Better than Revenge

We've all been there . . . When you are in a good heart and mind space, life feels like an enternity of making love on a sun-denched window sill beside a life-sized old-fashioned brass key that, um, well, that unlocks all the past pains in your heart, setting you free to love absolutely everyone around you. Like when you're drunk.

And then, BAM, suddenly, for one reason or another, something happens that makes you feel like life is an enternity of suckage with only a sickening combination of shame, humiliation, rage, disappointment and grief for company 24/7.

In this state, you'll do ANYTHING to discharge the pain as far away from your aching body and tortured mind as possible . . .


. . . In your head, you line up all your internal demons as well as real-life enemies and take aim with your best weapon: revenge fantasies . . . some of which you might even recklessly act out in real time -- like the ever popular drunk-and-dial, or the tried-and-true long, rightous and raging letter -- hitting the send button before your friends have had a chance to come to your den of insanity and chain you to a radiator until you became a human being again.

OK, OK, I do admit that sometimes revenge can be sweet . . . (and human) . . .


But it only makes you feel good temporarily. Because chances are, your revenge will hurt someone else (even if they seemed to deserve it) and pain inflicted on others always comes back to bite you in the ass, or, more accurately, in the conscience, which is not located in your head as formerly thought, but near the vicinity of your heart, which makes it more dangerous.

If you don't actually do the real work of digging deep into your soul to find out what role you play in your own unhappiness (like inviting it in), and if you don't learn to sit bravely with your pain so that you don't lash out and spread the misery, the cylce will begin again until you do learn . . .


Thankfully, there is a way to find bravery in the face of adversity. And though it may be hard to believe, you can even do this personal work without rocking on someone else's dime. (Although the expression makes a great t-shirt! Thanks, Dale!)


While learning to become responsible for your own contentment is simple, it's not necessarily easy. A friend told me the other day that his friend, who suffers from depression, was told by her therapist that happiness is a skill. This piece of information gave her hope because a skill can be learned. But it requires goal-setting and practice. As well as heavy doses of courage and faith. Not so easy when you are in the trillionth ring of hell, clawing your way up a steep bank of sadness, praying you will find a little air-conditioned hole to crawl into for eternity.


Kids, I have the recipe for the much sought-after Skill of Contentment. But before I tell you this little secret, I have to confess that one of my friends did act out a revenge fantasy once that not only brought her relief, but that still sends both of us into gales of laughter in the retelling. To my knowledge, she's never suffered a day of guilt over it. Nor should she. Her crime amounted to less than a misdemeanor. And the benefit far outweighed the cost. That time.

After being told one blissful evening that she was the love of her lover's life and that he wanted to spend an eternity with her, she was awoken the next morning by said lover who informed her that sometime between midnight and 7 am he realize he no longer loved her and wanted her to leave. Immediately.

To help herself deal with the shock and pain, this friend did something truly innovative. She broke into her freshly exed ex's airline account and ordered him the special bland meal for people who have ulcers, in perpetuity.

Although we all indulge our revenge fantasies when we're in pain, and the fantasies do serve an important function as long as they remain fantasies, a far more powerful antidote to hurt is the old cliché of conjuring the sun-drenched brass key that will open your heart.

Here's a for instance: recently I discovered that an ex from years ago had hotly pursued a close friend the day after dumping me. She would have none of it, of course, because my friends are pillars of love and integrity, but that did not change the fact that he was an ethic-less, heartless beast. I was consumed by a sense of victimization for an entire afternoon upon hearing this news, and, true to human form, I concocted all kinds of revenge fantasies that made bland airplane food seem like a lifetime of free filet mignon at North 44.

But then I was looking through my photographs a few days later and I came upon this one:


This ex hated doing dishes. At his home he had a dishwasher and a cleaning lady. But when he was dating me, he was subjected to my single sink located in my cleaning lady-free apartment. Yet when I made dinner, he always insisted on doing the dishes. And he never complained. In fact, he turned the job into an art, creating beautiful sculptures out of that which he hated. They touched me deeply. Which is why I photographed them.

This ex had what I would call a painful childhood. He had not been properly loved by either parent, and so no one had taught him how to love anyone else, especially not himself. Yet his dish sculptures were the tenderest gestures I'd ever seen. So, if he chased my friend, it was truly because he had no friends. Literally. I was pretty much his only friend at the time. And my girlfriend was the next best thing I guess, since he knew her through me. He was lonely. Deeply. How could I want to wreak revenge on someone already so filled with pain?

OK, he was a big jerk to me. But I'm the lucky one because I have people like this in my life.

World, meet Sara. She is the miseur-en-scene and photographer of the Star Wars action figures above. But she is so much more. She is the woman who made me laugh for four hours straight one night as she drew a picture of me that looked like a cross between a pheasant and a crone (OK we were high, but still). She once made me an animal out of tinfoil that looked like a rat and, strangely enough, also like a bison, which is why I called it RatBison and proudly displayed it on my coffee table. Whenever she came to dinner, she brought me flowers from the flower shop where she worked. And often posed with them in charming ways.

I wish I had spent more time with Sara when I lived in Montreal. I LOVE Sara. Yesterday, when I thought I'd be sad for an eternity, she wrote me a faith-restoring e-mail filled with the kind of compassionate honesty the makes you believe in trusting again. Seriously, all she has to do is draw a smiley face on her thumb and stick it up to the camera during a Skype video chat and I'm done for.

More Menschitude

Since today marks the inauguration of someone I would definitely describe as possessing menschy characteristics (at least based on his kick-ass speeches) into the second highest office in the land (the first highest being that which bestows unconditional love on all, never filled by a person, per se, but always filled by the menschy choices every person is capable of making), it seems a good opportunity trot out a personal interest I believe has larger-than-me implications. Namely, Menschitude.

According to Wiki, and Leo Rosten, the author of The Joys of Yiddish, a mensch is “someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character. The key to being ‘a real mensch’ is nothing less than character, rectitude, dignity, a sense of what is right, responsible, decorous.’"

Personally, I think it’s more productive to speak of menschitude vs. a mensch, since the former describes a behaviour, something we can all aspire to achieve, while the latter describes a character trait as if it were congenital. Once a sister, always a sister, but a true mensch is the stuff of myth, like Santa. To my knowledge, no one has been born as, or lived life as, an unwavering mensch. But one can choose to act menschitudinally at will. Menschitude is available at anytime to anyone.

Recently, a friend of mine – not me, of course – had some dating experiences that left her (and me) wondering if menschitudinality is heading the way of the dodo. Characteristic of her dates were their self descriptions as being persons of strong moral compasses, or having done years of personal work, both things easy to say, but when situations came up that required courage, honesty and menschitude, these self-described do-gooders scored low on the mensch-o-meter.


Always the optimist, I believe, as Obama believes, that we will be remembered for what we build, not what we destroy. Worth remembering. Although a bad exchange between people can crush a spirit so excruciatingly that the urge to destroy surges to the surface faster than a smart missile, I still believe the only antidote to pain is love. Love never destroys. It builds. And it is an elegant self-sustaining system that continues to build upon itself. The more you love, the more you love.

So, in the spirit of building, I would like to contribute a cherished idea I’ve been chewing on for the last few weeks towards helping increase opportunities for folks to act with menschitude (it's a learned behaviour after all).

Allow me to humbly put forth what I think to be one of the most vital building blocks for menschness that we all have at our disposal.

Ask a question


Hell, ask two questions. It won’t kill you. If I hear the excuse, “I don’t like to pry,” one more time for why you don’t ask questions, I will personally speak to your maker and demand a total recall. You like being asked questions, don’t you? Of course you do! I know because you answer them as if you were a famous novelist at a public reading, soaking up the adoration of your fans.

While I’m sure you have lots of interesting things to say, every good novelist knows that really good writing -- which demonstrates a true understanding of, as well as sensitivity and compassion to, the lives of others -- requires keen real-life observation, and observation means you speak less and listen more.


Cultivating some heart and soul while you’re at it wouldn’t hurt. If it means you need to treat the person across the table from you like a character study, so be it. Whatever it takes. And, yes, while you’re absolutely right that solipsists do get laid, I would argue that the quality of their encounters declines in direct proportion to their self-absorption. Sex is an exchange, like conversation. If you can master the give and take of either concept, I swear your relationships will improve, both the public and private.


Otherwise, go find a dark corner and take care of yourself. Oh yeah, here’s a little bonus factoid you might not have considered: when you show interest in someone else, you usually learn a thing or two. Maybe even a thing or two about your favourite topic: yourself. I'm telling you, this simple trick of asking questions holds untold benefits for you. But you have to begin with them first.



Recently, my friend (not me) dated a guy whose only question to her after three dates -- posed while surrounded by her paintings (about which he asked nothing) -- was “how long are you renting this apartment for?” Now this friend of mine does not pretend to be the most fascinating creature anyone's ever come across, but I do think her date lost an opportunity to step outside himself for a nanosecond and see that someone was potentially interested in him.



"Was" being the operative tense.



Also, for god's sake, if you really have only one question in you, try at least to make it meaningful. A question about a person's apartment should come after a question about the other person's views/dreams/passions/even hatreds.

OK, I lied. I have one more tip.

Speak up!

You and I both know you don’t mean to cause harm. But when you slip out the back door instead of bravely speaking your truth, you cause untold harm. What happens is the person you were just talking with (or at) is left wondering what he or she did wrong to make you run in the opposite direction without explanation. If the person you were talking to made you want to run for good reason, at least have the courtesy and decency to tell him or her that before you take off. Yes, it's scary to step up like that. It requires courage to be honest and up front, but that’s what menschitude is all about. It’s never about doing the easy thing. It’s about doing what would help another person not feel bad. It's about seeing what's required and making it happen. It is above duty. It is a gift. It is an act of generosity and love. And it will make you feel good. Like you have integrity. I think integrity might even feel better than sex.

Also, return e-mails and phone calls, even if only to say you won't be returning them anymore. It's just the kind thing to do.

My father’s second wife once said two smart things to me. #1: if you are low on cash but need to buy a gift, buy a $20 lipstick over a $20 dress. Self explanatory. #2: a real gift is something that causes the giver a little pain. Example: my friend Jacline gifted me a pair of her favourite earrings because I expressed a delight in them one day. That’s a gift.

What does this have to do with Obama's menschitude and the world beyond me? Good habits start at home. I.e. the personal is political. I'm just saying, don't compartmentalize. Don't do good outside but treat the people around you badly. Be nice and do good whenever you can. Nice is sexy.

I wrote this post to mitigate a deep sense of disappointment I felt this week. One thing I know for sure, we all want the same thing: to love and be loved. We just don’t always know how to behave. Me included. So, I’m going to work on my own menschitudinality starting right now. I'd love to know more about you . . . can I buy you coffee?


For more ideas on how to be a mensch, especially on an airplane, check out Guy. That's his name!

Self Portrait with Bidet

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only way I seem to grow is via a process of extreme public mortification. Kind of like mugging for the camera, thinking you might just be the most sumptuously gorgeous creature on the planet, while remaining utterly oblivious to the bidet lurking in the background. That's my life in a nutshell.

I swear to god I don’t know why I can’t learn from the mistakes of others instead of trying them out for myself. It’s as if I believe that having my whole family, and an entire wedding party, witness my poor judgment is the most rockingiest good time, right up there with farting on a first date.


I can’t figure out if I am slow on the uptake because my mistake models tend to be characters in novels whose entanglements with life seem so very romantic, or because my friends have such well-honed self-preservation skills that they don’t provide the mistake lessons I so badly need. Or, perhaps the characters/friends dichotomy is really two sides of the same coin and my mistake is to decide against changing my money at the airport, thinking I can do it at the resort, which I discover upon arrival I cannot, leaving me stuck with my useless currency. I’d like to blame my self-respecting friends, who sensibly avoid embarrassment, for forcing me to act like Bridget Jones, but the truth is it’s me who has a taste for mistake porn, and then the supreme bad judgment to try out the novel moves in real life, not to mention the even worse judgment (worse than supremely bad) to blog about it as well.

Exhibit A: publishing this . . .


. . . instead of this . . .


(My cousin's wife's brother who was part of the wedding party in Costa Rica last week, and, no we did not . . .)

Here are a few other mistakes I'd like to share with you because, well, because I can't seem to stop myself. . .

Mistake Number 1:
Through the innocent and involuntary response of my own laughter, I effectively encouraged my brother, Justin's, shenanigans in Costa Rica where we were attending our cousin's wedding. Justin, the bad brother, is on the left. The one on the right doing the enabling is Andy, the good brother.


With the best of intentions I’m sure, Justin tried to pimp me to every waiter, tour guide, pool boy and male iguana (the real kind, not even the metaphor) that crossed his path: “Hey, Manuel! Are you single? Si? So is my sister! Don’t you think she’s guapa?”

Exhibit B: our guide on the sunset cruise. Apart from looking like he's twelve, and the fact that he lives in Costa Rica and hangs out on boats with drunken tourists, I think he's married and has a son. I'm many things, but not a craddle robber or a homewrecker.

At any rate, Justin’s voice is as resonant and far-reaching as a fog horn. But the real problem is, he’s extremely funny. Also, he’s my boss. He signs my pay cheques. I could not stop him. And I didn’t really want to. My mistake was to let my enjoyment of his humour get in the way of my self-preservation instincts. I don’t believe there was one resort guest, vendor on the beach, or grain of sand that did not know I was up for grabs. Which meant my comings and goings became something of public interest and conversation. Your imagination can fill in the rest.

Mistake Number 2:
Telling you all here right now that one of my goals this year is to practice travel writing so that I can travel later in the year and write about it. For money. I should know better than to make such public announcements, setting up expectations I might not meet. And yet here I am reporting on Costa Rica where I was surrounded by unspeakable natural beauty, and gobs of time in which to write a trenchant piece about the wasteful and blindly exploitative all-inclusive resort expreience, except that I did not write about any of it. I did not write at all. Why? I blame the sun. It forced me into a prone position on a white plastic thing they called a lounge chair located beside a body of water they called the pool. The sun distracted me to such a degree that I forgot to reapply 45 sunblock. While everyone in my group slow cooked to an even golden brown that glowed sexily against their whitish ensembles . . .


. . . I fried to a blistering red from my clavicle to my calves, turning all my new vacation clothes into exercises in contrast, visibly highlighting, as it were, my searing shame. Thankfully, some of my trip mates had the good graces to avert their gaze.


Mistake Number 3:
My unwavering ability to believe every New Year (no matter how old and ostensibly wise I get) that this year my ship will come in. A disproportionately large section of my grey matter activity seems devoted to this glorious sea-change myth, and, worse, I believe it’s something that will happen to me instead of from me. In this case, I blame chick flicks.

Exhibit C: A plausible photograph of me with a staggeringly good looking man . . .


. . . only this staggeringly good looking man is none other than my uncle. All I can say is, at least he's not my Drunkle.


Take Two


This year, I plan to make some changes. My first order of business is to short circuit all my particularly ROI-deficient neural pathways (i.e. the ones that run back and forth between ChickFlickVille and FalseHappinessTown). Then I plan to build a one-way superhighway that runs from Fantasy Island to Survivor (Toronto and beyond).

One destination; one winner.


Here are a few things I wish to tackle this year (and blog about, either to pressure myself into doing them, or to prove that I really am addicted to public shame).

1. Jewish Restitution Money Plan
My family just got some money from the German government for property we lost in the war. My grandmother’s family owned a department store on Alexander Platz in Berlin, as well-known as the Eaton’s Centre at Queen and Young. My mother generously divided her portion of the money amongst her children, enabling me to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a few years: travel. Destination: Australia. Also to SE Asian countries where I have friends: Japan, Korea, Thailand. Also, to go back to Manila to finish my book. Hopefully. Maybe. If I don’t lose my nerve.

I’m thinking September.


I am also earmarking some of this money to provide funding for an emerging Jewish woman artist to spend a month of studio time in Berlin. I’m researching how this can be set up. I welcome all suggestions. This project is dear to my heart.

2. Blog-on-Brunch Plan. Blunch.


I love brunch. I’d trade it for dinner any day. One of Toronto’s greatest treasures is its plethora of amazing brunch places. Montreal has great brunch but not as many venues. Berlin has many venues and some spectacular brunches, but they don't do traditional North American brunch the way I like. I admit, I don’t love Toronto (I don’t hate it either) but I do think it tops the world (i.e. Montreal and Berlin) for brunch.

So, every Sunday, after my long run, I plan to find brunch, photograph brunch, eat brunch and blog brunch. I am looking for suggestions for places to go, as well as offers of companionship. For brunch, that is. If we fall in love over eggs, that’s a whole other blog post (girlfriends, don’t let that deter you. I want your company!)

3. Train for a Half Marathon Plan

It’s been three years since I ran my first and last half marathon. And it shows. The good news is I trained for the last one all through a Montreal winter (outside, not on a treadmill) so I know it can be done. The bad news: there's no excuse. Also, I’m not H Murakami so writing about running will be a challenge. But since running is all about challenge, I can't back down from this one, either. Run. Write. Run. Write. Run. Write . . .

My reward for all these accomplishments?

Bliss?

(We See You Shit was a piece by Michael Davidge)

Two Indispensible Decision-Making Tools: Part 2

The response to yesterday’s post on decision making was so overwhelming in number and expressions of relating that I’ve decided to gift you all, my dear readers, with two great items given to me just the other day. Think of this offering as the blog equivalent to the loot bag Oprah gives members of her studio audience at the end of each show, except my booty bag does not contain a smart car. But it does send you home with two smart suggestions. They will cost you, mind you, but only if you decide to purchase them. Good news: they are affordable, which is not to cheapen the gift from me to you, or from its original giver to me, so that’s something.

First, the original gift giver requires proper credit: a friend of mine who lives in mortal fear of being blogged about (specifically by me), and who also thinks, not surprisingly, that every one of my blog posts is already about him, is finally going to have his worst fear come true, but in a good way (I hope). This friend, who shall remain anonymously neurotic, always knows exactly what to get me at gift-giving times of the year. Clearly understanding the true nature of a gift -- a one-way offering that enhances the life of the gift receiver in some way -- my friend bases his gift decisions on which critical (crisis) situation I happen to be currently obsessing over.


This Jewmas he gave me two perfect self-preservation tools that I should have blogged about yesterday because they are soooooo apropos. Oh well, better late . . . So, here's the first one:


How perfect is this? For the times when your brain (untrustworthy 99.9% of the time) and body (a fairly good barometer for how to make a decision, or how to detect if the one you made was a hideous mistake) are not sending you clear messages about how to make your next move, this low-tech decision-maker application takes the pressure off your mind and body and gets the job done practically by itself. All you need to bring to the exercise is the raft of crap floating around in your head. And the basic skill of dividing up your mind junk into the two opposing categories and then adding up each category to see which total wins. If you lack these simple division and addition skills, however, then no one can help you, my friend. Not even me.


What I love about this tool is the layout: how there is very little space allocated to the nature of your dilemma (because, really, most problems can be boiled down to one or two simple statements, such as “X is not doing what I want! How can I mold him/her in my own image?” or, “How can I suck my boss’s/coworkers’ brains out through a straw and then replace them with something I can actually work with, like chocolate?”) Equally miniscule space is given to the action plan, and that’s because by the time you get to that point, it should be pretty clear and simple what needs to be done – Trade X, boss and coworkers for a big box of chocolate, preferably 72% cacao studded with dried sour cherries. Done, done and done.

Now what?

And that’s what this snappy decision-making note pad is really for: the now what. As if invented by a Nobel-prize winning genius, which I’m staring to think it is, this pad provides acres of space for where space is actually required – the sprawling and endlessly entertaining amusement park of problem wallowing. If you are really honest with yourself, you know as well as I do that problems are where the fun is. Seriously, once you check the “problem solved” box, you have nothing left to live for, unless you have convinced yourself that you really do get a high from scrubbing toilets to a blinding shine, or checking your e-mail a gagillion times an hour to see if someone loves you, or watching yet another episode of Battlestar Gallactica, which would surely be more gripping in once-a-week doses rather than in day-long marathons. I mean it, give me a good old family or relationship drama any day, and make it look utterly unresolvable, and I'm all over it like Liz on a two gallon bag of popcorn.

This crisis-love theory of mine, BTW, is not just some hair-brained idea I came up with during the long boring days of peace. It is based on an article I read a few years ago (although I can’t remember where, when or who wrote it) in which the author proposes that problems, and their attendant stress, are essential to the development of our well being. The author cited a study of monkeys in the zoo who threw their food into their swimming water before eating it because their usual hunting instinct had been thwarted by excellent cage service, screwing with the monkeys’ evolutionary programming. Thanks to their uncanny human-like resourcefulness, however, the monkeys solved their problem by inventing a different problem. Throwing their food into water created the stressful situation of having to retrieve the food, and quickly, before it got spoiled. Voila: proper development of their psychological stability creatively solved. This problem/solution thing seems as obvious to me now as breast feeding: It's a self-sustaining system. And since we humans have evolved from monkeys, it only makes sense that the overwhelming body of evidence – just look at our love of soap operas, both virtual and actual – suggests that problems and stress are essential to our happiness. You don’t believe me? Turn on your TV. Or, call any one of my family members. I’m talking hard science here. Empirical, double-blind fact.

Conclusion: We don’t hate problems at all. We love them! No, wait, we don’t just love them, we lerve them. We loave them. If we hated them, we would have made peace with them a long time ago, putting a decisive stop to their endless sieges.

Next. David Shrigley. He is one of my favourite everythings. His books are doodlerific and brilliant. And it's comforting to know Shrigley faces the same life or death decisions we all face.


Who has not stood in front of a closet, or in front of a font, and had to make these choices? Remember high school? Remember baptism and confession? (Well, neither to do I but in both cases my Jewishness provides a good excuse).


Then, just when you think Shrigley has courageously given voice to his deepest fear, he bravely gives concrete form to the spectre of his deepest wish. I don’t know about you, but “etc.” is one of my greatest wishes, too. I'd do almost anything for etc.

And then, just when you lose all hope about the human condition, Shrigley swoops in with what I believe to be the most incisive, elegant and even hopeful summing up of the human experience:


That's it.

And those are my gifts to you.

Now before you slink off to scrub your toilet with a toothbrush, please, I want you to know that you should not feel any shame for needing to resort to either of these tools to help you make a decision. I don’t. Feel shame, I mean. Feel free to cite me as your shining example of someone who, from time to time, must rely on the pro/con pad, which can be purchased at Grand and Toy, or, if you have a neat hand and no feeling for copyright law, you can just copy what’s here. The David Shrigley book can be gotten at any quality bookstore. My current fave bookstore in Toronto is Type on Queen west, but I don’t know if they have this book. It’s just a great store, and I recently discovered it's the brain child of an old friend of mine who has the life I want -- husband, kids, store -- which is my current crisis. I'm sure my spot-on gift-giving friend will find the perfect item for this painful situation by Valentine's day.

And, last but not least, I want to say thank you to my friend, M.P., for providing the content for this post. You, too, are one of my favourite everythings. I would purchase you if I could. And, yes, this blog post is about you. (And so was that other one you kept asking me about).