"Houda" as a verb

If Houda Rafle said you were cool, you believed her.

Because Houda was one of those people who said things with such conviction and authority that you didn't dare doubt her word. For all intents and purposes, Houda was a boss.

I met Houda while doing contract work for eTalk during the Toronto International Film Festival. I was an outsider, brought in for a short amount of time to help with the influx of duties that come with such a large event, and she didn't need to make time for me and my inadequacies. This was TIFF and there was no time for slow learners. My first shift with her was intimidating as all hell and I tried so hard to make myself useful. I don't know much about entertainment news, so I was floundering. Houda's conversation about an artist named Trey Songz confused me (Trey who?), but I tried to keep up. Then she mentioned Ludacris (now him I understood) and I was able to quote a favourite lyric. Houda gave me a look of pure honesty and said "you're one of us. Amanda, that was cool." I believed her and from then on she treated me as one of her own.

The Houda I knew was sassy and strong. She told you what she thought, without holding back, and if you didn't like it that was your problem, not Houda's. If you wanted something taken care of the best person to turn to was Houda. She'd take care of business because she was a boss in every respect. Her flare for taking charge of difficult situations and people gave her such a reputation that her name became used as a verb when things got tough. Having a problem with your phone company? Time to Houda. Did that waitress just ignore us? No she didn't; Houda it up. If you had an issue you wanted Houda in your corner (or at least to channel Houda's strength).

This fall, Houda was diagnosed with cancer. She was one of the many people effected by the errors of Dr. Ivo Slezic, a Trillium radiologist who misread scans and gave patients inaccurate information. But in true Houda fashion she dealt with it with strength. She spoke out about the situation and about her fight for her life with such conviction that you didn't dare think that she'd do anything but live. Because when Houda spoke you believed her, and it's hard to imagine such a fighter losing any battle, especially one for her life.

Last night Houda died. This makes me more angry than I can express through words. I walked the streets of Toronto today with bitter tears streaming down my face because I feel very strongly that her death was unjust. A medical error that shouldn't have occurred took time away from Houda's fight with cancer. A fighter deserves a fighting chance and a vivacious young woman deserves a chance to live. That chance was diminished because of Dr. Slezic's errors and it's not what Houda, or any of his other patients, deserved.

When I found out Houda was sick, I reached out to her to tell her that I was here if she needed someone to talk to. She thanked me, and in true Houda fashion turned the conversation back to me and how I was doing. She'd heard I'd been going through some difficult changes. It was true. 2013 has not been an easy year for me. I lost my partner, the home we shared, and most recently, I've lost my job. Through these periods of change I've heard every phrase of encouragement and support, which when you're feeling your lowest sound like empty words. But when Houda said "you are beautiful and young and I know you will find the right guy for you." I believed her.

A Lovely, Un-Romantic Valentine's Day

My first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend was spent ass-deep in his ex-girlfriend’s stuff. 

We’d been dating for three months and I’d spent most of that time bugging him to clean up his place. To say that he had clutter is an understatement. We made a deal that the next free weekend we had available we’d spend it purging and organizing his apartment. It just so happened that the next free weekend fell on Valentine’s Day.

With thoughts of flowers and chocolate being presented like I’d seen in every commercial and after school special I’d watched since the age of five dancing through my head, I dove into the clutter with zeal. After this chore was done there’d be romance, more importantly, there’d be chocolate.

I’d grab items and say, “keep, toss, donate?” expecting that most items would end up in the keep category. To my surprise most of it was deemed a toss/donate and most of it had belonged to a woman. Girly books, photos, jewelry, tank tops, stockings, and even the beginnings of a fanfic novel all got tossed into bags. Eventually I stopped asking and just threw anything that had the look and feel of a female out. But I had trouble throwing these items away without getting absorbed in them first. Especially when I realized that I was sitting in a pile of stuff that had made up a person’s life.

I learned a lot about my first boyfriend’s ex that day. She was a figure skater, she read a lot of bad novels, she wore clothes I would never wear and she was bad at spelling. Looking at these personal objects and piecing a dossier of the ex together in my mind was more revealing than hearing about her from other people and I recognized that we were nothing alike. My boyfriend explained that his ex had broken up with him suddenly and left almost as quickly. The breakup was premeditated, but she didn’t bother to pack up properly and he had never bothered to go through their place and throw her things away, until now, until meeting me.  

Two days and 40 garbage bags later, his place was finally organized and no trace of the ex was left. What was left was a greater understanding of each other. I knew more about my new boyfriend and his past, he knew more about me and we made a promise to always be honest with each other and not let clutter (mental or emotional) build up between us.  He never did buy me flowers or chocolate, and I discovered he isn’t the romantic type and doesn’t like holidays, but in the end I didn’t mind.

It’s been over four years now and he’s still my boyfriend, my first and my last. We’re still always honest with each other. I love him, not because he sweeps me off my feet on Valentine’s Day like I see in many commercials and after school specials, but because he treats me like a queen all the other days of the year. And when I say we have to clean the apartment and take out the clutter, he hops to it and takes care of business. 

Productivity Surge, Creativity Collapse

Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the fact that the weight of 2013 is finally starting to settle in. Maybe it’s just me. But I’ve noticed a distinct surge in productivity.

I am slamming through projects in my professional life at high speed. My to-do lists get longer every day, but I manage to maintain output. I’m juggling a full-time job, a course in copywriting, part-time volunteer work, and I still manage to make time for family and friends. I’m feeling increasingly ambitious around the house. I want to clean everything, organize closets and cupboards. Purge, and then re-organize again. I want to re-decorate! Never has the urge to paint walls and hang up photos been so strong. These same urges have bled into my vacation planning. Despite the fact that I won’t be going on a trip until August, I want to book the flight now! Set up the restaurant reservations now! I want to organize and plan. And then plan and re-organize again! My productivity is wild and, probably, beneficial, but it’s come at a cost.

At first, I thought the cost was fatigue. My mind’s been whirring with all the things I want to take care of late into the night. I make lists in my sleep because even when I’m dreaming the urge to be productive doesn’t wane. But really, I think the true cost has been my creativity. The urge to write fiction that was so strong in December and January has stopped altogether. My campaign visions and snappy spin on copy for my copywriting class has faltered. Forcing creativity is worse than forcing yourself to poop when you’re constipated, but in some cases (like class), I just have to grit my teeth and bear down. This blog, especially, is suffering. I have neither the time, nor the creative compulsion to write in it... even though I want to. So many times have I come across a situation and thought “yes! I’ll write about this tonight!” only to get home late, and exhausted, and drawn to re-fold all my sweaters, instead of letting my creative juices flow.

Am I too busy? Maybe. If I had more time would I write more and get better ideas for campaigns? Perhaps. Are all my creative powers being poured into work and volunteering, so much so that I feel drained in other areas? Possible.

How do I fix it? I don’t know, but I’m looking for suggestions. How do you get your creativity in gear and maintain focus?