Perhaps Happiness and Heartbreak

Perhaps happiness and heartbreak happen. Always. Together, or in ravaging separations.

This little suite I call home is full of loneliness and love. I will miss nights, second-hand sheets and pasta covered in cheese. Putting on a blazer and pretending to be the sort of person who carries business cards. Falling asleep on the couch to the sound of you struggling with a paper.

That's still away, I know. So this summer I'll lie in your arms in a yellow school bus, it's smell reminiscent of street Spanish and truck stops. And I'll sleep here by myself, on my side. cradling a new life growing inside.

It will be happiness and heartbreak. And maybe both together.

((Creotiv))

Christmas Amendment

In the spirit of the season, and rejecting the spirit of materialism, I propose the following amendment. Gifts may be exchanged if they fall under the following guidelines.

I will not be offended if I don't receive any gifts. 

Presents can be homemade.

Gifts can be bought second hand, as long as I will not be offended if they get re-donated.

I can purchase gifts that are locally made/grown. For example, items from the farmer's market or craft fair.

Presents can be something that you know the person really needs or wants (for example, socks).

Let's appreciate this Christmas season together! 

Signed

___________________

My sister wrote this up two months ago on a scrap sheet of paper. At first it was just an idea, but each of my immediate family plus my sibling's room mate plus my boyfriend signed it. It's only binding to those who enter the agreement. It might sound a little Scrooge-like, but it makes you re-evaluate the whole Christmas thing. 

What do you hope to get out of celebrating Christmas.

With times a bit tighter, out of  our family of  seven, plus the two extras, only two of my younger siblings are regularly employed. My Dad and brothers are waiting to sell a house. The room mate generally doesn't work and my boyfriend and I are both full-time students.

That's not really why this amendment has made us rethink the season, though. We don't need just more stuff. We don't need to just purchase to fill expectations. There has been some incredibly creativity, and a little bit of socially conscious purchasing going on in this household this season. I still have a few friends I shopped for more traditionally... But this Christmas is going to be a little simpler and, in some ways, a little more meaningful.

I absolutely love this time of year! 

However you celebrate, I hope it's an excellent holiday for you! 

Merry Christmas

Ladies Wear a Little Lipstick

I am a girl of very little make-up. Always have been, I don't imagine that will change. For the most part I think it's a construction of society aimed towards artificial impressions of expectation on females and surface beauty. I also think it causes a level of consumption that is both expensive and extremely harmful to the environment. Now that I've ranted that out I will admit that I have a tube of mascara and some make-up left behind by my favourite cousin when she was my room mate. I wear them sometimes when I want to feel particularly girly. Boys I've dated have always said (if I asked) that they prefer me without make-up, and I'm fairly confident they meant it. Works out well for me.

This weekend I went to visit my Grandma. She thinks it important, to this day, to put a little time into her looks. She looked at my face full of natural beauty and asked, "Do you ever wear any make-up?"

"Oh, once in a while. Not much. I'm not at the moment."

"I can tell." Gee, thanks Gram. "You should really wear some lipstick once in a while, you know. Do you ever wear lipstick?"

"No. I haven't got any."

With that my Grandma dragged my off to the washroom and opened her basket, the one that always fascinated me when I was but a child. She handed me a light pink shade. Once she'd admired that she told me I could wipe it off and try another. After trying five shades she decided I should have one, and narrowed it down to a deep shade, subtle if applied lightly.

"And now let's powder your nose."

She's from a different era, my Grandma. One that delights in lipstick and stockings. Girls that remember the rationing of the war, the hippis of the '60s, and the silly acid washed denim age that I was born into. They did the twist and they prayed in school. They were teachers, nurses, secretaries and housewives.

They faced it all with a tube of lipstick. Looking good, working hard, and caring for the men they loved.

I'm not a lipstick girl. I'm not even a mascara girl. I'm sure the woman from my decade will never give up on this messy, clumpy black paste. Maybe they'll demand that they're liberalized granddaughters paint their eyelashes black. (I speak for Canadians. If you're from too far south feel free to continue with your lip liner and non-matching colour)

Somehow I having a tube of lipstick in my pocket and a bit of colour on my lips made me feel like a lady. I don't think I'll ever signify glamour but maybe, once in a while, I'll tuck it in my bag for an evening out.

In My Blood

I'd like to start by saying that I grew up on motorbikes.  I'd like to, but I can't.  Still, I think it's somehow in my genes.  My parents fell in love on a motorcycle.  Riding out to band practice.  Taking of their helmets to kiss on that first date when they were younger than my now-youngest sibling.

By time I came along motorcycles were traded for a brown Toyota with car seats in the back and an ancient pick-up to go with a budding construction business.  Five kids later these eventually turned into a stubborn minivan and "Big Red," (hint: not a bike.)

I always knew, regardless, that my parents both held class 6 driver's licenses.  At ten I had my first ride when my Dad's oldest friend brought around his cruiser.  I don't remember what it was but I remember the thrill and the wind on my arms.  I clung tight as we accelerated.  I didn't know about counter-steering and had it explained to me after trying consistently to upright on corners.

Once a biker always in your blood, so I've been told.  Once you start you'll never really stop.  When I was fourteen my parents bought a little orange Yamaha Enduro 100 from roughly the stone-age, aka the 1970s.  That's what I learned to drive up and down our lane.  With a throttle in your fist and no license in your pocket 100ccs feels like a lot of power.  20MPH feels like a lot of speed.  An old gold helmet from your parent's dating days feels pretty cool.  And it starts to get in your blood.

At sixteen I drove it on Mexican highways to neighboring villages for an internet fix.  The smell of tortillas and the muggy wind on my face was nothing but pure independence.  I wanted more.  My little brother drives it around mountain roads with his friends now.

I moved out and my parent's young family grew up enough to justify getting rid of the minivan.  They bought a Honda 400.  This time only from the Dark Ages.  AKA, the early 1980s.  It looked like this only until my oldest brother turned his mad airbrushing skills its way.  I made it past the first two steps of licensing and then life got in the way.  I still hoped for the wind on my face and a ride down the lake but my lifetime commitment of achieving my own class 6 was still out of reach.

My middle brother fixed up a Honda 400 dual sport from the same era and would take me burning around mountain trails and rock outcroppings.  I learned to manage the kick start and I'd take it out on my own.  My cousin let me take a   less-than-legal spin on his 600 crotch rocket.  It was only a matter of time.  My license requirements finally fit themselves in last year.

Here's what I'm driving these days.  Yamaha Seca 550.  Check off item 24.  Apparently we have a thing for old-school bikes.  Yes, it's also from the dark ages.  But it's still a whole lotta fun.

I Try

She was from Stats Canada ("Or elections B.C.   Or something like that...").  My sister was pretty much her choice demographic.

"Did you vote in the last election?"
"Errr.  I was out of the country."
"So you didn't vote?"
"Uh...  No."
"You weren't aware of alternative voting options?
"There are alternative voting options?"
"Alright, thank-you.  How did you hear about last election?"
"Facebook."
"And your primary source of information?"
"Ummm, Facebook."
"Did you receive your Elections Canada voter's card?"
"...My parents might have..."
"How did you know you're registered to vote?"
"I'm registered to vote?"
"So, have you ever voted in a national or regional election?"
"Umm...  I don't know.  I don't remember.  I don't think so?"

They say change should start at home.  I try.  Really, I do.

Here

This post will not be long. It will not have photos, it will not rhyme, and my wording will not be impeccable. I will not be telling you to vote (my ballot was cast advance) or commenting on certain political developments. This is the first full blog post I am composing via iPad, but my reasons are good.

I am in Prince George, en route in a two week back-country hard-camping road trip to the Yukon. Last night we slept under Jasper stars and watched a hint of northern lights streaking the sky.

I recently turned down a job promotion, met a boy I share a lot of mutual like with, found a room mate with a thirst for adventure and a long history of learning to appreciate each other (we're succeeding). Pre-wrote half a month of paid posts and put my car on the road after biking for a month.

It's nice to have an open road, a full tank of gas and two of the coolest brothers you can imagine to share this with. This is here.

Big Girls Don't Cry

"Big girls don't cry."

I spat it out.  A reply to a taunt.  An answer in place of the one I refused to give.  I meant it.

If someone could make me cry I'd feel like they'd won.  They'd feel like they'd won.  I'd feel weak.  I learned to hate crying.  Something I never was very good at and something I never did often.  I forgot how.  I tried to learn to clench my jaw instead.  To pound with words well I'd defy the tears.

I'm not sure where I got this from.  Society, probably.  From a personality that told me I had to always be strong.  I'm just not sure what it is about tears that we consider so weak.  It's an emotional reaction, isn't it?  Why is a natural display of our emotion something to hide?

I still hate crying.  I think that's so deeply ingrained it will never change.  People who know me can immediately tell you if they've ever seen me cry.  It's memorable.  Awkward, ugly, uncomfortable.  And vulnerable.

I hate feeling vulnerable.

But if I'm going to cry then I still can't stop myself.  When my re-channeling doesn't work my eyes well up, my chin quivers and there's not a freaking thing I can do about it.

Big girls don't cry.  I'll get there someday.

Seventeen 'Till I Die

Today my room mate turned seventeen.  I told her, as I always tell people who turn that age, that seventeen is the best year.  In my mind I could fairly happily stay seventeen forever.  But why?

(xCoffeeAddict)

It was actually a pretty crappy year.  I was lacking direction and fought to no end with the school I'd chosen to graduate with.  This ended in tears and the principals office.  As well as fantasies of judo-throwing her incompetent self through the floor (she got fired the next year, and had been shuffled around repeatedly because she can't do her job).

I got kicked out of home.  It didn't last long, but was something of a reflection of my family situation in general.  I never got pregnant, did drugs or assorted rebel behaviour.  My parents just didn't get down with my lack of respect for imposed authority.

I spent three assorted months house sitting.  Nothing seemed more magical then a place to myself.

I questioned the beliefs I was raised with late at night, realizing they'd have to become mine, and not sure if they could.

I built.  Houses, with my Dad.

I passed my road test and took to driving like I was made for it.

I dedicated myself to judo, and subsequently reached my peak.

I struggled to establish a social group after the six month trip earlier that year threw a massive friggin' wrench in the one I was supposed to have.

For whatever reason, all that compiled into a belief that seventeen is independence, freedom and life more abundantly.

In the month before I turned eighteen I bought my own little car that I learned to love.  I also graduated, put a down payment on a place, moved out and got a full time permanent job.

Maybe it's just that I never much cared for being an adult.

Abortion, My Thoughts

I'm confused as to why the abortion debate is considered a religious or feminist issue. Either an unborn baby is a life, or it's not. If it is, terminating a pregnancy is wrong by every standard. Abortion is a humanitarian issue.

It's dangerous to draw a line defining when life begins. Is it when a fetus can feel pain? Is it the first time it cries? It's first breath of oxygen? The day it enters the third trimester?

I'm aware that pain is caused every day to women who attempt their own abortions. I'm aware that rape and marital molestation result in countless pregnancies. I would never ever argue that these are anything but tragedies.

It's unfortunate that sex, even uninvited, can result in accidental life. It's unfortunate that birth control fails, or isn't readily available in parts of the world where population control is needed most. It sucks that life sends us challenges, responsibilities and mistakes. And it really hurts to realize that this is passed onto the helpless little lives that result.  We need to work on fixing these issues.

Regardless, hundreds of thousands of abortions exist simply to terminate an inconvenience. And yes, illegal abortions can kill women. Abortion is a possibility and a fact. It's not going away. But here's the thing. If I believe that a fetus is a child. If i believe that the emotional upheavel experienced after a miscarriage or an abortion isn't simply a coincidence. If I believe it's a life, then advocating for the privilege of ending it is a terrible injustice.

I'm not pro life because I'm religious. Certainly not because I'm anti-woman.  I am pro-life because I have an adopted little brother I love into a million pieces.  Because I think that even those without voices need rights.  It's an opinion I'll never apologize for.

I'm pro life because I believe in living.

I Done Got My Schoolin' at Home

(JoySuke)

I was home schooled.

A lot of you already know that, on some level or another, but I want you to tell me your reaction.  What biased did your mind jump to when you read that sentence?  What are your preconceived ideas and judgements?

See, I still don't really seem to get it.  Over the years I've bragged about being a home schooler.  Now it's less relevant to my life (hello adulthood.  You and I are old friends now) and I prefer to think of it as advocating. 

I'm also starting to realize what home schooled actually means.  Or, rather, what people think it means.  And, yes.  I am personally aquainted with some of these stereotypes.  The ten kids, denim jumpers, headcoverings.  Classical piano, Rod and Staff (err, that's a curriculum), and repressed social development. 

But... But, that's not what home schooling was for me.  There were a lot of "normal" experiences that I didn't have.  A good chunk of my sex ed came from magazines and late night talks with my friends.  I never shoplifted gummy candies on my lunch break or smoked cigarrettes under the stairs.  Personally, I don't think missing this out did me much harm.  Most of my "home schooled" friends have grown into functional, responsible, intelligent adults.  The ones with the most trouble are the families I've known that have been extreme (see above paragraph).  Honestly, those kids often go crazy, but do you blame them?

Those of us with a better balance may question our social roles a little earlier and learn to make out in the backseat or a car a little later.  But, in the end, we usually seem to work things out just fine.

Education at home is a concept that has continued to capture my attention.  I have no interest in working in education, but the idea of alternative education fascinates me.  I have little tolerance for anyone closed minded enough to override home school as even a possible beneficial option without any previous experience or reason.

Do I think everyone should be schooled at home?  No.  Not every parent is anywhere near capable of that commitment.  Do I think home school is ideal in every way?  Not even a little bit.  I do, however, think the public system only serves a certain portion of the population very well.  Obviously, it's a one size fits all, and has to be that way.  And that, essentially, is why I continue to support home education.

The potential for a personally tailored education is endless.  So much so that I can see how mistakes could be made, and parents could easily feel overwhelmed.  There is much to take into consideration.  This is also why I'm bothered by such a sweeping generalization of home schoolers.  There is no norm.  I have some of the typical traits, but not many.  Where I'm from almost has a separate culture just for us.  We always walked the line.

I, personally, am thankful for my home tailored education.  There is much I would do different if I went back.  Would hope to do different if I were ever to have children of my own.  And high school should be (and was for me) a personal option.  Proof of academic achievement and a social structure are two aspects of home schooling that must be thought out where there is rarely need in a public school.

Just, please, tell me this.  What do you think when I tell you I'm a home schooler?  Is all this defense necessary?

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.

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.

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.

I Believe I'm Sorry the Season is Over

Today will definitely be our last day.  There's not doubt about that.  It's been a good run, despite my sojourn to southern states halfway through the season.  However, it's also been brutal.  You see, "Carving" is an essential skill in snowboarding.   One I'd ignored for, oh, a couple months seasons.  Prefering to look like a five year old, or maybe preferring not to compact my spine I'd always wimped out and just alternated my lead foot.

This is not me.  This is my brother.
He is far more talented then I am.

So, my first time out this year went something like this.  We didn't get snow until late, so craving a little board action we decided to drive up a summit and hike from there.  I, being brilliant, agreed to invite a friend of mine.  It was actually a very bad idea.  Mostly because only family members should be allowed to see me act like I did.  This form of behaviour could best be described as "spoiled brat".  It kind of built as we hiked in our boots, with our boards for two hours and slogged out through trees and powder.  Was good for one thing, though, I realized I needed to quit being so lazy and learn how to carve.

Well, my next trip was to a beautiful hill with sixty dollar tickets.  I wasted had a productive day killing myself in an attempt to learn.  I thought I never wanted to strap a board on again, and came home convinced I was too old for this.  However, through sheer pain I managed to master this skill by the end of the season (aka, today).  Now I'm trying to do little bunny hops.  I never learn.

But, and I do want to say this.  I am talented, people!  Twice I have pulled tricks that no one else I know has ever managed.  And people are impressed everytime I tell them. 

First, I hit myself in my head with my own snowboard.  Come now.  Mad skills.  that thing is only a few feet long and strapped to your feet.  I don't wear a helmet either.  Mostly because I'm a stupid person who takes risks... until I get a concussion/have my car stolen/enter senerio here.

Second, I caught both edges in a single fall.  When you catch an edge, you fly through the air and land on your head, or knees, or assosiated.  It hurts.  I did both together, somehow.  I'm still not sure how, but if I ever learn to repeat I may just make it my signature move!  "Hey guys!  Did you see that?  Kris just did her double-edge-catch!"  I can hear it now.

I do not look like my Mother.
I don't act like her, talk like her or dream like her. 
I certainly don't live like her.
We don't share.  Anything.
In trying not to be like her the only thing I do is fight like her.
And this is a problem.
But don't tell me I look like my Mother.  I look like her sister, or any one of my Father's.
Just not her.

I happen to be Grandmasitting at the moment.  I am always surprised at how much I enjoy the company of seniors.  Short term, that is.  Seeing as I have to adopt different mannerisms and sense of humour, I do end up craving younger interaction after a while.
And I'm not permanently drawn to this work at all, although I spent three months as recreation facilitator at a home.  It is monotonous in many ways.  But depressing, in that you realize most of these people will never improve.  I originally took the job to face the challenges of interacting with the older generation.  And it had it's positive sides as well.
First of all, seniors really are funny.  They simply do and say funny things.  As they age their characters get more and more pronounced.  And for the most part you can laugh at them, and they don't mind!  They'll probably laugh with you.  Not that you don't occasionally get the grumpy old person who can never cheer up, but in my experience they are actually the minority.  This also surprises me, because I'm pretty sure if I had care givers constantly feeding me healthy little sandwiches I didn't like, or being stuck in a chair and considered a nuisance and not being able to read because of my eyesight I doubt I would be even tempered about it.
One of the most amusing old ladies I ever worked with was a British girl with advanced dementia.  The best way to calm her down was to give her a cup of tea.  She was always up for this, being English and all, and considering the fact that she never remembered if she'd just had one.
One day I was going around getting lists of nail varnish colours for all the ladies so I could have a spa day.  Upon being asked, and having the process explained, this British lady looked at her hands for a minute or so considering the question.  She then turned to me and stated, "I think green would be nice."
I looked at my list, comprised of shades of red and pink, burst into laughter.
The greatest part, though, is the stories, and what you can get them to share.  I loved going into their rooms at looking at old black and white photos.  They were almost always captured in a wedding picture, looking young, radiant and full of hope.  Sometimes you would see a military shot, a beach or holiday scene, or, in one case, a young fellow sitting behind a drum set. 
We have no one left in this country from the first world war.  In ten years those with memories of the second or the great depression will be fading away.  There are personal stories that rival any fiction, and with a little work they will almost always be shared.
So, although the days are long, I love my Grandma.  And this week is probably one of the closest times I'll spend with her (she has almost 30 grandkids) .  I'll laugh with her at her crazy quirks (eating planter dirt in the middle of the night, mistaking it for the next days lunch), and I'll learn some of her story.  After all, if it's hers then it's also a little bit mine.