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Apr 07 2016
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Informative

I Need Some Motivation

keyboard-question markEvery year around this time I get thinking about what motivates me to write this blog.  Obviously as of late not much has, which is perhaps why I began to wonder in the first place. Not to mention the fact that it’s time, once again, to pony up those 24 buckaroos for yet another year of sole ownership of the “shallowbemyname.com” address on this world wide web of ours. I’ll just bet there’s a line-up of people waiting for me to miss that deadline. The thing is, it’s not like I need to be writing the blog to fill up my day. Let’s face it. Between work, coffees on the patio and my rather “annoying even to me” Candy Crush habit, my days seem to be remarkably full.  And while I do have a fanbase, small as it may be, it’s not like anyone has rung me up lately to ask when I’ll be making my next post available. Of course I continue to hold on to the faint hope that one day this little hobby of mine will gain some traction, but to date, I certainly can’t say that the prospect of  fame and fortune is the raison d’etre that keeps these fingers waltzing (well in my case it’s more of a polka as I jump around not always knowing where I’m going or where I’ll land) across the keyboard. 

I suppose there’s something to be said about sharing one’s perspective on life with others. Not that I would ever try to change anyone. The truth is though, when I embarked on this journey I did have some concerns about the amount of time and energy people spent seeking meaning and purpose in their lives. Now don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with asking the big “what am I doing here anyway” question from time to time. We all like to think that there’s a place for us in this world to make a difference, even if it’s an itsy-bitsy little one. But it seems to me that people have a tendency to get carried away with their eternal soul searching and like it or not, it can get somewhat depressing at times. Here’s the thing. For all intents and purposes, most of us only live once, and with that reality in mind, perhaps it’s not such a bad thing to let go of the “meaning-making” and be a little shallow every once in awhile. Just live a little. And since I know something about that, I suppose I should share. After all, it’s what my Mother always told me to do. And while I’m more than happy to give it my best shot, I can’t imagine that’s reason enough to keep this project going.

Of course there is the thrill of knowing that people from all over this world are somehow finding their way to my meanderings. Don’t get me wrong. I’m under no illusion that they all get here intentionally. Even so, it is interesting at times, to speculate about exactly how they landed on the site. I mean who would have thought there were literally dozens of people, from both near and far, seeking advice on how to have a conversation with their hairdresser. Or what not to say to when they bump into someone who looks like a famous person, but isn’t. And as exciting as it might be to think that I can reach out and have a modicum of influence in this rather limited sphere, I do sometimes worry about the impression that a shallow person might make in the far reaches of this world which, if anything, would give me pause rather than inspiration to write on any given day. 

This whole venture has turned into quite the puzzle and, if truth be told, one with which I continue to struggle. Just what is that elusive je ne sais quoi that motivates me? But all of this thinking has not gone to waste as I have come to realize that I seem get most of my ideas rather serendipitously.  A comment made in passing, an inconspicuous gesture, or an otherwise run of the mill life event that triggers an idea in this shallow little head of mine.  So, (get ready) perhaps it’s my fascination with humanity that keeps me keeping on. The intricacies and complexities that make each person unique and special in their own way. Possibly it’s my deep-seated need not only to understand but to fully immerse myself in the very essence of the human condition. Maybe that’s what keeps me going.  And yet, something inside of me thinks that doesn’t quite hit the nail on the head. 

That’s it. I’ve dug as deep as I can and have come to only one conclusion. Really I should have figured it out at the get go. It was right there, staring me in the face all of this time. There’s one thing and one thing only that keeps me writing this blog. For the fifth year in a row I have put down my 24 bucks. And apparently for this shallow gal, that’s motivation enough. 

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Feb 28 2016
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A little serious, Informative Quote

I’m sorry. Honestly, I am. To tell you the truth, I’ve spent the last week mulling over what I would write in my next post and up until today, this wasn’t it. Let’s face it. As a shallow person I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about things that I should apologize for. I suppose there was that “I’m Sorry” piece I wrote a few months ago, but that was more of an observation than a confession. And I guess I did ask for your understanding and tolerance when writing those rants of mine, although in retrospect, that was not so much to apologize as it was to politely let you know what was to come. Let’s face it. I may be a Canadian but I’m just not an apologetic kind of gal and yet, here I am doing the very thing I’ve just told you I don’t often do. Which leads me to believe that right about now, you’re probably looking for an explanation.

Some of you know that I started this little blog of mine to help others understand that life in the shallow lane isn’t all that bad. In fact, divested of the burden of constantly seeking meaning from each and every day, one can actually live a rather blissful existence. It was important for me to share with you that it’s possible to be shallow yet happy or sad, thoughtful or introspective and, at times, even funny. Without being presumptuous I wanted to help you to gain just a little bit of insight into the life of one, if not all, shallow person. Along the way it wouldn’t have bothered me one bit if I had sold a “Shallow and Proud” T-shirt or two which I certainly would have made had anyone asked. Or if this blog had somehow gone viral. Nonetheless, I am content in knowing, as my little Bro’ oft reminds me, that I have a small but loyal following. Now I’m thinking that you’re thinking there’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about. But unfortunately you would be wrong.

I’m no political pundit. As a matter of fact, and as you can well imagine, I don’t pay all that much attention to the powers that be, or those that would like to be.  For the most part, I figure that they are going to do pretty much what they want to do regardless of what I would actually like them do to. At the risk of being overly cynical, from where I sit it seems that they know and care about me as much as I know or care about them. Don’t get me wrong. I have my preferences and every once in awhile I mark my “x” on a little piece of paper, for better or for worse, to let them know what I think. And for the most part, that’s the extent of my involvement in the political process. At least that’s what I thought until this most recent batch of presidential hopefuls found their way onto the stage.

You see, for the past couple of months while I’ve been enjoying the sun and surf, it has been hard to avoid all of the hoopla surrounding the upcoming changing of the guard in these United States. It seems that at least a couple of times a week five or six guys (apparently the number varies according to who is asking the questions) get up on the stage to take part in something that is called, but doesn’t in any conventional way, resemble a debate. Because it seems that each and every time they get behind their little podiums they neglect to talk about the issues, or their policies or even the state of affairs that this world of ours is in. Rather, it seems as though they prefer to spend their time calling each other some rather unbecoming names, pointing out past indiscretions, and generally acting in ways that would make you or I scold a five year old. And while I’ve been watching, I’ve been wondering why. Why would these men, in their well tailored suits and expertly coiffed hair, be acting like this?  Why are they saying and doing things that their Mother’s would disapprove? What makes them think that this is what the voting public wants or expects of them? What is going on and more importantly, how did this happen? And that’s when a rather terrifying thought crossed my mind.

Over the past few weeks I have noticed an increased number of visitors to this site from the U.S. of A and that got me thinking. Is it possible that one or two, maybe even three of these fellas happened upon this blog? Is it possible that they have been reading my musings about being shallow, not realizing that these are the ramblings of one single human being among many? Could they be focusing in on the “thoughtful and introspective” parts and missing all the “funny”? And at the risk of sounding just a tad arrogant, could my blog be the reason for all of their shenanigans? The way things are going these days, I suppose anything is possible. So just in case this is the case, I find myself in the rather awkward position of having to say I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.

I’m really, really sorry!

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Dec 08 2015
4 Comments
Informative, Instructive

It could happen to you


brainy-peopleI know I’ve said this before but at the risk of repeating myself, I thought I would mention that my Mother, kenahora, (don’t worry, you can check it out here.) recently had her 100th birthday. And if you can excuse the redundancy, you should also know that my Mother has three sisters who are, respectively, 96, 94 and 85 years old. Their Mother was 102. So to say I know something about living long is a bit of an understatement. I know a lot about living long. And well for that matter because, if I might say so, all of these ladies have lived and are living, very wonderful lives. Which, as Martha would say (and yes, I’ve said this before too), is a very good thing. Given the facts, it’s not all that surprising that people who know this story of mine jump to the somewhat dubious conclusion that I too will one day find myself, hammer and nail in hand, placing that elusive to most plaque from the Queen (or more likely, in my case, the King) on my living room wall. And while I might, I also might not because, as you are most likely aware, there are no guarantees in this or any other life and one never knows what one will face each and every day. It’s just the way it goes. What will be will be. Ca sera sera.

Nevertheless, not too long ago I found myself watching a docu/news show about longevity and the amazing research taking place that will, sooner than later, let all of us live to be 1000. That’s right. Scientists tell us that it is possible that someone who is alive today will still be alive 1000 years from now. So if you are reading this, it could happen to you. Apparently there are various ways for this to come to pass, most of which I don’t care to understand as they seem to demand some rather invasive medical procedures, and one of which involves downloading your brain into a computer which doesn’t seem quite so onerous and I would imagine, would be somewhat faster and require much less direct participation from me. It’s complicated but I suppose if you think you are still thinking, perhaps you are. Cogito ergo sum.  And I suppose it wouldn’t be all that bad. Especially if they could take that computer brain and put it into a fantastic robot body. I mean, imagine. Not only could you live for a 1000 years but you could do it in someone else’s hot body. Like Marilyn Monroe. Or Jennifer Lopez. Or perhaps Ms. Streisand which in my particular case, wouldn’t be much of a stretch or, from what I hear, much different. But as compelling as all of this might sound, as a shallow person I got thinking about the prospect of being stuck on this earth for a thousand years and decided there could be a considerable downside because knowing what I know, I have to ask, who really wants to live to be 1000? And the more I thought about it, the more reasons I came up with, so in true “shallow be my name” fashion, I thought I would take this opportunity to share some of the most persuasive of them with you. Here they are. My top 10, most persuasive reasons for not wanting to live to be 1000 at the end of which, I am confident, you truly will be careful for what you wish.

#1. If you can live to be 1000 so can that irritating neighbor of yours.
#2. You’re gonna need a year’s worth of stars to get a free one at Starbucks and that’s a lotta lattes.
#3. Survivor season 753, and Jeff Probst is still counting the votes.
#4. Gas is $700.00 a litre, food costs you a couple grand a week and you haven’t had a raise in 500 years.
#5. 1000 years old and you still haven’t won the lottery.
#6. Just how many times do you think you can feign excitement when you hear “Honey, I’m home”!
#7. Meatloaf again?
#8. If you’ve said this once you’ve said it a million times. Literally.
#9. Your brain has been downloaded to a computer and you’re living in a robot body. Think about it.
#10. And last but not least, I’ll still be writing this blog and you’ll still feel obligated to read it 1000 years from now.

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Nov 01 2015
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Informative

They Picked Me!

scalesHonestly, it had never once crossed my mind. But it happened. I suppose I should start by telling you that, in my new home I’ve adopted a few routines, one of which is trekking down from my office mid-afternoon to check the mail. It’s not a really big deal. It’s something I do, now that I can. Mostly there are no surprises, just the usual junk mail which, as I recall, came in pretty handy when we were packing up all our belongings but is of much less use to me now. Most days I could probably forego the trip altogether but since I paid Canada Post the required fee to, apparently, make sure that all this junk mail got rerouted to my current address, I feel some obligation to at least retrieve it on a regular basis. I suppose it is nice to know that I could have ordered “two pizzas for the price of one” had I still lived anywhere near the designated delivery zone, which I don’t. So I was more than a little surprised the other day when I reached into the mailbox and discovered a rather official looking envelope with the now familiar yellow “reroute” label firmly attached, and a return address that made it quite clear that when I opened up this letter, I was going to find out all of the details I needed to know about where, when and how I should present myself for jury duty.

That’s right. I was summoned for jury duty by the province in which I no longer live. Thirty-eight years I lived in that town and not once did anyone ask me who was, or was not guilty of any particular crime. And now, all of a sudden, out of the blue, now that I no longer have to endure the bitter cold of the north winds, they picked me! Now they want me to decide the fate of some hooligan who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than pilfer a poor, law-abiding citizen’s house. Or hold-up a gas station. Worse yet. They might ask me to decide whether some white collar guy who cooked the books so no one would know he had embezzled funds from his employer to cover his opulent lifestyle and nasty little gambling habit, should spend his remaining years sleeping on a cot beside “Dirty Joe” whose nickname is well deserved since (and I’ve only heard this third hand) showers are not mandatory in the slammer. And even if they were, no one would dare get close enough to Joe to make that happen. I’m no accountant. I wasn’t even good at math. How am I supposed to know if he was really entitled to his windfall or not? Besides, I have trouble some mornings deciding what colour t-shirt to put on, which for some people might seem like a reasonable dilemma, but not for me. The duds in my closet are pretty much black and white, which most of the aforementioned decisions I imagine, are not.

Fortunately for all involved, and that includes, me, my fellow jurors and the alleged culprits, (note I have no preconceived notions as to their guilt) I no longer reside in that province which, if I have read all of the instructions correctly, will disqualify me from my civic duty. At least I’ve applied to have it disqualify me from my civic duty and hopefully the clerk who makes those decisions will agree with my assessment of the situation.  Not that I’ve changed that much since I left although things are quite a bit more laid back over here on the Island and perhaps, how should I put this, a bit more forgiving. Anyway, I’m guessing I’m off the hook but that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about how this all might have gone down if I wasn’t. You see, getting called for jury duty doesn’t mean that getting the gig is a slam dunk. You have to be chosen, the basis of which I understand is imparted to a select few, much like the code shared by magicians. Which left me with a heapful of questions, the answers to which would be dependant on whether I wanted to get picked or not. Like is it better to be dress prissy or maybe a little too hip? Although, pretty much regardless of circumstance, it’s never a good thing for someone my age to try to look a little too hip. Should I appear quiet or perhaps somewhat outspoken? Do they want a leader or a follower? Since I’ve always kind of danced to my own drum I’m not sure how to look like either of those. I suppose if I didn’t want to leave anything to chance I could look around when they called my name once or twice and finally respond with something like “I’m sorry. I just zoned out there for a few minutes. What was it you were asking?”  I began to think that this whole thing was just one big decision after another, culminating in perhaps the most important decision of all. And that scared me quite a bit. Until it occurred to me. They would call me to the front of the room and it would go something like this:

Jury Picker: Please state your name
Me: Wendy
Jury Picker: And what do you do?
Me. I write a blog about being shallow. It’s called “Shallow be My Name”.
Jury Picker: Thank you very much for your time. You can be dismissed
Me: But wait. I haven’t even told you where I live yet.

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Sep 21 2015
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Informative, Instructive

It’s My Move!

I know, I know! I’ve been gone quite a long time. Long enough I suppose to warrant an explanation. So here it comes. For the past “longer than I care to think about”, I’ve been trying to write a blog post about my move. You know of course, that I have moved. With every good intention, I have sat with my laptop on my knee, albeit while watching one of the many summer reality shows that are currently taking the place of the many fall reality shows soon to come, formulating sentences and even paragraphs so that I could share with you the experience of moving from the perspective of a shallow person. Alas, it has all been to no avail. Now I’m not going to tell you that my other posts have always come easy. That the words flow from my thoughts onto the screen like waves upon the sand. Sometimes they do and other times there’s a bit of a struggle, but nothing like this time. This time has been different. Because even when I thought I had it right, I didn’t. Why, I thought, was it so difficult for me to write a little piece about my move? And then it hit me. Having just gone through the whole thing I realized that there is nothing, and I mean nothing shallow, or funny for that matter, about moving. Absolutely nothing. It’s just one long, excruciating and painful experience. So I’m left with little to say but this.

Moving sucks! Trust me. I don’t use that kind of descriptive language very often. But it’s just as simple as that. The packing, the loading, the throwing out junk, the unloading, the unpacking, the realization that you didn’t throw out enough junk. There’s just not much about it that I can honestly, in all good faith, recommend. And now is not the time to remind me that I have just moved from one of the coldest parts of the country to arguably one of the most beautiful and temperate Islands this side of Hawaii. Let’s put that aside for a moment and focus on the act of moving because that’s really what we are here to talk about.

If you have been reading this blog for some time you will recall my tale about the sale of the house and how we suffered through the cleaning and purging related to that little episode, and then the cleaning and purging that followed as we attempted to rid ourselves of all our extraneous possessions. If you were to reread those posts (as I just did but you won’t) it may even have seemed that our commitment and diligence to the task would have resulted in our being left with only those things that were really important to us and, as such, worth loading onto the moving van. Of course, if that were the case, I certainly wouldn’t be trying to figure out what to do with the stuffed Pooh Bear that is staring up at me right now with it’s big, brown, glassy eyes. Or attempting to balance my evening cup of tea on what used to be a packing box but has now taken on the role of a coffee table since, apparently, while Pooh moved, the coffee tables did not. Explain to me how that happened! Given that I am just this side of a rant, I won’t even go into how, in all of the confusion on the day the van arrived, I mistakenly thought I had left my laptop at the local Starbucks never to be seen again (even in this laid back town there is only so much one can expect of strangers), only to discover that at some earlier point in the day I had decided to put it at the very back of my closet for safekeeping. Or how after spending copious amounts of time and money in preparing to take our cat on her first two day jaunt in the car (did we really need that extra can of “At Ease” pet spray?) she promptly disappeared only to be found several panicked  hours later sleeping quite contently inside the box spring of our bed. No, those are events that are simply best forgotten at this point.

Ok, so things have started to settle down and, if we can make up our minds soon, it should only be another ten weeks or so until I will be able to once again place that tea of mine on an actual table. In the meantime, all of this has got me thinking. Wouldn’t it be much simpler if houses were sold “as is”? I mean if all you had to do was move some clothes and maybe a picture or two, life would be so much easier. So what if the couch wasn’t the exact shade of blue you were hoping for? Trust me, you’d get used to it. Or the coffee table was glass instead of walnut? It’s still going to do what a table is supposed to do. Or the dishes were a little chipped? You’re going to chip them eventually anyway. Think of it! No more boxes, or loading and unloading or packing and unpacking or sussing out that elusive piece of furniture that apparently exists only in your own mind’s eye. It just makes sense to me.  But then, I might be just a tad more shallow than most of you.

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