High School

This year marks my 20th year out of high school. High school is a distant memory, but lately I have been thinking about it a lot. I was at my parent's house on the weekend and we pulled up, from the depths of the basement, a box of notes (the kind passed between classes) and pictures from high school.

Things I've noticed now that I'm an adult:

1. It wasn't just me that was dramatic in high school. I often think back and shake my head when I consider how everything was either the greatest thing that could ever happen or the absolute end of the world. Reading all the notes has caused me to realize that it wasn't just me. All my friends were like this, and I can't help but notice, that the boys were the most dramatic out of everyone. There's a lot of angst in teenagedom; it couldn't be better timing for me to find these memories as my own kids take on this time in their own lives.

2. Man, I was a heartbreaker. I can't even begin to count the notes written from boys professing their love for me. A lot of them were boyfriends but some weren't. I had boys "waiting" for me. Waiting for me to break up with the current boyfriend so they could have a shot. Um...is it too late to tell them that I'm ready now?

3. Even then I was somewhat of a writer. I, obviously, don't have any of the notes that I gave to people, but most of the notes from others start with something along the lines of: "you're so good at writing back" and end with: "sorry this is so short; your notes are always so nice and long."

4. We really had some big-ass hair in the 80s. My god, some of the pictures can't even fit in all of the hair height.

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That Scene in 40-Year-Old Virgin

I'm going on a vacation in a couple of days. A vacation where I will spend a large part of it on the beach working on my tan. A vacation where I will be forced to throw on a bathing suit many consecutive days in a row.


I try never to wear bathing suits. And the one I would wear if I absolutely had to is boy-cut. So, it's not that I'm fond of unruly jungles, and I do maintain "that area" well enough, but the need for perfection is not that necessary. Any other time that part of my body is viewed, the person doing the viewing is not really searching for...uh...stray branches.


Regardless, on this vacation I will be wearing a bikini. Prompting the need for more than just a careless swipe with a razor. For the first time in my life, I got a bikini wax. And you know what? OW!



Me: How old are your kids?

Torture Inflictor: They are four and six. *rub, rub, rub, RIP*

Me: OH THOSE ARE NICE AGES. DO THEY GO TO SCHOOL HERE?

TI: My son goes to [local school].

Me: That's a nice school. Well, I don't really know because that's not where my kids went, and I didn't go there either, but I know other people who went there, I mean their kids went there and they seem to like it. Well, they liked it, their kids don't go there anymore...

*RIP*

...BUT THEY USED TO GO THERE AND WHEN THEY WENT THERE, THEY LIKED IT.

TI: *eyes dart around making sure there's an escape route*



Apparently, when I'm in a shitload of pain I can still have a normal conversation. A totally coherent and not at all crazy conversation. As you can see I maintained a steady voice throughout and didn't babble unintelligibly. I'm very proud.

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Depressing

This blog depresses me. It's so dark and heavy all the time. It feels like I can only write about "issues" here. But the thing is: that's not who I am. In person, I'm light and funny. How come that isn't coming across here? Why am I so focused on this blog having "substance"?

Good writers have a voice. A voice that comes through in their writing. My voice is not coming through at all. This sucks.

And it's time for a change. Starting now.

So, without further ado, here are some random thoughts:

1. The other day I asked [Twin B] what he wanted to be when he grew up. He answered that he didn't know. So I asked the question in a different way: If you had to decide what you were going to be right now, what would you choose? His answer: Well, I guess I'd be a janitor because I don't really have the education to be anything else. My kid is brilliant.

2. So Jesus "died" and then we found out that he wasn't really dead, but we don't celebrate the second time that he died. I hear Jesus was kind of a big deal, so if we get a week off for his birth and four days off for his death/resurrection, then I think his second death deserves at least a long weekend.

3. I think I would be good at writing sit-coms for TV. I write them in my head almost constantly.

4. I hate my rear view mirror. It's the one that shows all the flaws. I often find myself driving down the street pulling out grey hairs rather then watching the road. It's also the one that points out which stray eyebrows need to be plucked. Yesterday it found a wrinkle. It was near my mouth. I've spent a lot of time since then pulling my cheeks back to see what I'd look like if I didn't have a wrinkle. But at least my eyebrows are good.

5. My friend is bringing over her baby this afternoon. He's pretty new. I haven't held a baby in a very long time. But the best part is that I get to stop at Chapters after work. I can't decide if I should get Sandra Boynton, Dr. Seuss, or Eric Carle. What a wonderful decision to have to make.

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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!



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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.

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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.