Simple

In my first year of college (2004), I took a creative writing class. We were given an assignment; we were to answer a bunch of questions--questions like "If you were a tree/flower/fruit/colour, what kind would you be?"

**Side note** I was actually asked what colour I would be if I were a colour in a job interview once. Stupid question, I thought. I answered that I would be skin colour. Duh. I got the job anyway.

Obviously, I am far too logical to find this kind of metaphor appealing in my own writing. It's just so...so lame. Anyway, this is what I came up with. And surprisingly, it's still one of my favourite pieces of writing to this day.



Simple

I am not abstract art,
there is no confusion, no need to tilt your head to one side.

I am not large, obscure words;
do not take out your dictionary or thesaurus.

I am not a violin,
all intricate and needing to be played exactly.

I am a daisy
simple
I am a giggle in church
playful
I am baby-soft skin
natural
I am a fawn
trusting

I am not a mango!



--

Painting the ceiling

I've been spending some time renovating my living room. It all started when I decided I need to bring a desk upstairs from the basement so that I had somewhere to put my sewing machine. But rather than just bring up the desk, put my sewing machine on it, and get to work, I decided before I could possibly do that, I should probably remove the fireplace...

So the fireplace was removed and obviously the wall behind it is a different colour than the rest of the wall necessitating the need to paint. And before I can paint the walls, I needed to paint the ceiling. Which is what I did this last weekend.

Saturday before lunch, I ran to the paint store. I bought paint, a pole to attach to the roller handle, and a tray lining to pour the paint into. The girl there asked me four times if I had everything I needed. I assured her that I did.

After lunch I came home, changed into my painting clothes, threw a bandanna on top of my head and started moving furniture. I was getting ready to tape when I realized I didn't have any. I thought it might be possible to get around not taping if I'm really careful, but then when I went to put the roller on the handle, I realized I had no handle...or safety goggles...or the tray to put the lining in.

I changed back into my regular clothes (keeping in mind that the hallway is packed full of couches and every time I have to go to my room I have to crawl over them then perform all kinds of acrobatics to actually get there). I ran to Rona and picked up all the supplies that I had assured the girl at the paint store I already had. Then came home and changed yet again.

I spread out the drop sheets, taped around the lights, donned the brand-new (too big) safety goggles, rolled the roller in the paint, and started painting. It was going along very smoothly for about five minutes. But then...the handle broke. Snapped right near the metal part that attaches to the roller. I ended up painting the rest of the ceiling standing on a chair covered in old pillowcases (that kept falling off every time I moved the chair), holding onto a little stub of the handle. I'm not sure if I can properly portray my frustration. Let's just say that what was coming out of my mouth was not very ladylike.

This week, I'll be prepping the walls and getting ready to paint them over the weekend. Hopefully, that won't be worthy of a blog post. Can everyone please cross their fingers that this goes a tad bit more smoothly? Thanks.

--

Some stuff I've been thinking about

These are some things I've been thinking about lately:

1. My cousin: He is in the midst of trying to remove his childrens' mother from their lives. He has four kids--two girls and two boys. The girls have been protected from her for as long as they've been alive. She can see them, but she's not allowed to take them. The boys however, have the pleasure of being in her company often. Last week, she hit them with a broom handle on their legs, arms, and backs. Why? Because it was 830 at night and they were whining because they wanted to have dinner.

Anyway, my cousin is a good guy. He's quite a bit younger than me. He grew up on the family farm. His parents split up when he was young and his mom and two younger siblings moved to a different province. He stayed with his dad. I love my uncle, but he hasn't always been the most responsible guy, and my cousin has always been the adult. It makes sense then that he would fight to have full custody of his four children. He's a caretaker. And thank god for that.

But the thing is, he's stuck. He lives an hour and a half from a big city; he doesn't have enough education to do more than farm and occasionally work as a bartender for the local bar. He doesn't have a whole lot of options open to him, especially with full custody of four kids. And the true heartbreak lies in the fact that these kids don't have the opportunities that other kids (mine for instance) have and so they will more than likely follow this farmer/bartender path as well.

It's just so sad. And I'm so helpless to do anything.

2. Why am I procrastinating on starting the rest of my life? I was all gung-ho. I quit my job with big plans to do a few different things. And then...stopped. It's like if I don't try I won't fail. But honestly, I need to get moving on these things; the money I have now is not going to last forever. (Especially with three sports that need to be paid for rightthissecond.) One thing I have to do is move a desk upstairs from my basement. Instead of just doing that, I had my fireplace removed, necessitating the need to paint my entire living room, which of course, can only happen if I fill all the holes. So, obviously, I can't move the desk upstairs yet, which means I can't put my sewing machine on it, which means I can't start my life. There has to be a way around all of this...

3. My body. It's yucky. I want not to think about it, though, so I made a deal with a friend that we wouldn't. I'll still workout/run every day and not be stupid about what I put into my mouth, but, other than that, no weight talking here. Deal?

That's probably not all I've been thinking about. But enough for today. I'm feeling kind of heavy (but not in a weigh-too-much way because I don't talk about that here, more in an emotional way). I think I'll read a little lamebook.com to lighten the mood.

First Week

Today is Friday. It is also the end of my first full week at my new part-time job. I'm a receptionist. I'm doing the same job that I did almost 20 years ago when I didn't have kids or a degree. The difference is: I hated it then. I hated being stuck in an office for hours on end; I hated having to use my happy voice all the time; I hated that it was a shitty, go-nowhere job.



This one is different. This one I'm only here for four hours a day. I have time to workout in the morning, I have time to do all my errands before work and at lunch, and still be home for the boys when they come home after school. Everyday, I make a list of things that need to get done, and I'm actually able to check everything off. For that matter, I'm running out of things that need to get done.



And while I'm at work? I answer the phones (which I am totally getting the hang of), I sort the mail, and when I'm not doing that? I'm working on some freelance writing. The boss has left very implicit instructions that I am not to learn anything more than answering the phone and doing mail. So far, those rules have been followed.



I do feel a little guilty at times though. I watch others run around like chickens with their heads cut off while I sit here reading magazines and making notes on style and story needs. And sometimes I feel like maybe they're looking at me and hating me because I'm not helping while they run around like chickens with their heads cut off.



But then I remember: I chose this for a reason. I chose to leave all the security of having a full-time job. Not so that I could help others do their full-time jobs; not so that I could waste my degree by working as a receptionist, but so that I could spend some time with my children and try to figure out if I can be good at stuff that actually makes me happy. This job is the money-maker for now. This job is temporary until one or two or three of the other things I have planned works out. This is not a shitty go-nowhere job like the ones I had almost 20 years ago because it is a stepping stone to something amazing.

Fist Fight

The problem with having a blog is that I often don't know what to write. Today I was reading a quiz on facebook taken by a 13-year-old girl. (Oh the angst and drama of being a 13-year-old girl.) Anyway, I decided to chose a random question from this quiz to answer on my blog.



The question is: Have you ever been in a physical fight with someone from the opposite sex?



The answer: Yes.



Shocking? Of course. Who would hit a girl? Here's the story:



In the high school I graduated from, we had an event called "Safe Grad." This required the school (teachers/principal) to pick out a random location (a field somewhere) and not tell any of the students where it was. Then, on the night that Safe Grad happened, a few busses full of graduates would drive out to this undisclosed location to party and drink. When any of the students were ready to leave, there were volunteer parents on hand to drive them home. The thought was that it would give us a safe place to party while ensuring that there was no drinking and driving.



So, there I was, at my Safe Grad, drinking and partying and having a really good time. I was talking to a friend of mine (actually, an ex-boyfriend), when a bigger boy standing behind him called his name. My ex turned, and having a little experience in the fine art of fighting, ducked. Do you see where this is going? That's right, the bigger boy punched me right in the cheek. I was stunned.



At 17, I was a little, um, well, like any other 17-year-old I suppose. At that age, we all just have a sense of entitlement, I think. My first thought was "Nobody hits [Lily Starlight]." Although, really, who was I to make that assumption. Maybe people do hit [Lily Starlight]; maybe people dream of hitting [Lily Starlight]; maybe that was a thing that was going to start happening on a regular basis.



Looking back on it now, I'm almost a little embarrassed. Because I hit him back. With my tiny, ineffectual, little fists. I hit him five or six times. He felt awful for what he had done and he kept apologizing over and over. While I was hitting him. As hard as I could. He kept talking like nothing was happening. Apparently when I fight I float like a butterfly and sting like a...butterfly. *sigh*