year (approximately 46 days ago).

There was no legitimate reason for my grumpiness.

I was just a little bummed out. You know… that feeling where everything kind of sucks, and you try to put on a brave face for the world, but inside you’re wondering why you got a Fine Arts degree (and then added insult to injury with a Masters degree), and also… why you didn’t go into dentistry? You like teeth.

I was also a little stressed out. You know… that feeling where everything kind of puts you on edge, and even small tasks seem gargantuan and unrealistic, and you look at your calendar and have to breathe into a paper bag.

I was also feeling a little burned out. You know… that feeling where everything is an effort, and you’re still tired even though you slept for 11.5 hours, and instead of making breakfast, lunch or dinner you just nibble on a Pillsbury cookie dough tube all day, and when the mailman knocks on your door you don’t answer because you fear his judgment. Metaphorically speaking, if you were a steam train, you’d be stuck in the station… because you are out of steam.

I was just a bit bummed out, stressed out, burned out… and also, a bit grumpy. I really needed a week on any of the Italian Riviera’s… but I was stuck here in sunny California.

So, approximately 46 days ago… I started what I like to call the #positivityproject on Instagram. I thought that if I sought out something that made me happy, or laugh, or feel something “positive”… and took a picture of it… then maybe I’d be less bummed out, stressed out, burned out, and generally a less grumpy person.

It’s working.

I’m less grumpy. Ask anyone*.

And I’ve realized that I have a lot of things to be thankful for. Lots (tons).

I’m listing them here (for your convenience… and my convenience) in no particular order:

– my super duper husband

– my wonderful friends

– my loving and supportive parents

– my sister and brother-in-law (both very kindhearted)

– my wise and wonderful Gramps

– my sweet nieces and nephew

– pannekoeks (savory)

– my espresso machine

– my cruise group fake cousins

– my real cousins (by blood)

– trees

– flowers

– nature (all of it)

– Grumpy Cat

– Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (the movie)

– Amazon Prime

– Christmas

– Cuckoo clocks

– The beach

– Waffles

– Gin & Tonics

– Portlandia (the TV show)

– California (the state)

– pets

– Neil Young

– sunsets

If you want to keep up with my #positivityproject (or better yet – join me!), follow me on Instagram: kimberlymanky

 

*Except certain individuals, religious groups, and corporations.