Bloggerstock: What is Your Theme Song?

It's Bloggerstock time once again.  This time we opened the madness to the general blogging public, and are proud to have had such a great turn out!  Visit our site to sign up for the next one.  You know it looks like fun!

Today I'm posting over at Michael's excellent blog, React/Impact.  Come, visit, read!  Follow the ring and discover music that I, along with others, love.  I am hosting a post from Amogh over at Cloned Warrior.  His amusing blog hails from one of my favourite cities in the world.  Read his bio at the bottom.  Without further ado, I give you Bloggerstock!

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Hmmm.... The moment I saw this topic I started imagining firecrackers going off along with loud rock music in my head.  I could see myself wearing tight pants, making a grand entrance as if I was going to fight in a BIG SHOW!

However, this topic made me think hard, 'coz I'm no professional wrestler. Though it is true that life is like a wrestling match where you have to defend when the tide is against you, and attack when you feel the time is right. But this post is neither about wrestling, nor about life and its complexities.

Ok so let’s get to the post before I forget what we are talking about. Frankly speaking, I don't have a theme song.  Though I wanted one after getting to know the topic on bloggerstock. But then my life is way too colorful to have just one theme song. There is this one song by Hoobastank, “the reason,“ which was a smash hit in 2004 and close to my heart.

Lyrics:

i'm not a perfect person. there are many things i wish i didn't do
but i continue learning. i never meant to do those things to you.
and so i have to say before i go, that i just want you to know

i've found a reason for me, to change who i used to be
a reason to start over new, and the reason is you

i'm sorry that i hurt, its something i must live with everyday
and all the pain i put you through, i wish that i could take it all away
and be the one who catches all your tears, thats why i need you to hear

i'm not a perfect person, i never meant to do those things to you
and so i have to say before i go that i just want you to know

i've found a reason for me, to change who i used to be
a reason to start over new, and the reason is you
i've found a reason to show a side of me you didnt know
a reason for all that i do, and the reason is you

The first time I heard this song on MTV I thought that they had written it exclusively for me. When I was in school in my 7^th grade, I talked bad about a girl.  Somehow she came to know about it and then a  mess happened.  When a mess happens it happenee happens. She cried for, like, a whole week (don’t know why girls are so emotional). Everybody came to know about it. One of my math teachers said, “friendship is like a wooden fence, if there is a hole due to rot you can plug it and paint it over but the scar is always there to be seen.”  Those words still ring in my ears. I felt absolutely gutted and asked for her forgiveness. She never spoke. Don’t know whether she forgave me or not. I'm happy that I learnt my lesson when I was young. Promised myself that I would never ever make others cry. Thankfully I’ve kept that promise.

OMG. I'm getting emotional.  Shit! I’ll never get a girl if I'm like this! 

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Amogh resides in Varanassi, and is an ordinary person between extraordinary people.  He has his own bubble, but is here to meet new people.  His blog is new, so feel free to visit!  Especially if you enjoy either humour, personal, issues or soccer as topics.  And who isn't covered somewhere in there?  

http://clonedwarrior.co.cc/ 

The Notebook Chronicles

Snow is falling.  She watches as the cold minuscule pellets fly past her to the ground.  Getting lost in her hair so she hardly feels them, lightly stinging her nose and neck.  Her palms now, as she holds them to the sky, watching tiny droplets form on her skin.

It is time to walk on, she knows.  The thought of the last stretch, the tasks that need doing.  Life as it should be lived.  Still, she is not tired.  Longing to stand here a bit longer thinking of nothing.

These little bits of ice, their shape, their feel distract her, in their freezing way, from the hurt.  The same hurt that has simply sat at the base of her existence.  Not rising, not screaming...  just there.

Life goes on as it always will.  She trudges on, now, hands in pockets.  Her thoughts rise to their normal tasks.  Yet she is somehow refreshed by her moment in the snow.

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Since I've moved back into my old place I've unearthed a stack of notebooks containing all manner of scribblings.  Recipes, French, drawings that are better then I thought.  And, of course, every sort of writing, emotion, and bit of teenagehood angst.

"The Notebook Chronicles," from this point forward, means that it's something I've unearthed from this stack of lined paper and ballpoint pen.  Please remember, they span the ages of of 16-22.  And I will go out of my way not to edit the bits that get spewed out here.

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

First of all, our theatre is called the Tivoli, and has one of those spinning signs with some of those lights.  You know, the ones that blink and have the occasional bulb burnt out.  The inside is all gold molding and heavy brown curtains.  It's so vintage, and even if their reopening did close down the drive-in, I have to admit that it makes the movie going experience that much more enjoyable.  Nothing like feeling you've stepped back in time.

It's expensive, though.  So when a local movie was debuted tonight, for free, you knew half the town was going to be there.  Or as many as they could fit on chairs in the aisles.  Local movie!  Local.  It was entirely filmed here, by an originally local boy, with lots of localities in general.  Do you understand how unique this is?

Lovers in a Dangerous Time is the show.  It is poignant, realistic and not half as cheesy as it sounds.  Indeed it is obvious, as you watch it, that it is not a big budget film.  It has that small time feel to it.  Still, some of the filming is catching, and the storyline manages to be multi-dimensional.  The plot is surprising.  Certainly not least, the setting is beyond beautiful as they tribute the gorgeous valley in which they chose to film.

The story captures, more then I ever could on this little blog, the small town life I grew up in.  It acknowledges, in a big way, agriculture, pond hockey, bush parties, and many other aspects of where I'm from.  Obviously you can't go see this movie in theatres yourself.  The dvd hasn't been released.  Still, I'm a little proud to tell you that this is where I'm from, even if you can't see it.  The audience certainly appreciated it when he swore at Duck Lake, or the devastation of hail at harvest.


This is the best I can do.  The opening reunion scene is not the best of the movie.  But see that rink?  I've played hockey there.  See that lake?  I've spent my summers there.  See that bush fire?  I've gone Christmas treeing there.  See that orchard?  I've picked cherries there.  See those people?  I've known some of them.  This blog and my real life will never truly be able to meld.  But a little crossover can't hurt.

Things They Are A-Changing.

Change hates me, and I hate it.  But I thrive on it.  I crave it, need it, and fear it all at once.  I am in my comfort zone.  I like it here, like a baby likes the womb.   Which is exactly why I can't stay here.  I'll get fidgety, restless and terrified.

Got that all?  Bored to tears with the beginnings of another ramble from someone who kinda sucks?  Another moody young woman with no direction.  What?  Oh, you already quit reading.  I see.  Ok, because we're going to switch direction anyway.

Because or Why Not will going through a little identity crisis over the next month, or so.  Please bear with me, because you're swell, and I'm trying to apologize in advance here.  I'm being published in a local lifestyle magazine, and have been asked to be a regular contributor.  The content will be strongly blog linked.  As much as I am thrilled to be on board with this opportunity, I am getting a little nervous about what exactly it will mean for my semi-anonymous blogger side that I have so carefully guarded.

I know non-bloggers usually don't get it.  Chances of my writing being stalked by grandma aren't good.  Still, this is a small place and almost everyone who knows me in passing will see my little article.  I don't doubt curiosity will be peaked in sizable amounts, and a lot of actual people in my real life will be stopping by to see what I've put down to the internet.

I am determined to continue writing like I mean it.  I just know that's easier said then done.  Please don't judge me based on my blog.  I'm talking to you, Mom.  And you as well work manager, jaded best friend, ex-crush,  Sunday School teacher, and check-out girl at the grocery store.

And now, to lighten things up a bit, Because or Why Not has been featured Elsewhere.  As far as I can see, in.com is a source for all things Indian, but I'm a little confused.  Oddly enough, the few hits it generated came from Austria, Argentina, Belgium... Everywhere that is not India, really.  Apparently myself in a sari is worth entering in a try-not-to-laugh-at-this-photo competition.  Thanks in.com.  You made my day!

I like you all.  I'm not sure why you're here, but I know it's not because you want to see what I really thought when I pretended it didn't matter.  Thanks for that.

Break Out the Shorts

Some of my sharp readers will notice I've put my 101 in 1001 as a separate blog page.  No, you don't have to go read it again.  I have marked off all of two items so far.  However, I didn't blog about either of them.

So, I marked another one as in progress.  Today I waxed my leg.  Yes, singular.  My left one, to be exact.

I forgot how annoying it is.  It sucks.  And, ladies, I'm gonna confess a little secret of ours here.  It's a pretty good secret, 'cause most of us won't even admit it to each other.  It's not because it hurts that much.  It doesn't.  Oh, sure.  You're spreading hot wax on your skin and ripping out hundreds of hairs by the root.  It's intimidating.  But certainly not scream worthy.  We're female.  Most of us give birth at some point.  We can handle the waxing thing.

What's annoying is the mess.  You're hands are sticky.  You've got streaks of wax on your legs.  Drips on the floor and a smear on the jar.  Meanwhile you're bent double trying to spread more with that damn popsicle stick on the back of your thigh.  And if you're a paranoid hoarder, like me, you're trying to save the strips.  So the one you're using has already been used on the one side.

And it takes so long.

I'm saying I only did one leg because I ran out of wax.  It's true.  I need to get another jar and to the other one before they get on different schedules.  But it was kinda relieving to pack up and wash my hands in those silly vials of blue oil they provide.

So, in progress.  One leg smooth.  The other one still resembles a little bit of a jungle.  But now I have to remedy that.  I'll be sitting on my kitchen floor again, soon, getting up the nerve to rip my hair out.

Bittersweet Buds

Tonight I picked lilacs in the dark.  Choosing the opening buds from the glow of a streetlight.  The tight snap of twigs and a fistful of branches.

I was filled with a panic.  Their faint smell calling me as I stepped from my car.  The season is gone so quickly.  Those shades of purple drying into soft browns.  The hedge that runs the length of my alley.

I needed to collect them in handfuls.  Rinse the mason jars in my cupboard and spread them around.  Bring them inside.  They remind me, every year, that time goes too fast.

My Parents Were Rockers

My parents were rockers, once upon a time.  I can open wrinkled seventies photo albums and find grainy yellow photos.  My Dad with long full blonde hair.  My Mom in her boyfriend's plaid shirts.  Their young love and vintage guitars.

Before I took my first breath I was attending band practice.  Kicking hard and frequently as they cranked their amps and powered out hits that would never make it.  Recorded on retro equipment they bought with construction and waitress wages.  I was a cassette era baby.  Missing the brief 8 track days and the single copy of the Steve Miller Band they played in my Dad's hippi van.

The first recording of my life was my first time home.  My Mom looks young, tired, happy.  I am red, wrinkled and cranky.  My Dad reflectively plays his acoustic guitar on our old eggplant coloured couch.  His little sister makes snide comments about how she's surprised he didn't bring his guitar into the hospital.

This is the world I entered.  K-Rock on the radio, piano stencils on the wall.  They changed as they got older, my parents did.  They started listening to Wes King and Kim Hill through speakers they'd wired up around the house.  But they'd already left a mark.  I remembered Janis Joplin being tossed out the window during a fight on the highway.  I remembered asking why Elton John thought rolling like thunder under the covers should be called the blues.  I didn't know the names, but I knew that Billy Joel was a piano man, and that my Dad had played my Mom down the aisle singing that if the sun refused to shine, he'd still be loving her.

They instilled a love, a need, a craving.  My Mom put me in piano lessons, but it wasn't for me.  Well my home schooled friends strove to reach grade eight theory I saved for albums by DCTalk and Audio Adrenaline to play on the boombox my sister and I got for Christmas.

My little brother takes his cue from us, now.  He develops his own taste for Linkin Park and Grits.  Cranking rap and playing pool with his gangly buddies in a room with piano stencils on the wall.  My Mom calls Seventh Day Slumber screamo and listens to Jennifer Knapp and Norah Jones.

My Dad plays guitar.  The continuing and unvaried sound thread of my life.  His fingers stir the strings creating the sound of security regardless of what he's playing.

Somebody Call the Cops. The Neighbors are Fighting Again.

You are probably not from a small town.  According to my statistics (which, btw, I'm just making up) you are probably young, slightly more likely to be female, semi-driven, and a city dweller.  Don't be mad if I've buttoned holed you all wrong.  I know I've got my minorities out there, too.  I just figure I know who I'm talking to for the most part.

Now, I've told you this often, so you're probably aware that I grew up in a small town.  I'm sorry for driving this point home, but since you live in the city I feel a constant need to make my posts relevant to your life.  Actually, I am well aware that you have no idea what I'm on about small towns.  I could never truly make you understand, but I try.

I'm going to tell you about an accomplishment called the police blotters.  This is a section of the paper dedicated to every call-out in the small-town cop's life.  They have things like over width farm vehicles and wives moving their husband's golf clubs into the middle of the street.  The local paper is well aware of the fact that people read it for humour. What we try to do is get anonymously listed in these blotters.  Nothing like five minutes of fame.

One of the most effective ways to pull this off is to get listed as "shot's were fired in the fifth block of..."  Here are some of the ways people I've been, err, associated with have been listed.

Stealing garden ornaments is ever popular.  They are disappearing in most editions of the paper.  I have some friends who were briefly famous for successfully stealing the potted plants of a hilarious local character, Mrs.
Dalton.  She wipes her cat's bum, takes toys from small children until they learn their manners, and has a remarkable wardrobe of vintage outfits, gloves and ridiculous hats..

Ah yes, the time the cow got out.  Or, one of the times the cow got out.  This time she wandered, not off into the wilderness, but out onto the road and out into the neighborhood.  It was precious.  Mostly because I wasn't there.  It got considerably better when a female cop showed up.  My brother has a re-account where she yelled at him, "Stay where you are!" in all her female cop power trip.  Buttercup chewed her cud and meandering down the road well the poor lady in a uniform was quite at loss as to how ridiculous she appeared.

My littlest brother will quite forcefully state that they even stopped when cars went by.  Apparently that's not enough.  A collection of young hooligans tossing snowballs on main street is a truly valid reason to call 911.  Unfortunately, the youth had dispersed by time police arrived at the scene.

We've all done doughnuts in near empty parking lots, right?  That perfect little beater with the hand brake.  Those perfect frozen conditions with a light skiff of snow.  Now, who else has had their father reported for this activity at the local community centre?  I don't think you quite understand. My Dad had fled the scene after a serious case of reckless driving.


My own masked intruder almost deserves a full post to himself.  Except he wasn't masked, he was wasted out of his mind.  I was there and he dented the door a little bit well I fled out the front in my socks.  We'll keep it brief and note these two items.  1. my cousin, room mate, and best friend came in, saw the guy under my sink, and thought he was me before getting confronted and making her getaway.  2.  Our incompetent cops couldn't find my house.  Creepy intruder ended up being chased all over town and captured by my brother and Dad, even though I called 911.  They couldn't even find him when my Dad gave a play-by-play over the cell phone.  Turns out he was wanted in Alberta, anyway.  And, yes, for a while there I had restraining orders against two, possibly three people.  I'm hardcore like that.

No.  I don't know of anyone who's actually gone cow-tipping.

Because I Like People

Dear Readers.

Did you think this was a real post?  It's not really, but please stick around anyway!  I think you're awesome for being here in the first place!  I have sixty followers now, not to mention subscribers, general lurkers, ect.  I think you're all great. Every single one of you has brightened my day by visiting, and liking my little blog.  I love that you comment, but I haven't managed to keep up with all of you.  I want to hear more!  Write my lame blogger address summercherry18@hotmail.com.  If you want to criticize productively, that's awesome.  Do you think my blog should stick more with a general theme?  Or send me your twitter, blog, whatever.  Just put something about blogging in the topic.

As we all know, there are some pretty awesome people out there.  I've been privileged to meet a few of them since I started Because or Why Not back in April.  We also know we can't do it alone.

I've linked Mel from Mel Learns Her Lesson a few times, but I haven't actually told you to go read it.  Which you certainly should do.  She's a lovely Aussie chick who is witty, concise, and is almost guaranteed to make every post worth your while.  If Internet adventures are possible, Mel is my one of my favourite people to have them with.  She created the banner you see up here on my blog.  She's good like that!  And, look, she gave me this.

Now, her and I travel in the same blogger circles (ie 20sb chat), so she's already awarded it to most of my really good blogger friends (you know who you are.  I love you guys, too!).  I just want to add a a few more.

Alex from IceWolf's Ramblings.  Essentially one of my first online blogger friends, Alex is straight-forward, always calm, and will bring you thoughtful ramblings on his life of theatre, photography, and the outdoors.  What's not to like?

Tall Brunette from The Northwest Girl.  I've actually only chatted with this girl a few times.  But I want to link her blog because a) She's cool and from Portland and b) her last post is searing.  I'm serious.  Read it for that reason if no other.

Jeffrey from The Far Too Important Blog.  Jeff is intelligent, and will make you smile. If you scan his posts you'll find the really good ones.

Kisekae from Diary of a Doll.  She is a doll.  Just look at her!  And she's also from my home province. So it goes without saying that she's pretty awesome.

Sorry if I've gone overboard.  I couldn't help it, it was hard to stop here!  You're computer is faster then mine.  So you can visit those all.  Don't forget to come be my friend, as well.  I'll bring you a real post tomorrow.  Lot's of blog love!

Alberta Boy

Through the patio window I see his truck pull up and park.  Lifted and black, like the rest of them.  There's no plate on the front.  I know right away that the one on the back will read "Wild Rose Country."  He saunters around the front of the bumper and squints at the meter well reaching in his pocket for forgotten change.

This side street meter has a knob he'll have to turn after inserting his quarter so the yellow "paid" tag will pop up.  We've installed digital ones two years ago, but only on main street.  I'm sure he's amused.

By time the door opens Donna has a menu ready and seats him in the front.  Now that lunch rush is over she wants to mop the back.  He's at table three, his profile framed by the backwards white letters reading "Marty's Diner."  My section.

"Did you read our lunch special on the way in?"

"Yeah."

I can hear Donna moving chairs in the back.  He glances up from scanning our burgers and smiles.  "But you can tell me again."

I look at his Oiler's cap, and the glasses he's rested upside down on the brim, and smile back.  "Grilled bacon, mushroom, swiss with your choice of side."  Or, in your case, fries.  "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Large Pepsi.  Could he make this a little more interesting?

I'll take my time filling the cup, waiting for the foam to recede.  Taking his order, biting my pen lid, laughing when he jokes about our classy menu, not glancing back when I return to the kitchen.

Why drive through the Crowsnest listening to Sirus radio, alone?  Stopping too often for diesel and energy drinks.  Maybe he just wants girls to flirt with and small town teenagers to admire his truck well it's parked at 7/11.  Maybe he's from here, somewhere back home.  Maybe it's his Mom's birthday and he wants to get stoned with his high school buddies and brag about his pay.

Whatever it is, his sandwich is fine, and could he get a refill on his Pepsi?  How does he get back on highway two?  He leans on the counter well he pays with debit.  His Dodge key chain already out and resting casually by the till.  His name is Jordan and he tips five dollars on an eight something bill.

Locals will swear and his red and blue plate as he speeds through school zones on his way back to his rig job.  Whatever that actually is.  We'll end up there, too, in those oil suburbs.  Because we want a 4x4, a snowmobile, a nice bike and maybe a seadoo.  We can always haul it out to B.C. where there's a decent lake.

First Place for the Third Time

I'm back now.  This near empty living room with my brown velor couch in the corner.  That dying stereo I bought with my first job, and these many memories.  My sheets acting as curtains and hanging in the window.  I feel seventeen, like I just moved out for the first time.  I've found my world map in the cupboard.  I used to stand on the couch and dream about foreign countries, running my fingers over the paper.  Coloured concepts I had yet to discover.

Here now are my books.  Stashed in drawers.  The ones I've loved and wished to hand out in stations begging, "Read it, please.  It's worth it!"  The ones I found in yard-sale dive piles and meant to read, but haven't yet.  The ones with spines that look good stacked on my bookshelf.

The tap still drips.  The "harvest gold" fridge still runs loud.  There's a fresh old wine stain on my area rug.  I need to dust things off, go grocery shopping, put my pictures back on the walls.  My bath is deep, hot and perfectly sloped.  I don't think I've ever appreciated that before.

Everything has a memory.  The lights strung across the ceiling.  My binders of burnt c.d.s.  The notes tucked in corners of boxes I packed two years ago.  Everything pointing to a time, a phase, a person.  This will be another stretch.  When I was here, a hardware girl, blogging and turning twenty-four.

And now my eyes are closing.  Tomorrow after work I will clear some of those boxes I hauled up from the basement off the kitchen floor.  Tonight I will curl up on this brown velor couch beneath my worn comforter and dream of foreign familiarity.