Cat Skinner Club

Sometimes I Wonder How to Be Me

Workspace of my dreams

I am sitting by the wall of window that is my new living room, and watching the sun sink slowly below the tops of the skyscrapers.

I feel like me again. Mostly. I wonder if it is because it is no longer November?

I’m waiting for the family to get home. Waiting for our six year old to swing open the door and yell “Hi Distinguished!”. Distinguished is her nick-name for me. I have no idea where she picked this up. Waiting for the silence to be broken by hustle and bustle. Waiting to see how I feel to be surrounded.

I’ve been home alone a lot lately. I think it’s good. It’s been productive, and quiet, and this space is feeling more and more like my own as a result. My partners are working away at their old warehouse, and my apartment, and I am plotting and planning here between loads of dishes and laundry. It is only today that I’ve really felt like leaving my house in about a week or so. Very unlike me, for sure.

These two little girls have unlocked my creative drive like no self-help book I have ever encountered. All of this crafting has been incredible, and I’m constantly on the hunt now for new ideas and activities. Our six-year-old is an incredible artist, mind blowing really, and it’s thrilling to show her new ways to express her talent. It’s also a huge ego boost for me because they think I’m some kind of artistic genius.

I know I’ve written before about never recognizing my own artistic ability. I’ve spent so much time trying to support the artists I’ve loved, and help them realize their own goals. I’ve always thought of myself more as a dabbler, but now that I am the working artist in my household, I think I need to get on board with this idea – Schnoo as artiste.

Thirty-three years of denial is hard to kick. This much I know.

My partners are super supportive. They are supportive in the way that I have been supportive; that ‘I know you can do anything you want, and I want to help you realize how’ kind of way. It’s so incredible, in fact, it’s sometimes hard to believe. I want to be very sensitive about never taking advantage of this, or taking it for granted.

What will I do now, with this opportunity? I know I cannot sit at a desk, in an office, tied to one space for hours on end. I don’t work well like this, and I can’t pretend anymore.

The faint glimmerings of an incredible work possibility are on the horizon, but I don’t want to jinx it. It all came about in one of those moments when timing seemed like everything. I’ll write more as I learn more about this.

Whatcha got for me next, universe?

The Priceless Philo of a Girl by the Sea

We finally picked up the mail on Friday, and in the giant stack was a letter from my eighteen-year-old cousin Alexandra who recently moved to Halifax for university. I love Alex more than most people in the world.

We’ve been exchanging letters, and my last to her outlined some of my November blues, and here, on the last day of this not-so-awesome month, I will share with you some of her perfectly brilliant “philos” (short for philosophies).

Try as hard as you can to live in the absolute present – when you do this, without comparing to the past, or worrying about the future, you will most likely see how incredible your life is right now.

November is a herald to cold winter magic, and being wrapped in the warmth of people you love. Food also tastes better when it’s cold outside. This is absolutely true.

Everyone needs a quiet sanctuary with pieces of familiar, personal things. If you can’t create that in your head, either find a refuge, or carve one out for yourself. You can find these kinds of places anywhere once you start to look for them. If you are a creative person, living without this is just a bad idea.

Sometimes its important to tell the people who love us the most that even though we are treading a path that feels like it is taking us far, far away, they will always have a permanent home in our hearts, and we will always make time in our big adventures to find our way home to visit.

Putting your pen on a page will unlock your heart and often surprise you.

Opening yourself to the possibility of people, without expectation, can pave the way to beautiful friendships.

Things are mighty strange here in Schnooville. Despite this, I have this incredible feeling of stability, which had been evading me for a while.

Last week I started seeing a psychiatrist and parted ways with my day job, all in the same day.

The shrink is to help me sort out the events of the last several years of my life, and to help me develop better tools to deal with some cyclical thought patterns that are just not working for me.

The job thing was a mutual break-up. My priorities have shifted, and life is very different now, and a small and feisty not-for-profit deserves someone who is 110% passionate and committed to what they do. I wasn’t that girl anymore, and it wasn’t coming back. I’ll miss the team. They are such incredible people, all of them. Thank god I have such supportive partners. There are lots of amazing opportunities on the horizon, and both my girl and guy are committed to helping me realize what lies ahead.

This humbles me more than I have words to express. This kind of belief in my ability makes me feel so incredibly lucky. As a young woman, I took such things for granted, but I really feel like I’m positioned to make everyone very proud of me right now. As I grow stronger on the inside, everything I’ve ever wanted seems more and more possible. I’m working at accepting this gift of love and support. It’s a tricky one, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that I would do anything to help each of them realize their own dreams and aspirations. It’s so beautiful to feel such unyielding confidence in my ability from the people who love me. I’m not one to shrink under the weight of that, either. Positive reinforcement is the greatest fuel for my fire.

This weekend, we went to the Winter Fair at the girls’ school. A huge fundraising event, the Winter Fair sees the facility completely transformed. Waldorf schools are magical to begin with, I’m learning, but the sight of this place, and the atmosphere was completely inspiring. I keep wondering how different my life would be if I went to a school that taught us to believe in fairies and to honour the cycle of the year. Saturday was the best day I’ve had in so long. As our six-year-old took my hand and led me through her school with pride, and our three-year old chripped away with a chocolate-stained mouth, I took a deep breath and whispered a thank you. I felt like I really, truly belonged. Like I had a family who all loved me, and who all wanted me at their side. When our older girl introduced me to her teacher, the teacher said “I saw you there with your beautiful, fiery hair and I thought ‘This must be Schnoo’. I’ve heard so much about you, and its so nice to finally meet you.” I was warmly greeted by parents who I have met at other functions, and for not one second did I feel like an interloper.

It made me want my own little one to add to the joy, but in perhaps the healthiest way I’ve thought of such a thing in a very long time. The idea of baby felt like a sweet, hopeful addition to what was already so very beautiful. It was like adding icing to an already lovely cupcake, and the feeling of filling a deep void, or the anxious desperation were gone from that equation. It felt possible, instead of like the terrifying spectre of my own past difficulty.

After the Winter Fair, we went north to the country where I met my girlfriend’s entire family at their holiday reunion. I’m fairly sure that most people there knew about our relationship, but beyond a few lingering stares (to be expected, I think) everyone welcomed us and treated me like I was a very welcome guest.

Today I woke up to receive an email from a friend with a link to an article about a woman who lives with four other women and a guy, and they’ve been together for seven years.

Something I often hear is “Two-people relationships are so very difficult. How can three people possibly make it work?”

Am I naive to think that if the traditional model isn’t working out so well for most people, that perhaps the time has come to try something else?

Making a list, checking it twice

My horoscope says that my biggest problem will be deciding which grand idea to pursue. I like this.

I also like the font that this blog is written in. I have no idea if it looks the same to you who are reading it, but it’s a kind of lovely old-fashioned type face that makes me feel like I know what I’m doing.

I know what I’m doing. Sometimes my methodology is so strange that even I am puzzled, but I really, really believe that deep down, some part of me (and I’ll credit gut for this one) knows exactly what’s going on.

The secret is to filter out all the fuzz to get at the heart of what I really want, and what I really want is this:

I want to write, and make really compelling live performances that people will want to go to, and make a living doing both of these things.

I want a family and a baby that was made partially by me.

I want a home to call my own, with my own distinct touches, and a real sense of ownership.

I want to travel.

I want to trust that everything is ok. Really, fundamentally trust that. If you can do this, you have no idea how lucky you are. I used to be good at that too.

I want a sturdy dog with a nobel head.

I want outdoor space to wander with the fore-mentioned sturdy dog with a noble head.

I want a small, beautifully organized studio for making pretty things.

I want a big kitchen/dining area to always host family and friends.

I want weekends at the market with children who are excited by the colours and smells.

I want bubble baths with my girlfriend where we have epic conversations.

I want my boyfriend to read out loud to me in the evenings.

I want quiet romantic, candle-lit moments with each of them, and both of them, and sometimes all alone.

I want to give all of my talented friends opportunities to shine.

I want to touch people by expressing the things they fear, love, dream of, and desire.

I want to leave something behind when I’m gone.

The morning is moving along. I had better get started.

What do you want?

Please Be Sure to Secure the Overhead Compartment

Madame Tutli Putli

I think I’ve figured out why my new digs feel so crowded. Besides the obvious reasons associated with adding a fifth person to a household of four, of course. I think perhaps I may have too much baggage.

While some people show up with a smart little bag on wheels I have two steamer trunks, ten hat boxes, and three large suitcases. I don’t think I realized how much stuff I had until I tried to fit it into someone else’s space.  Stacking each piece up, one after the other, realizing that nobody else had arrived with so much, is getting to be a little embarrassing. It just doesn’t fit. I always thought it meant I was prepared for everything, but as it turns out, a handy all-purpose something or other that is more neat and compact would have been a better choice.

Now I’m standing at the station, surrounded by cedar-smelling, leather-trimmed boxes. I’m sifting through piles of soft unmentionables, awkward, cumbersome mementos, stacks of crumpled old letters, strange-smelling warm things, and some old, tattered, unflattering bits that haven’t fit me for years. I don’t know what to keep and what to leave behind.

A lovely woman is at my side. She means well, but has no more a clue than I about what is valuable. She knows which pieces bring out the colour of my eyes, and which garments are cut to fit me best, but she also understands the value of sentimentality in moments such as these.

A man gazes from his seat, out the window. His expression is drawn, and tired. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I think it’s safe to say he’d like to get going, and he’s wondering if the train is going to wait much longer. He buries his nose in the paper and tries to distract himself from my frantic rummaging.

When I was eight, I was almost left behind on a VIA train platform in Quebec. My family had been to visit my aunt, and when we boarded our ride home, my Nana and I got separated and ended up in a separate car. Rather than patiently wait for the conductor to open the connecting doors and let us pass through to meet my mom and dad, my Nana insisted I get off the train and run around to get on their car. I’m still not sure why she did this, though part of me believes she might have been trying to get rid of me.

As soon as I hopped off the train, the doors slid shut, the bells started dinging, and the train began to slowly pull away. White, cold panic spread through my little body, and I began to run, and cry. My mom freaked out, and someone must have hit the emergency alarm, because the train screamed to a halt, and the doors popped open again. My father ran out and scooped me up into his big strong arms, carrying me on board to my tearful mother. I don’t remember much else, except that the conductor let my Nana through, my mother was furious, and my Nana called me a “baby” for crying. My mom didn’t have much to say to her for the rest of the ride.

I don’t want the train to leave without me. I’m purging and re-packing just as fast as I can, but there is a vast collection of stuff here – years of hoarding, in fact. Maybe the trip will be easier if I stay behind and look forward to post cards.

Why I Hate Chris De Burgh

The other day, “The Lady in Red” came up on a random list of tunes on our Apple TV.

This song always makes me nauseous.

When I was eight, I began to wear glasses, and life changed radically. I believe that my new four-eyed state became the excuse that the other kids needed to make fun of me. It was the perfect explanation for my funny big words, my weirdo imagination, and my incredible advocacy for the underdog. I was a nerd, a geek, and a goof, and now the glasses were the evidence my classmates were looking for.

My self-esteem changed radically, and I discovered a whole new level of self-consciousness. I HATED my glasses and this feeling has carried over into my adult life.

In my first year of high school, I finally worked up the nerve to go to the Christmas dance after skipping the other two that came before. I decided to be festive and wear a red velvet tunic, black tights, and the pointiest shoes that I owned. I teased my bangs into the most brilliant peacock I could manage, and of course wore my glasses. My stupid, red, Sally Jessie Rafael glasses, which by the way, those goddamned hipsters have brought back into fashion.

I hung out awkwardly with my small group of friends, and during a pit stop in the cafeteria to use the bathrooms, the football coach, Mr. Bullard, approached me.

“Hey, what’s your name?” he asked. He was my gym teacher, and should have known my name.

“Um, Schnoo.” I replied.

“Schnoo” he said “I need your help. We’ve told Mario* that he has a secret admirer here, and that she is going to reveal herself to dance with him for a special song, and I need you to be that girl.”

I was confused, and skeptical, but I went along with this. Mario was the quarterback who I had a fairly huge crush on, and I figured this might be the only way I would ever get to dance with him.

Fast forward to later that evening. I hadn’t danced with anyone all night long. Then, suddenly, Chris De Burgh’s “Lady in Red” comes on. Bullard is there, tapping me on the shoulder. He says “This is it.”

The D.J. announces “Mario, this song goes out to you from your secret admirer.”

I walk tentatively to the crowd of jocks that Mario is in the centre of. I ask him to dance. He turns crimson, and all the other dudes start smirking. One of them is already doubled over. He reluctantly accepts, and we start to dance.

Missing the point entirely, I’m actually enjoying this. He smells so nice, and he’s so handsome, and just for a moment I allow myself to pretend…then I feel hundreds of eyes on me. I look up and the ENTIRE football team and ALL of their pretty, perky girlfriends are laughing. Laughing at Mario. Laughing at me. I realize then that I AM the joke. Mr. Bullard picked the dorkiest “Lady in Red” he could find to round out their stupid prank, and god only knows what kind of fabricated love notes came before this moment.

I die a little inside, but I carry on until the end of the song. Mario (dick head) starts hamming it up for his pals. He’s stroking my hair, and dipping and twirling me. My 14-year-old brain decides to see this through because it might be my only opportunity to ever dance with a boy so handsome. And popular. When the song ends, he makes a big show of bowing to me and all his friends crack up again.

After that, I call my mom for a ride home. I pass Mr. Bullard in the hallway. All the other kids love him. He’s so funny, and he really “gets it”. I decide that he too must have been a big dork in high school and is making up for lost time now that he’s finally in charge of all the jocks. I hate him. This doesn’t change over the next four years.

It’s a long time before I go to another school dance. The next one I appear at, I FINALLY have my long-awaited contact lenses. I have an ok time. I’m still an outsider. I’m still not one of the popular kids, but I don’t want to be anymore. I’ve carved out my own world with the drama geeks. I still don’t dance with anyone, as I recall, until the very last song, which is always the same song – “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. I feel someone tap me on the shoulder and I turn around. It’s Eric, the Asian boy with Down’s Syndrome. He wants to take me for a spin. I glare at the jocks, who are all staring and guffawing, take him by the hand, lead him to the dance floor and endure his teenage hard-on for the entire eight minute tune. I do this because I know what it’s like to be different, and how much it sucks to be laughed at for that.

Then, I decide to never go to another school dance again.

This lasts until graduation, when my seventeen year old self decides to bring my 24-year-old local indie rock-star boyfriend as my date. Three people ask me if he is actually my uncle, and he hits on every girl he gets the chance to talk to, and one or two of the boys.

I hated high school, and I hate Chris De Burgh, but whenever I hear “Stairway to Heaven” I think of Eric and I wonder what he’s doing now.

*Mario may not have been the name of this quarterback but at a Catholic High School in Stoney Creek, it’s a pretty safe bet.

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