Squirrels, maple leaves and ten days with mummy dearest

I will never understand why people always, always insist on clapping when the plane lands. It's a fine tradition sure, but cringe! I mean it's their job! It's like saying "there was about a 50/50 chance they weren't gonna be able to land this plane and all of us would die, so applause all around for that not happening"! I'm more impressed when a massive metal thing with 200 people in it actually makes it up.  Now that's something to applaud. Take-offs are always the worst for me, those few moments when the plane lifts off the ground and starts its rapid ascend into the sky and you're like "is it gonna make it?", especially when you're sitting behind a fat, curry-smelling East Indian couple who seem to be stalking you since last Christmas when you were on the same flight sitting next to them and they didn't speak a word of bloody English and they kept fidgeting in their seats and kept you awake for the entire 9 hour flight. This time my exotic tormentors had their seats pushed back so far I couldn't get in or out of my already shitty seat. I mean, who does that? There is such a thing as flying etiquette ya smelly bastard. To top that experience I also had a lay-over in Paris which meant dealing with the French, whose incompetence is like second nature which they communicate exclusively in their native tongue. I can speak some French but apparently not enough to tell them they're cunts. Unlike the Canadians who are actually pretty cool folk. Of course most of their country is a god-forsaken icicle but arriving in Toronto, unlike last year, I found it to be surprisingly mild weather-wise. The day following my arrival we drove up to a friend's cottage, literally a cabin in the woods with a large window right in front of the toilet seat looking out upon the dark woods(perfect for say a bear or a serial killer to pop out and scare the buttons of your shirt. Actually if it was a serial killer, or a clown as my buddy likes to remind me, you'd be losing a lot more than just your buttons), located passed something called the Snow Belt, with a car filled with an excess of smelly cheese, wine and various gourmet delights, although we mostly stuck with the wine and cheese. I was comfortably plopped in front of the fireplace for almost all of the two days we spent there and my jet lagged, abnormal, sleeping patterns, which woke me at 6 a.m, offered a sun-drenched view of the frozen lake and woods right outside my bedroom window, utterly breathtaking. Mum, Bruce and I ventured to the nearby town of Gravenhurst for some thrift shopping and discovered a music and antique shop which I would be happy to be left at forever. Records, guitars and old books, far to heavy for me to carry back home, and a collection of typewriters one of which dating back 150 years, that made me tear up. And then came the plight of our adventure. I discovered that although if all else fails I could easily become a plumber, my surprising professional skill doesn't go as far as cutting through a frozen lake and replacing a water pipe frozen in its entirety. It's surprising how much you miss running water when you don't have it. We instantly felt dirty and itchy and fled to civilization. With a warm home, running water and clean hair I spent the rest of Christmas in Toronto going nuts over the squirrels(pun mostly intended and very successful) that were literally everywhere in all shapes and sizes, visiting a petting zoo at which I did not get to pet anything and eating amazing food cooked by my mum, who always swears she can't cook just to get out of doing it, and drinking mimosas, not just for brunch. On one occasion we found it a delightful idea to tipsily run around the neighborhood late at night and look at Christmas lights and decorations, most of them tacky and some downright terrifying such as one snowman, mum running down the street with her tiny skinny legs and I walking at my usual pace which doesn't count as running or strolling but is a rather odd combination, trying not to trip and fall as I usually do. The baffling truth is that this time around I didn't need to be drunk to get through the Holidays, me and mum got on spectacularly well and although I missed people back home I would have gladly stayed longer, voluntarily, sober(I know, I am shocked as well). Though I planned on writing earlier and while I was there, I was having to much of a damn good time to be bothered, honestly. My last day was consumerist heaven, a much needed day-long Boxing Day shopping spree for presents, a lot of them for myself, and a mother-daughter-and Bruce mani-pedi. In the evening we decided to end my trip going full circle to the place that started it, a charming pub on the Danforth called Allen's- a small parenthesis here to talk about the food at Allen's. The steamed muscles in white wine were to die for, the pork medallions were exquisite but the burgers...ah the burgers! Now, I basically eat for a living and I will go on record, with confidence, and say those were the best burgers I have ever had. Okay, parenthesis close, just had to share that- and once we were fed and sufficiently wined we popped in next door to the Irish Pub for what my mother called a jig. Due to the festive season there was a live band with traditional Irish music played not be ginger-bearded Irish folk but by massive clean-shaven Kiwis. It was sort of the perfect way to end my visit which was very merry indeed. At the airport I ran into the same Indian couple and laughed at the face of in-flight horror as the kind, wonderful woman at check-in gave me an excellent premium seat, right next to first class in which such a thing as the elusive, stuff of dreams, leg-room existed! Although it wasn't my preferred and most beloved British Airways, KLM did just fine and the tall Dutch flight attendants were polite and proper with a touch of effortless sophistication, and they let me use the first-class bathroom which is why somewhere in the world there is a Dutch gentleman flight attendant I very much love. And nobody dared clap as the plane landed...
Finally on dry land, with swollen feet struggling to fit in their shoes, I arrived back home to a bouquet of white tulips sprinkled with glitter and the sight of my wonderful boyfriend.

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

A small, dusty-pink, candy-adorned, silver-lighted Christmas tree, with a big magenta bow on top, has been put up in the far-left corner of my living room since the 25th of November. At the far-right a twinkle-lit red and green gift box gives off a subtle glow. On the inside of my front door hangs a white wreath with pink and purple ornaments and on the outside a silver "Merry Christmas" welcoming my guests(well, my one stable guest anyway) and serves as a gentle reminder to my neighbors that "Last Christmas" and "Santa Baby" will be playing non-stop, at an audible yet not borderline-noisy volume. Yes, as you might have guessed I'm one of those annoying people who start celebrating and decorating for Christmas before you can even finish saying "but it's still October". My usually non-enthousiastic self is uncharacteristically jolly and it is indeed the most wonderful time of the year! After a terribly stressful and hectic week I am glad to say that I am finished with work and ready for my "-20 and snowy, with a chance of polar vortex and seeing Patrick Swayze outside a resort in the woods, with a bear" Canada adventure. Well not really an adventure(unless Patrick Swayze does show up a la Dirty Dancing, preferably riding a bear or moose), since I was in Toronto last year so I know what to expect at least for the most part. This year my mum decided that we would go to a friend's cabin(somewhere in the woods,no joke) and spend Christmas there, which is fantastic cause that way we can stay in where it's warm and day-drink(which is the only way I'm getting through 10 days with my mother). I'll be back in time for my annual New Year's tradition with my best friend which will then result in going to some party or gathering that will ruin all expectations of a good time, get violently drunk and/or run into the worst ex in the history of all exes, because New Year's Eve always sucks balls.
 However, as it happens, my birthday is right around the corner, on the 10th of January(mark your calendars) which I vigorously plan a year ahead(because I'm a freak) and makes up for any 1st of the year debacle... and it seems it came early this year. My boyfriend already got me a spa treatment as a present so I can go get pretty before the big day(more like a long-weekend really) and my fairy godmother Jess got me tickets to the Black Keys who are playing in Athens this May(I cried and I'm not ashamed to say it). Best birthday gift ever, and it's not even my actual birthday yet! No offense to everyone else who's getting me something, but you know, thanks for trying, maybe next year. Also my two best friends are getting me a surprise birthday cake, which I am sure is going to be ridiculously obscene and possibly offensive to all parties present,  and my other best friend made some kind of weird dog analogy and all I said was "please don't get me a dog"(unless it's your dog that's basically a cat).
You, know though, in the true spirit of the holidays-consumerism-, the only thing better than getting presents, is giving them. I often get more excited as I'm watching someone else open my (perfectly wrapped, magnificently thoughtful) gift, than when I'm opening mine. So, I'm happy to say I'm bringing back gifts from Canada for my all friends and am especially ecstatic to watch the look on their little faces as they tear open the package and see their colorful onesies( I'm not even shitting you, that's what you're getting).
Until next time Happy Holidays everyone!!! Stay drunk and merry!

Hugs and Kisses xx E.
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFtb3EtjEic

Dear Diary...

Good evening, greetings to all, yo! "How have you been ?", I wish I could say and actually get a reply. I've been fine, I suppose. No, actually that's a lie. I've been mostly depressed, and isn't it sort of the definition that you never really know why? I got the Sunday blues last week after having an actually delightful weekend. Then the Sunday blues became Monday blues, until they were entire week blues. Most of my thoughts have been "dear diary" ones, which is why I haven't posted anything. I refuse to make this blog that kind of diary-like nonsense and I doubt anyone would be interested in reading about it anyway. Instead I can tell you, I spent last weekend at a place by the sea, called Sounio, and dreamed about a cat with a black mustache that was actually me. The reason I'm telling you this is because I thought it extremely odd and wondered intensely about what it could mean. I also played Monopoly which brings out my seriously scary, competitive self, even scarier this time due to the fact I was drunk! What must be noted is that there are probably four people that I can call my favorite in the entire world and whom I love to bits and I got to spend two days with 2 of them. Yet I came back full of melancholy. All I wanted to do was listen to Ed Sheeran, which then turned into eating a large pizza by myself, that made things somewhat better. Still, I felt like a pile of crap, just waiting to be stepped on and ruin someone's day. Not even the Black Keys could make me smile. I had been planning for months to go see them in London and then the opportunity to see them in Paris came. I swore they would never ever come to Greece anyway. A few days later they announced they were playing in Athens in May. I was almost in tears and secretly thought to myself that I willed it to happen! Even Christmas, though I put up my adorable pink Christmas tree, seemed futile! I'd been a while since I felt this bad and had forgotten what it feels like. It's surprising how easy you get used to it again. Functioning as if everything is normal, getting work done, when actually you have difficulty standing up straight let alone walking, where every breath you take is physically exhausting and all you want to do is stay in bed and watch "When Harry met Sally"(well that part is optional but you get the point). It's quite easy to find yourself in this situation, and whether it's just sadness or depression to you it might feel like the end of the world, at least that's what it feels like for me. It's truly devastating and it takes time to re-introduce yourself to being, well, okay, I guess. Personally when times get tough as it were, I like to talk, even to myself, just to get it all out. I'll cry and I'll scream and I'll get angry and then sad again but that's alright. I figure that as long as I feel better at some point and as long as I still find things to laugh about it's okay to feel miserable at times and even to try and self-diagnose(even that is part of a human need to label or explain things that are happening to them). This horrid week is coming to its curtain call and I'm glad to say I survived, maybe not completely sane but lighter somehow. And in my scrambling for myself I discovered a video in which they've synced Taylor Swift's "Shake it off" with an 80s gymnastics video and found myself laughing uncontrollably and aspired to be more like that one black guy who you know is just having the time of his life! It's silly really but it did get me smiling again! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlJI-GqB-6Y

Too many fucks

As it happens, the island was good for me. It was like a little vacation from myself. I realised unlike the trend that would have people giving zero fucks, my problem, ironically, is having too many fucks to give. My brain won't switch off and I'm constantly thinking and worrying about too much, all at the same time. It's exhausting really to not only contemplate things that are happening but to not be able to separate them from the hypotheticals you create. Those three days on the island though may have taught me something after all. While I was there I had conversations that revealed myself more honestly than I could have imagined. The words coming out of my mouth were being spouted unconsciously and never had they been wiser. I no longer want to waste myself away for people and situations that don't matter. Neither do I feel like I need to control anything beyond what is in my reach. I will not try to fix anyone who doesn't want to be fixed and that includes aspects of my own personality. I shall take my time, as long as it may be, until things become clear instead of trying desperately to make them so. And if I have too many fucks to give, that's alright too. That's who I am. I care about things.What was interesting was something my friend said that has been on my mind. She said she doesn't think I can be alone, because I have too much to give and need someone to give it to. I took that to mean that I am dependent on others. But no, I'd never thought about it that way, I am not dependent on others, I guess I just realise my full potential when I have people around me that are accepting of what I have to offer them. I like that idea. Further than that, I like this person I'm growing into, with all the quirks and little imperfect details and its the first time I feel that way. I think the reason for that is I always wanted to be perfect and I tried my very best, I achieved a level of what I perceived was perfection and it didn't matter, things still ran their course as they would and for once I didn't believe that was on me, simply because it wasn't. I stopped blaming myself and started being myself, however perfect or imperfect. And you know what? That was enough, people that were important to me were still there, the compliments that I thought depended on being the equivalent of a porcelain doll still came when I was just me, and at the end of the day things were not worse as I thought they would be, they were better(once I got that stick out of my ass). Certain people might think I have no problems, I haven't faced hardship or experienced the worst. When I talk to someone they often get the impression I am the sunniest, most optimistic person, because I'm trying to make the best out of their situations or to see the best in other people. That simply isn't true. I'm prone to self-destructive behavior, I often get depressed and I may at times be one of the least enthusiastic people I know. And yet it's because I've seen the bad that I choose to see the good and it's because I've experienced the unpleasant and been the harshest judge of myself that I want to see the optimism and beauty and judge others kindly. Although it doesn't always work, I try my best to give good advise to others, sometimes in order to hear it myself. I wear my heart on my sleeve and while sometimes I wish I could be all mysterious and elusive, my face betrays all my emotions and I can never seem to hide what I'm thinking. It's fine though, me and my many fucks to give will be alright being just the way we are and you, whoever you are, reading this, will be alright too, just the way you are.

Gone-for the weekend-Girl

I've been having trouble with writing a new post this past week. I could tell you I'm too busy with work so I don't have the time, but that isn't entirely true. Yes I'm busy but I'm also just not finding the inspiration I need to write something whole. I suppose it's because I might find my life at the moment less than inspiring. There are only a few snippets here and there that break the ordinary yet they wallow in their irrelevance in the back of my mind. They aren't of course irrelevant to my life but perhaps too scattered or uneven to create something concentrated on their own. Therefore I am leaving. Running away from the boring and habitual towards the exciting unknown... Okay that sounded totally dramatic! I'm just going away for the weekend and obviously not to the unknown, cause that would just be silly. I'm going to visit my friend who's here from L.A and is staying on the island of Mykonos. Honestly the last place you'd go looking for clarity but I'm hoping for at least a little bit of perspective. With any luck my best friend won't do anything stupid(let's just say we're still feeling the repercussions from the last long-weekend I was away, or someone is anyway) and that I'll get back to you with something newsworthy.

[8030] Days on Earth

They say memories are connected to our sense of smell and while I can't disagree with that fact I find my strongest memories are connected to music. For me it's not so much what I smelled but what I heard. Music and art in general have been a big influence on me ever since I was kid growing up. I remember my dad putting on funk and jazz and even punk. There was always music in the house. I never took to learning how to play a musical instrument, unlike my dad and more like my mother, I was a more animated character. I liked to dance, and sing and in that paying more attention to the words, which I guess makes sense now, me being a writer and all, and also how I felt listening to them, than to the music from a technical point of view. I remember going to the cinema with my dad to watch Fellini's Casanova and although I remember little of the movie itself, I remember the music. My dad bought a CD of the soundtrack( I think I may have even asked for it) and I remember listening to it all day and creating a choreography which I performed each time we had people over. As I got older my amusement with dancing was gone and I moved onto singing. Then writing lyrics for my own potential songs. You know, I've found you can be fascinated by someone else doing something but not necessarily being into to it yourself. I mean would it be cool to be able to play an instrument? Sure. But I can't really see myself doing it. I always admired my father's paintings but never wanted to be a painter myself.

Yet music was always there for me, in the heart of all my fondest recollections. I watched Nick Cave's "20,000 Days on Earth" and what stuck with me most from the film wasn't his music in particular even though I love it. It was something he said, the way I felt when my friend was braiding my hair while watching it and how at one point I got so lost in the moment watching him perform that I applauded as if I was there, in the front row of his concert, having just heard my favorite song. He said something in one bit that got me thinking. He was asked what he fears most and he said losing his memory, "cause memory is what we are. I think our very soul, our very reason to be alive, is tied up in memory". Strangely I connected this to music again, whether it was because a musician was the one saying it or because music plays such an important role in each of our lives. I thought about all the concerts I've been to and all the concerts I regretted missing, and even the ones I will go to in the future. The first thing that came to mind is when a few years back, my dad and I went to a Marcello Rota concert ( the nephew of Nino Rota who wrote the soundtrack for Fellini's Casanova that I loved so much) and at one moment I glanced over at my dad and he was crying. You see, when I think about places I've been, music I've heard or sang along to, I often don't remember a particular song, but who I was with, the way I felt and the way they reacted. It's kind of odd to imagine that I am a kind of a silent observer of the way other people react but it's sort of like brushing your own hair, it will never feel as good as when someone else is doing it for you. Quite in the same way as I see it,  nothing will be as funny if you have no one to laugh with you and the music will never be as loud when the person next to you isn't transforming into a screaming glorious mouthpiece for the sound of your favorite tune. I saw this movie once and it was the documentation of a couple's sexual relationship corresponding to the gigs they went to together and the music they listened to. Basically it was porn with a really good soundtrack, it was an interesting concept though. Music molds us and creates bonds with others in a way that little else can.

I guess it was a few years back, I went to a Clutch concert and, more than the music, the crazy crowd or that fact that I almost thought I was going to die in the midst of a pit, mostly I remember my lover's arms around me, protecting me, while the music resonated through my body like a second pulse, transforming me into a whole with the mob and at the same time a separate elated entity, as I knew that this moment would create a different meaning and memory for each and every one of us. Sometimes I'll see two strangers unknowingly creating a moment with each other as they howl and roar, as if to surpass the speakers, their bodies flailing in the interchanging lights shining from above the stage. Other times it's a couple, they almost  secretly stare at each other, even though they have nothing to hide, but they do so swiftly, not to miss one second of the band's godlike manifestation. She suddenly sees him as one with the band, reaching out to him as if trying to catch every note that he belts out in the palm of her hand. He, the performer, sees only her while everyone else around them disappears, he counts each breath she draws as if she were his own human metronome, and as she reaches out he hopes that she tears of his clothes and rips out his heart to hold and keep as her own. At the same time, my friend is clasping my hand as we make our way towards the bar, Kasabian's "Underdog" blasting in the background and I can feel the sweat in his palm, can hear his breath as he inhales the smoke from his cigarette and the gravel rumbling beneath his footsteps. A few months later that same friend crosses his arms across his chest and swallows in his dry throat, as our third party pleasantly interrupts the silence of our company to remark on how good the band is. I'm moving my hands and arms rhythmically to the sound of 70s, psychedelic-like tunes, sometimes purposefully caressing my floral dress to feel the soft fabric. We are now at an Allah-Las gig on a crisp November, Saturday night. These moments aren't mutually exclusive to other people or to big chaotic concerts of course but despite the time and place,whether it was from your childhood or yesterday, as they seamlessly as they unfold they can then be re-animated by the sound of that same familiar music and almost take on a life of their own after a while, clinging to the person you were at that moment or the person you were with even if that person in both cases is long gone.

Happy Halloween!!!

I trust that in the "true"(which is definitely not this) spirit of the Halloween tradition, all you girls and boys, danced, got drunk and frolicked in streets, clubs and restrooms dressed as slutty bunnies and pop culture icons. I, myself am more of Christmas kinda gal and no, I don't mean I like Christmas, oh no honey, I AM Christmas! I get the fascination with Halloween though. For kids it's more about the candy and dressing up as their favorite heroes and for adults it's more about hooking up with strangers while pretending to be someone else(which is true in most cases anyway). We all have as people this strong urge to be someone else, someone better, or provocative and sexually suggestive, generally to pretend but we also don't want to be judged for it. Halloween poses the perfect opportunity. In traditional folklore people supposedly dressed up so that the dead that walked among the living only on this night, wouldn't recognize them. Nowadays I guess its more about escaping our own realities and ordinary selves. I too, went to a costume party last night , actually to two if I'm being honest, dressed as a film noir vamp(or a fancy prostitute, I mean however you wanna look at it...just kidding! But really as a reference to Mean Girls I could've been booo, you whore! but sadly no one asked). Getting ready was a kind of ritual, of getting in the vintage mood. I pin curled my hair and put on dramatic makeup while listening to jazzy tunes. I wore stockings with a garter belt, gloves, a hair piece and a skirt that prevented me from ever sitting down again for the rest of the evening! My friends went as a corpse bride, Marie Antoinette *post guillotine and Luna, Sailor Moon's cat(I did her cat makeup!). We felt fabulous as we walked down the street, all eyes of casually dressed people on us. If they were making fun of us, we didn't care. In fact, I'd love to walk around like that every day. At the party everyone was dressed up as something scary, skeletons, ghosts, ghouls and one guy who was dressed as a terrifying scarecrow, who I would not want to run into alone. Thankfully no clowns! Also thankfully no slutty nurses or cops or slutty-anythings for that matter. We choked on the gallons of dry-ice that gave the place an eerie horror movie effect, drank out of water bottles filled with wine we brought from home and danced like nobody's business to 90s pop anthems. Going to the bathroom was a bit of nightmare as was having to squeeze back into my skirt but even that was kinda fun. We also took like a million pictures in which my face almost looks exactly the same! Until next time, Happy post-Halloween hangover!