Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Things To Love About Road Trips

~ The opportunity to actually get tired of driving.

~ Taking photos (see left).

~ Ice tea and ice cream from greasy gas stations.

~ Flea markets, roadside stalls and garage sales.

~ Young international hostel crowds.

~ Feeling like a rebel spending nights in the car.

~ Adventure.

~ Couchsurfing.

~ City streets and checking off a list.

~ Coast line, mountains, plains, rock formations and sunsets.

~ Hiking, swimming, stretching after sitting too long.

~ Fresh visits with old friends.

~Never feeling restless.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Dance Like Summer Will Never End

We'll blow the speakers by the end of the night playing last year's dance hits.  Everyone is here, now.  The kid in the fedora wanting to play dj.  There's always one.  The gorgeous indie girl kissing her boyfriend on the bale couch.  It's covered with a denim quilt.  The hipster, the player, the thinker.  Tonight this barn is the place to be.

The big dipper is visible through the door to this loft. I can lean on old silver wood and breathe in the field air. Fill my empty can from the hose or sit in the other room by an overturned washer to gossip with my best friend or chill with the guys.

We'll line dance, slow dance, and do the Macarena. Someone will teach me the Cha Cha and someone else the square step. Mostly we'll just dance and laugh and flirt a little.

It feels a little bit like prom night in skinny jeans and tank-tops. And a little bit like a bush party with a dance floor.  A little bit like the club we're trying to imitate.  A little bit alive and a little bit young. Christmas lights and a strobe light. Tonight we won't complain about the local nightlife. Tonight we've created our own.

You learn to love the summer nights here. The cool breeze on sweaty skin. An outdoors far too big to hold. Racing cars across the flats, evening fires by the lake, long talks and love and travelers to share a glance with. Autumn comes to soon.

I apologize for not taking any pictures of my own.  I came nowhere near finding a photo that captured this post properly.

This week I am Mama M's date from over at My Little Life.  Makes her the hottest Mom on my block.  I'm honoured, and a big welcome to all my visitors!

Also, I told you to visit The Spiraling Chronicles and leave a comment.  For my favourite followers in the world you're all pretty disobedient.  You're still the best, but you might want to think about it.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

That There is My Sister.

I know I owe you all some halfway decent writing.  But first, I get to introduce two cool things in one post...

TBG winner and my sister's blog!  Yup, they're the same thing.  Don't worry, though.  I didn't tell anybody until judging took place.

You've heard me talk about Meg.  It would be impossible not to.  I've fought with her and hugged her more then anyone else in the world.  I've faced Spanish ghettos at night and I've conquered Scottish ruins with her.  As is often the case with two siblings so close together, and of the same gender, we're dynamically different.  Except for those ever present family influences and tendencies.

Anyway, she started blogging just for this give.  You should really read her top post.  But if you want to see the whole story of her give, including vlogs and all, click TBG label and start at the bottom.  Please comment so she knows you exist!

I'm sure you'll agree it was a little unfair of me to unleash that organized motivated fury on our little contest.  And you'll also see why she took first prize.

Monday, August 16, 2010

The Joys of Public Service

My sister relayed a piece of urban myth last night around the dinner table well I was visiting.

A male flight attendant had a passenger complain to him about her overhead luggage before take-off.  As the story goes he turned to her, stated, "Have a good flight you F***ing Bitch," and grabbed two bottles of beer.  He then proceeded to jump down the escape chute and run out onto the runway.*

He got arrested for creating a disturbance, or endangering airport security, or something.

I sat and laughed.  Meg sat and grinned.  The rest of my family looked at us like we were idiots.

If you don't think that's funny, then you don't understand and you may want to consider getting a service industry job.  At least short term.

Or at least realize you're not special, and actually being nice to anyone serving you will get you farther.**

*Unfortunately I can't find any news accreditation for this.  However, all I can think of is to google the "quote."
** We will sit in the back and laugh at you.  If you made our co-worker cry you'll probably pay.***
***Let it be noted that I am referring to previous jobs.  Not my current one.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

To Apply or Not to Apply?

Some of you know I have a job I'm not terribly excited about.  Don't get me wrong.  The people and the company are great.  There's just simply nothing challenging about the job that I'm doing and now that I've been there a bit the learning curve is closer to a straight line.

So, I have the opportunity to apply up.  It would be moving into the office side of things.  Balancing numbers, accounts, that sort of thing.  Traditionally, I'm not an office type... at all.  (I was 18 when I wrote that, though).  Last night I promised myself I'd write a list of pros and cons in the morning.  The morning is here (and gone), so in the interest of being a little more personal on my blog (and really hoping for a little feedback) I'll post it here.

Full time hours.
Variation in work (would mix with my current position).
New experience.

Not very experienced.
Commitment (I like the fact that I can justifiably give notice anytime).
Would probably end up hating office work.

Those are far less exhaustive lists then I thought they'd be.  Bear in mind that just because I choose to apply does not mean I'll get the job.  Another reason to just give it a shot?  The two last cons are the biggest ones, for me.

My sister says I too often do things because I think I should.  Rather then because I'm interested.  Or because I have a drive to book up my time.  I'm an odd sort of workaholic.  It has been refreshing to work fewer and better hours then I used to.  And for non-stressful management.  Although, the hours would still be good.

I'm just rambling now.  Your thoughts, please?

Saturday, August 07, 2010

Because We Don't Like the Way it Hurts

I was torn about embedding this so if you're going to watch this video then please also read the post.

Now I've only just got around to actually watching this music video, and it is full on pissing me off.  They have the attractive actors, the big names (hello Eminem and Rihanna), and all the documented passion of a physical relationship.

Is it just me, or are they enabling abuse?  Rihanna?  Seriously?  You never liked the way it hurt, and it's wrong for you to tell the seventeen year olds watching MTV that they should.

The worst is the conclusion reached...

"If she ever tries to fuckin' leave again I'm gonna tie her to the bed and set the house on fire."

I'm all for entertainment that enters a real life emotion.  I'll never cringe from an honest exploration.  And I'm not doubting that this one accurately portrays one side of the emotion involved with abuse.  It screams, actually, of relative accuracy.  Especially Eminem's dialog.

But I'm not impressed. I'm a fighter.  The hardest act is leaving.  That's what we need to be enabling.

Thursday, August 05, 2010

Tracing Patterns

She likes the way her fingers trace patterns on her arm when she's nervous.  She likes the way he's started to do it, too.  She likes that his head is up, his shoulders back, and that she can still tell by the small circles working their way up onto her shoulder.

She likes that she fits in that crook of that shoulder.  That she can shoot darting looks of contempt, all 5'3 of her, and feel safe.  The circles will trace faster well jaws get clenched and chins raised.  She likes wearing leather boots and bandanna cuffs and feeling bad-ass.  And she likes that if she could choose to wear heels and a summer dress it would still look good with his jeans and black t-shirt.

She likes that he's in control.  At least right here, right now.  And that she could turn it around by sliding her own hand down his back.

They are like this.  Her hands pushed deep in her pockets.  Nonchalant and brooding.  Comfortable.  Everyone knows them.  Not by name, just by the toques and bored glares.

You know they're not going anywhere.  The best part is that they don't care.  And, if they don't care you've got nothing on them.  They can own it, here.  Get off their main street.  Leave their concrete bench alone.  You don't want to sit there among broken glass anyway.

She doesn't remember when he first put his arm around her.  She knows it was somewhere back in grade nine.  Probably around the time she first started getting stoned on lunch break.  Back then when she wore her Silver jeans every single day.  Leaning against the chain link fence at the back of the school.

What she will always remember is sitting in the back of employment workshops, his arm around her.  She'll remember wanting to practice an interview, but making snarky comments instead.  It's the way they are. Learned complacency.

She likes it this way too much.  Needing it.  Suddenly realizing he also needs her.  She starts tracing circles on her arm.

An American Dropout inspired me to try my hand at a little more fiction.  It's always been my favourite to write, so don't be surprised if you see more.  I'll be sure to always label it as such.  Thoughts?

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

A Brief History of Because or Why Not

Honestly, this comes up if you Google Image Search
"Because or Why Not" 
That's right.  I named a post after my own blog.  It's a devious plan of mine, actually.  I'm a little upset that I can't google my own blog.  All sorts of other useless stuff comes up, but not Because or Why Not.  So part of me thinks that if I write a post with "Because or Why Not" in the title and scattered frequently throughout then maybe It'll eventually show up in the first twenty pages that I'm willing to look at.

Yes.  I'm confessing that I've googled my own blog.

Of course, it's my own fault for choosing a title like Because or Why Not.  I still really like the new title, I just am realizing no one will ever find it through googling "Because or Why Not."  Although, what kind of an idiot would google that combination of words anyway?  It's an ego thing.  There's cheaters out there like Stir-fried Dinosaur or Your Ill-Fitting Overcoat who get, like, the first suggestion.  Of course, they're also very interesting bloggers who have more to say then I do.  But other then that...

Because or Why Not spent years as Barefoot in Summer.  It was (another confession) The Cherry Life of a Tomboy for it's first two weeks.  Forgive me, I was sixteen.  Also had a brief stint as Cayenne or Vanilla.  Apparently at three AM I couldn't make the foodie connection.  It's used to be a clique blog complete with endless haloscan comments.

Late 2009 I came back to blogging.  Late March 2010 I discovered community blogging, and haven't looked back, yet.  I'm glad to have you!  Oh yeah, here at Because or Why Not.

Because or Why Not.  Because or why Not.  Because or Why Not.  Get it, Google?

So, I was gonna be all manly and post the first image that came up with a Google image search for Because or Why Not.  But then it ended up being this, and I realized there were much better looking ones available a few pages down.

Monday, August 02, 2010


I'm bored.

Bored of this town, bored of this internet, bored at my job, bored in this moment.

I know it's my fault.  I really believe that boredom is a choice.  So even though I want to make a million excuses about why I'm stuck this way I'll avoid it.  I don't like excuses.

So what's wrong?  What about everything I used to wish for time to do?  What about all the things I've achieved?

I always go through post-summer letdown.  It's just not supposed to happen 'till August is over.  Maybe it's these freak storms making me trade my tank-tops for sweaters.